Travel Log #23

November 21, 2009
There is a silence between the lines that screams. This is a tangible silence, tangible like the thick air of the Plague of Darkness. I advise: do not turn away. Grasp it. Draw the story out and put it on repeat on the highest volume possible until it broaches comprehension.

In Germany it was the void that made itself most apparent; it was silence that constituted the loudest sound. When I stood in the Void of the Voice at the Jewish Museum, I turned to the wall when it was bet on that I'd turned toward the light. I wondered then what that said about me. perhaps that the light reveals too much of history to me--and the fact that we never learn from it--we repeat it without a thought.

In Germany, the silence was loud and in Berlin, it was loudest, with its streets lined with scaffolding, with its population mingling East with West, where Hansel and Grettle met the ifrits of Arabia and the spices of Istanbul. Despite the hybrid nature of the world I describe, each of us bears human history in common and our propensity to not only repeat it, but turn a blind eye as it happens, condemn it after the fact, and to condone it as it happens again, so long as the arbitrary label of the "Other" suits our tastes of hate.

Of course, human atrocity knows no limit. This week I attended Israel's first international conference on genocide and it got me thinking and has perhaps set me on a path I will travel for a long time to come. It may very well be that it is the same path I have already been walking, but its form is slightly different from the one I imagined. Either way, I am on it. As to what I am thinking:

Germany dwells on the genocide it perpetrated and fails to find absolution as its repeated silence sees to the genesis, continuation, and perpetuation of others. The United States dwells on the sho'a, as well, and also ignores its own, that of the American Indian. That doesn't even begin to mention those it finances by proxy, but I will get to that later. Here, in Israel, the situation proves even more complicated than anywhere else I have encountered due to a combination of Jewish history and morality and the amount of African refugees pouring in through the borders.

Where Germany suffers the survivor's guilt of the perpetrator, Israel suffers the survivor's guilt of the victim and oftentimes misconstrues the meaning of life with the meaning of survival--it cannot decide whether "Never Again" means "Never again to us and only us" or "never again to anybody". I associate myself with the latter, although this leaves me in small company, albeit steadfast. I am not one to sacrifice my dignity to peer pressure, for when Paine declared "Give me liberty or give me death!" he got death and when I say that I would rather be condemned by Man as naive and disloyal than by Providence as immoral and hypocritical, it means that I can withstand enemies and the pressure of opposition. And so, I do not turn a blind eye and I do not try to justify the means of hate, no matter its object.

December 8, 2009
The way to tell to tell that we aren't real soldiers at first glance is the shoes. We have been issues everything army standard except for the shoes. If someone fails to notice this detail, though, and decides to speak with us, they are confronted with the usual phrase of ?אתה מדבר ענגלית (Do you speak English?) along with the occasional deer-in-the-headlights expression of the naive, monolingual American. The result? Either a proud show-offy switch into Anglo, a torrent of exasperation fueled by perplexion (why hell does the damn soldier not speak Hebrew), or orders in clipped English. This is Sar-El and we are civilians in soldier-garb; semi-soldiers for two-and-a-half weeks.

December 9, 2009
Our main task is parachutes. We are on a paratrooper base (location confidential) and untie knots from hell that have been worked into the chutes somehow right after a jump. Today we folded packs and prepared them for stuffing, hauled huge chutes from cleaning hooks and brought packs that were fully prepared downstairs.

Last night we were made to do a drill at one in the morning with M-16s in our faces, yelling "Get out. Up. Now." I, of course, couldn't do anything because my lungs are dead due to the inordinate amount of smoke everywhere.

Tonight, we wake up at 3:00am to watch the paratroopers jump. I will describe that once it happens.

December 13, 2009
We waited for hours, until after the sun was high. We wated with the command on the ground, sipped tea and שוקו (shoko) and downed white bread spread with "white cheese" which is this product in Israel that people call cheese, but it's really more like weird sour cream. I topped mine with tomatoes. I talked to a really high-powered commander about the high-altitude jumpers. Then, at around 9:00 in the morning, the plane started circling. After a few rounds, the paratroopers started jumping, one, two, three, four, slithering out of the plane like little squirming beans at first and then in a blink of an eye, expanding. We could hear them shouting up in the sky, sounds of glee, as they floated down.

"We packed those," a madricha said, meaning the parachutes. So we helped make sure they all landed safely, as far as our job was concerned.

There was something extremely peaceful about watching them glide down like fairies sprinkling the world awake at dawn. I imagined myself up there, too. I imagined myself up there, too. I imagined the rush. The closest I'll get to it is an airplane.

After the jump, we hung out for awhile. Hanging out is what people do most in the army--waiting around, doing nothing. We get a lot of reading done: five books in five days, which means I'm officially back to my old drink-up-a-book-like-water pace.

Finally, we were on our way--dropped off at a junction and split for the weekend. I took off with Allie and Max for Ashkelon, then had a good lunch at Hanassi without the music. After that I spent the weekend with the Gluecks.

Today, we all met in Tel Aviv and went north to Chaifa for a טייול (field trip, in this case). We visited Eliyahu's Cave and went to a Druze village for an amazing lunch and a bit of schmoozing around town. Now, we're back at the base and just chilling. I'm half writing and half reading yet another book, A Thousand Splendid Suns.

On the way back, we got stuck in a huge traffic jam, so the usual one-and-a-half hour bus ride took over three. I, unlucky me, needed to go to the bathroom desperately and I guess desperation is what causes true and actual transformation. I waited for an hour-and-a-half, until I was literally about to explode, before I approached the מדריכות (guides/counselors) and asked them if they could possibly get the driver to make a pit stop at the nearest friendly exit. For the record, there were exits every two minutes (traffic jam included). The driver says "There's no way to stop. There are no exits." I promptly point. We pass four.

"I don't understand," i say. "We just passed FOUR exits. There are more coming up. Just pull off and get back on. It's that simple. It'll take three seconds."

"No. It will take us off the route."
Obviously...
So I plead some more. He's yelling in Hebrew about how he can't do anything and I say to Noa, I'm about to explode. She says "I don't know what to do. I'm sorry." I say it's simple.

So the normally calm, passive me decides to look at the driver. I lean over and stare him in the eye in the mirror and say "Ok. You don't want to 'divert your route', I'll give you an alternative: How about I pee on your bus and you clean up the nice pee cushion in your brand new Mercedes bus?"

Well, Lo and behold! He says "Fine, I'll pull over somewhere and you go."

So he pulls over next to this construction area full of big sand dunes marked with tractor tracks and one little old, beat-up, white Mitsubishi. I run, bounding through the dark like a deer on steroids, plant myself behind the car and relieve myself. I got dirty looks from the driver, concerned questions of "Are you ok?" from the group and silent eye-rolling from the מדריכות when they thought I couldn't see. But when you gotta go, you gotta go, נכון?

Just picture me: marking my territory.
.

Travel Log #22

November 20, 2009

My expectations have been left in the dust; This country has exceeded them by far. For a while now, I have been trying to find a word that conveys what I feel and I have concluded that one does not exist. However, one comes close, if we define it in my own terms. The word is "safe" and I know that probably sounds crazy, but it's true. I feel safe and protected and I do not feel alone.

Perhaps that is what I mean by "safe"--I am surrounded by people who do not have to hear a story of pain and worry of life lived on edge because they understand in the truest and most legitimate way possible. It is their story, too, and I don't have to explain a thing. That understanding is the starting point and it begins with a glance.

I just passed through security to get on the train and the guards were surprised to find out that I'm not from here. But perhaps I want to be. Why? Because everywhere I go, I meet incredible people without whom I cannot imagine the rest of my life. I make it a point to make them crucial pieces of my life. En masse, they return not only empty words, but actions.

I leave Ashkelon for the army in about two weeks. Like Worcester, I am not too pleased with Ashkelon on an aesthetic level. It is what lies beneath the surface that counts. My family here truly makes me a part of them, includes me in the good the bad, and the ugly. And believe me, it can get ugly. But I choose it and they choose me. And the good by far outweighs the bad. My personal relationships with each of them are precious to me and I cannot abandon them.

B's younger brother, Benny, helped me break into the music scene in Ashkelon. I played at a bar/restaurant in Afridar (a neighborhood in the city) called Hanassi. On the menus, there is an Israeli Uncle Sam pointing. He wants me. "Hanassi" means "president". Benny has also helped me meet with people connected to the music business, got me an audition, etc. I have also been playing for other people and have been hired twice. Thanks to Benny, I am known in Ashkelon. That's what good friends are for. He is 32 years old, divorced, hunting for new companionship, and has three children, aged 7, 4, and 2.

B's husband, N, is a rabbi, a psychotherapist, a scholar, a kabbalist, and one of the nicest, calmest people I've ever known. Of the entire family, I met N first. It was he who invited me over for Shabbat, which started my entire life and involvement with the family.

There are five children of whom I've met four. The daughter, A, is eighteen years old and is in the United States, probably permanently. She is about to be officially engaged. So young. I know. But that's the way it is here. And age is different here anyway. And eighteen-year-old is an American twenty-four. At nineteen, push it up to twenty-seven. At twenty, to thirty.

Anyhow, Moshe is the oldest at twenty-seven, is married, and has one child who just turned a year old, Bat-Tzion. Yossi is second at twenty-three, is married to Miri, twenty-two, and they have Ze'ev who is also a year old and four-and-half hours older than Bat-Tzion. That's right. Hours. I spent a lot of time with Yossi, Miri, and Ze'ev, helping to paint Ze'ev's room, hanging out, making dinner, just talking. They live about a ten minute walk from me.

Next comes Hershey, at twenty, in the army, opposed to relationships (for himself), and so dedicated to his job that he complains about getting time off. Then, of course, there's A., in the States, and then Kobi, who just turned thirteen and had his bar mitzvah last week.

November 21, 2009
To make Kobi happy, I have sacrificed my thus far absolute refusal to partake in facebook applications and have become a diligent player of "Happy Aquarium". "It's a nice game," Kobi insists, and constantly asks me to "check" for him. I steal coins from the virtual treasure chests and virtually feed my virtual fish in their virtually clean tank that I constantly virtually clean.

With B., I sit and listen and she listens back. I go over early on Fridays and help her prepare food for the hordes of people who are forever milling about the house. Of course, I'm not usually one for domesticity, but the conversation detracts from the monotony of peeling eight thousand vegetables and actually makes it quite enjoyable. Or perhaps I am changing.

The thought of children has always detested me. Of course, when I'm in the midst of them, all is well and I love it. But the prospect of children? Disgusting. Until now. Now, there is Ze'evik and there is Bat-Tzion, and even older children like Benny's, and I love them even though they drive me crazy.

I see Ze'ev the most and miss him terribly when I'm not with him. Miri facetiously asks "Do you want one?" and to keep up appearances I say, "No. Absolutely not." And then to temper that I say, "At least not now," which is most certainly the truth. But I play with the babies and I laugh with the babies and I hold the babies to sleep. There is something quite special and calming in those actions, and the notion of building a person up from nothing, from a clean slate, is a realization of hope. But I think adoption is more up my alley, because I couldn't bring myself to damn someone I love so much to exist in a world such as this one. i can do my best to shield those already here from this place that rolls without reason and that sails on chaos; I can do my best to show them how to ride.

"You have already borne us many children, darling," says the angel, Micha'el. "They ride on the air and on the seams between the worlds of linearity and Eternity."
"Do they have hearts like me," I ask, "or are they cursed to Holiness like you?"
"They are not human, so no hearts. Yet they are not angel, either, so no curse of Holiness. They are somewhere in between."
"Like Uriel. Are they subjected to your discipline like him? Is it my fault?"
"No, darling. Your children are somewhere in between the lines of thought and flesh. I am of thought and you are of flesh, and what you produce is a product of us both."
"And what about what I want?" I say. "What of my wish?"
"I have told you," says the angel. "You must accept what you are."

And half of me struggles and half of me rests.

I am once again caught up in my own dichotomy.

As Nasikh once wrote: "No two days pass alike in this world; There is no garden that could avert autumn". And so, too, none that could avert spring.

The world, I know, is not pretty; but it is also what we make of it. I desire beauty and thus, alongside the terror and the chaos that is this world, alongside all that snuffs out life as if it were nothing more than the blink of an eye, I see beauty. I create beauty. I incorporate it into myself and love the world completely, for without the darkness, I could not comprehend the blessing of light and I must not take even that which seems most inconsequential for granted. Life is short, after all, and I do not let it pass by. I cannot, despite the fact that it must always be lived alone.

Travel Log #21

November 9, 2009

We are given a question and a task in Tel Aviv: walk along the streets we tell you and find the landmarks (this is the task); discuss the city as an entity (this entails the question). We are given some passages to think about:

"By this point I'm starting to wonder if Tel Aviv is simply ground zero for escapism. Has Judaism's prophetic tradition been jettisoned in favor of Dionysian revels in what Zionist leaders proclaimed the first Hebrew city?" asks Michael Z. Wise. Wise goes on to quote Dov Alfon: "There is escapism. But it's not exactly escapism. It's a real will to live. It's a hymn to life. . . . [It is n]ot the American perception of finding happiness, but happiness on a daily basis." This leads to the questions of "What is the problem about the Tel Avivian search for happiness?"; "What is un-Jewish about it?"; and, finally, "Should/Can a people who has traditionally defined itself as 'a nation that dwells alone,' as 'a kingdom of priests,' and as 'a light to the nations' aspire to happiness?"

It is just like Berlin. In theory, that is. One city searches for forgiveness from a traumatizing past perpetrated by itself and the other searches for happiness from a traumatizing past and present in world where survival makes right and wrong a moot point. The cities are tangent to one another. However, I cannot offer too much in the way of commentary regarding Tel Aviv. I have not experienced this city as I have Berlin, nor its so-called "happiness", which might perhaps better be labeled vanity. I have spent a few theoretical hours walking the streets of Tel Aviv; in other words, not enough time to acquaint myself with a ghost or a jinn, as I did in Berlin. But Berlin flaunts its ghosts and its shame. Tel Aviv flaunts happiness. I suspect that there is something crucial missing from this picture.

The descriptions are different, yes, but in light of the questions posed, I am wont to place both cities on the same spectrum, for similar and identical inquiries have been made into the natures of both cities, and ultimately about the countries of which they are a part.

The problem of the search for happiness? There is never a problem with a pure pursuit of happiness. Everyone is entitled, for I do believe in deeply, and hold proud the notion "[t]hat all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness". I will take my liberties and interpret this as someone of the contemporary age so that "all men" can be read as "all people" and so that the "pursuit of happiness" means much more than the pursuit of land. The problem? The problem is that it is a nice theory but w hen put into practice allows a very few amount of people to attain true happiness and commits a very large number to a living hell, and a life of unfulfilled dreams. We are not all dealt the same luck.

But if what has been written about Tel Aviv is true, that is happiness is Dionysian, then the problem is not the city's pursuit of happiness, but rather its happiness as "escapism" that is "not exactly escapism". It is a symptom of the "real will to live", and it is a will to live right now, in the moment. All of this begs the question of what has awoken these people to "real life". I am not saying that this is problematic. I am going to examine the nature of this particular happiness.

The "real will to live" comes from somewhere--the real threat of no tomorrow, the real possibility of never having another chance at simple pleasures like a good coffee or a day at the beach. It puts things in perspective: the ephemerality of existence, the significance of a single moment, of a single life. This is a society where life is sacred above all else, and not one of martyrs where glory can only be achieved in death. Each individual is worth an entire world, each tear is valued with as much weight as a smile.

But it is also a society where Reality is harsh, and where childhood has a definite and dated end. On the other hand, young children can still walk the streets unattended and without fear of danger, where strangers will do you favors, where the strangers will love you for no rhye and no reason other than that it's right, no questions asked. I have never experienced this before, especially on this level.

Of course, there are issues, many elephants in tiny rooms. The focus should not be on only ones of these issues, but on many. In particular, more should be focused on what is being done about them here, on the ground. A balanced picture is the only one worth anything.

Yesterday, as you have probably guessed, I attended an educational seminar day in Tel Aviv. We met a lot of children at the Rigozin School in the south of the city and learned about the situation in whic foreign workers from all over the world find themselves. Many have overstayed their visas (usually good for five years) and face deportation. Yet for the children of these workers, many of whom were born in Israel, education is a right. They speak Hebrew fluenty and consider this country their home. The result is often a crisis of identity: who are they? They have never been to their countries of ethnic origin but also face prejudice from the greater Israeli society, from both Jews and Palestinians. They are taking away work, after all. Some have received permanent residency and are proudly entering the army. Other children at the school are African refugees from Sudan (Darfur), Somalia, Eritrea, Egypt, etc. The children here are from every place imaginable: Africa, South America, the Philippines. The list goes on.

When it comes to refugees, we have those elephants in the room. There are over 10,000 African refugees in Israel now, with more crossing the border from Egypt every month in numbers reaching about 600. They pose a great dilemma in this country, as do other refugees: how can the country say no to helping those seeking refuge from persecution and almost certain murder considering its people's own history as Jews? On the other hand, if Israel is to remain a Jewish country, which mean the maintenance of a Jewish majority, how can it tolerate the stresses of an added non-Jewish population that not only pressures its morals but its financial capability to handle the non-tax-paying burden. One argument is to shoot them as they cross the border--no bodies, no worries--like the Egyptians do. Another argument is to take them in as Israel currently does, but this leaves them with a semi-illegal status and the inability to work. Yet another argument states that granting these refugees permanent residency, work permits, and equal opportunities in this society would strengthen Israel's support base around the globe once these refugees return home, which is their overall ultimate hope. All dilemmas aside, the refugees remain here and continue to cross the border and have become a very real part of Israeli society, albeit a controversial one.

Travel Log #20

October 21, 2009

Old age is not for me. I am volunteering right now at a nursing home with my friend, Miri, who is B's daughter-in-law. I have been spending a lot of time with Miri because she's wonderful, has the best baby ever, and doesn't speak too much English which makes me speak Hebrew.

Miri works here and loves it. I find it enjoyable but know for a fact that I never want to even broach this state of existence. Second childhood has no place on my time line. I had my chance at childhood and it's gone. I would rather go out in my prime.

There is one woman here who wanders around, makes frequent stops in front of me, and screams in my face in Russian, then laughs at me--in my face. It is a toothless laugh. Another woman cries. They tell me she wants to go to sleep but the doctor won't allow it. A man cries for food. The nurses feed him cookies. A woman dances and smiles, pats me on the shoulders, clings to me. Rattles off something in Russian.

These people are treated like young children: play ball, ring toss. Wheel chairs and catheters and I.V.s. Children come to visit their parents and now they are the parents. I wonder what has been lost beneath the blanket of senility, what history has been erased and replaced with vacancy. These people have no future but the grave and eternity, whatever that might bring, and what remains of their past, privy to the memories of those to which it was once conveyed. But what if the family is gone? And more, what if the younger generation is destined for this fate, too?

In an hour-and-a-half, I got to dance. It is a reversal: I dance with the young. They are four feet tall and ten years old. They are patient and respectful and excited to help me with Hebrew and to learn my own native language.

Truly committing to learning another language is one of the most difficult tasks I have ever undertaken, but I will master it. This past week, I have taken advantage of what OTZMA offers me: I have created for myself a life. I have seen Miri or other parts of the family every day this week. I get called up to go places, to advance my own life, to sing, to hang out. Miri speaks about as much English as I speak Hebrew, or less. I carry around a dictionary and my notebooks full of words. Soon, my Hebrew will surpass her English. That is the point.

Here is an important fact that I must bear in mind: I have always loved language. I have defined myself in words--English words, by the way I write, the way I read, by the way I understand and convey ideas, by the way I love manipulating language more than almost anything else. Yet for all the investment in language, I am a master of only one. And here that mastery is worthless. What gets lost in translation? What is not even able to be said? How many people can I not know or not know fully because of the barrier of language? And for those who understand but not completely, what is lost in the inability to comprehend the nuances? Too much to fathom. But as I experience this, I continue to write, and as I focus on another language, my own is apt to decline. So writing is good practice.

Now, I am with my ten-year-old dancers. Felix, the regular teacher, and my friend, is not here today, so his daughter is teaching. A Russian mother is sitting next to me and won't stop talking and nitpicking at everything. The class can't progress. I suppose this anal retentiveness is what Felix meant when he told me "They're Russian. They won't change," on the first day I met him. Today, I'll sit on the side. I only dance when Felix is here. The kids get very excited when they see me, though, and their smiles and enthusiasm make me happy. Perhaps I will sing to them later since Therem is with me today. Tomorrow, I come back, but to tutor Yivginy in English (no idea how to really spell his name). Afterwards, I might get on a train to go home. Otherwise, I'll catch it in the morning.

Last night, B. invited me to go to one of the English Speaking club's events: the monthly play reading group. We read 'The Good Woman of Sechuan' by Brecht. I was privileged enough to have seen an amazing production of this show in the past year at Clark. The meeting was great! We each played a few parts and discussed it critically when we were finished. Damn, I missed that. In the end, I am destined for academia. I am sick to death of it and I know the toll it takes, and the petty bureaucracy of university politics, etc. But I love it. Too much to quit it forever. What I am doing now is an experiment: if I am to spend my entire life theorizing, teaching, and writing about that theory, I must know if it is legitimate in actuality, otherwise, the theory is a waste of time.

A different subject: it is well known that water is a precious and absolutely necessary commodity in this region. Syria has no water, a major reason for its want of the Golan back, and a major reason Israel won't give it up. Top news story in the Jerusalem Post yesterday spoke of the water crisis in Israel. Severe drought, water sanctions (that include golf courses), etc. The sanctions have saved more water than anticipated, but it is still not enough. Even with rain this year, if it rains, it will not be enough. Israel will run out of water by next year. As in mid-2010. Solutions are already well underway.

It is said that the water of Ashkelon is better than nearly every other place in the country. Its source is different. A good portion of Ashkelonian water comes from the local desalinization plant. THere are many others scheduled to be opened, others being built, and others in the planning stages. The solution is a good one, but desalinized water is at least twice as expensive as naturally fresh water. Indeed, there is the Mediterranean, with water, water, all around and perhaps, an expensive drop to drink. Some say the entire conflict in this region is about water and resources (BBC, NYTimes, etc) claim that the average Israeli uses ten times as much water as their counterparts in the surrounding Arab countries. Perhaps an interest in the trading of technology (like the desalinization) would improve the lives of everyone and make the water cheaper, as it will be in greater demand.

More on the information front. Each Sunday, we have had an "educational seminar". This past week's was on "Communities of the Negev". We began at 7:30 in the morning, all half asleep. Some fully asleep. Just for the record, I never sleep in Ashkelon. I finally bought pillows but the lack of air conditioning in stifling heat and no fan (money diverted to overly expensive notary) makes for sleepless nights. The good news is that my friend Benny (B's brother) might lend me a fan. Let's hope. Or let's hope it cools down.

Anyhow, our first stop was a Bedouin village called סגב שלום (Segev Shalom). There, we learned a lot about the Bedouin of today and put their contemporary situation into historical context, visited Sde Boker, where Ben Gurion spent his last days, went to a goat farm, and met with an American group that lives here known as the Hebrew Israelites.

October 24, 2009

Let's begin with the Bedouin. As of the most recent census, 170,000 reside inside Israel; 110,000 in the נגב (Negev Desert); 10,000 in the central region, and 50,000 in the north. In 1998 there were only 53,000 in the Negev.

In 1948, most fled or were expelled beyond the borders of the newly founded State of Israel. They fled to Gaza, Jordan, Egypt, and to the Sinai. Of the 65,000 Negev Bedouin, only 11,000 remained.

In the 1970s, the Israeli government established seven urban towns and promised municipal services to the Bedouin, like running water, education, and sanitation in exchange for a renunciation of ancestral land. Throughout the '70s and '80s, tens of thousands of Bedouin resettled in these towns. To date, about half the Bedouin community lives in these governmentally recognized towns. The other half live in 39-45 unrecognized villages and receive no services. Israel claims that only 40% live in these villages while the Regional Council of Unrecognized Villages claims it is 50%. Over the past few years, tensions between those living in Recognized and Unrecognized villages are growing. In all cases, Islamic Fundamentalism is on the rise amongst nearly all of the Bedouin youth. In addition, many have ceased referring to themselves as "Bedouin" and prefer the label "Negev Arabs" because the Bedouin and nomadic way of life is over.

It is important to understand that the relationship between Israel and the Bedouin as opposed to Israel's relationship with the Palestinians has, until recently, been very different. The Bedouin have typically served in the army and been proud of this fact; they helped form the State and do not view its formation as the Nakba. Recently, they have stopped serving in the army because they have not seen benefits in the way of equal respect or social status in return. They see themselves treated as second-class citizens, like other Arabs with full citizenship. In addition, they are looked upon as traitors by the Arab world. The Bedouin living in recognized villages are seen as traitors by those who live in unrecognized ones.

So, again we have a people with no place. It is a vicious cycle and I bear in mind that I cannot separate myself from it.

Travel Log #19

October 15, 2009

So, what's this country like in reality, forget about the theory? Genuine is the first adjective that comes to mind. The people are genuine and actually care about each other. And it has nothing to do with status quo or money. It does have to do with politics. Everything here has to do with politics, but politics can sometimes be ignored, or at best, avoided for the time being, and we are on our merry happy family ways again. Yes, family. It's one big one here with the love-hate relationships abounding. As usual, I acquire surrogate families. I am in love with this place.

Of course, I have my qualms. You've read a little bit about them. The Religious Authority, etc. And the fact that people here smoke like chimneys in a New England winter. I'm constantly suffocating on second-hand smoke and therefore am either high off the nebulizer medication or exhausted from suffocation. But I'm good at prevailing in the face of ailments.

Food here is delicious and amazingly cheap. Since I am extremely frugal, I have been living on lettuce, cabbage, and tomatoes. For a treat, I get snitzel. All kinds of snitzel: sesame, regular, Asian, on and on.The goat cheese is also very good and to replace the kefir I got addicted to in Germany, I have found some of the best yogurt possible.

When I got to volunteer, I walk about ten minutes down the street. The street is filled with benches that are filled with people. The poeple sit around talking and playing chess and drinking שוקו (shoko). שוקו is chocolate milk in a bag. Terribly popular. Terribly addictive. Now, I have this theory about why. I mean, chocolate milk is always addictive unless, of course, it's sour. But שוקו goes beyond normal chocolate milk addiction. The first time I cut off the corner and started sucking that שוקו down, I was overwhelmed by a long-lost familiar feeling of comfort--and then it hit me. It's the ultimate pseudo breast milk experience: with chocolate. It's like breast feeding all over again with chocolate as the reward. Now, who would refuse that, particularly the overgrown, overtaxed subconscious that's been longing for a return to infancy since it ended?

I continue down the street, the שוקו packages discarded. An old woman with a cane walks ahead of me. I see a sudden white, shiny flutter and the woman pauses. I look down in awe as she reaches down and steps out of her underpants, pockets them, and continues walking...

Travel Log #18

September 28, 2009

I have been given a Yom Kippur in Jerusalem. I suppose this can be compared to the Vatican on Easter or Christmas. All roads lead to Jerusalem in the Jewish world, whether we are religious, secular, observant, Zionist, or not. The parallel, of course, is that all roads lead to Rome, so things haven't changed much in quite a few millennia.

Now, I suppose you could say that I am experiencing a dilemma of observance. My religiosity has remained strong, but my observance of tradition has diminished. Traditions have been tainted by humans playing God, or presupposing that they know what God wants (or wanted) and how God wants (or wanted), and I have had enough of that. Each time I find myself attempting to gravitate towards observance again, I am put off. This time, perhaps, more than others.

Over the weekend, I took up an invitation to spend Shabbat with a family in Ashkelon. They are an amazing family, and if the Religious Authority were more along the lines of their philosophy and practice, I would go back to them. This family considers itself religious. For descriptions sake, I would say somewhere between Orthodox and Modern Orthodox. The important thing is that they are liberally minded, fair, and observant, all the same.

After Shabbat, the mother of the family (I will call her B here) took me to the Mikveh. "It is good to go just before Yom Kippur," she told me. "And it will be a wonderful experience for you." I assented. But the world of men lords over the world of women. It keeps us cloistered and blind behind a mechitza and it does not consider us fully fledged human beings. When we got htere, we were told that I could not partake in this experience because "the council of rabbis (across all the ethnic sects) had gotten together," and I quote directly here, "and decided to take away the rights of unmarried women to use the mikveh under any circumstance" for fear that they were only using the mikveh so that they could have "purified" pre-marital sex.

Personally, I have never heard anything so incredibly stupid in my life. Particularly because I'm going to guarantee that those "unmarried women having premarital sex" are not going to give a rat's ass about the mikveh or about being "spiritually pure" while enjoying their "unlawful carnal relations". Not to mention that the men have assumed complete control over the actions of women (unless those women would like to be disowned), have absolved themselves of any guilt in the matter, and whole-heartedly admit that they have gladly and willingly taken away our rights. This also lends to the fact that these people have no inkling of a clue about the world beyond their tiny, self-constructed "religious" ghetto where God becomes the excuse for a body of men to play the oppressive deity.

If you know me, you know I don't consider myself a feminist, but more of a person for equal rights on all plains--as proved on an individual basis. "I love this country," B. says. "Except for the fact that it is completely and utterly ruled by men. And there's nothing anybody can do about it." B. told me that she was so upset about it that when she went to dunk, she realized she had forgotten to say the blessing. I told her it was fine, typical. And then I shut a steel door in myself and closed it to the orthodoxy that has nothing to do with God but with the hypocrisy of humankind.

I spent six hours in a service today, with a sermon about "loving your neighbor as yourself". The rabbi made it explicitly clear that is was my Jewish neighbor and my Jewish neighbor only of which he was speaking. This more than irked me. The entire root of conflict lies in the separation of one group from another and of fabricated assumptions of the Other. Unfortunately, we too often become what we pretend to be, or what we are believed to be, or what we hate because in order to overcome the enemy you must understand him, and to understand him, you must become him. I try not to. But if I were to take this sermon to heart, I would be wont to be rid of ninety-nine percent of my friends and left with the one group of people from which I have continuously been rejected. I have always gravitated towards difference in order to demonstrate that there is at least one thing in common between each and every one of us--no matter our origins: our humanity. For better or for worse (and I think usually for worse, but no matter). I will love my neighbor as myself, more than myself, Jewish or otherwise, whether that neighbor loves me or not.

So much for the loving, unless, of course, the self is hated. Don't get me wrong here. I am by no means a pacifist, but my eyes have been opened long enough to see that the methodologies of violence are not working. Not that I'm certain the methodologies of peace are, either, but people can only take so much. And I would rather be able to live with myself than not, which means at least trying to avoid a corrosive conscience.

Travel Log #17

September 22, 2009

It has been a long time since I have written. Lack of internet has played a large factor in this. Hopefully, I will soon be back in the technological realm of existence. Meanwhile, I have been sharing one computer kiosk with over one-hundred people.

Two-and-a-half weeks ago, I moved to Ashkelon, a city on the sea, seven miles north of the Gaza border, along with thirty-seven other OTZMAnikim. We live in an immigrant absorption center: Mercaz Klita Kalanit. Kalanit= a kind of flower. In the front yard, there are etrog trees. The fruit will be ripe in time for sukkot, a week-and-a-half from now. Baby etrogim fall from the trees. We sit in circles and throw them at each other. I scratch the skin and smell like citrus. The oil does not bother me, so perhaps it is only oranges and grapefruits that dislike me.

Kalanit is empty, other than us, a few dozen college students, and three families. During its golden age, it had hundreds, so many you couldn't find a seat on the lawn or benches. Now, it is nearly empty. We have been placed here with high hopes. We are expected to save it from extinction. Money dries up here, very much like everywhere else. Money dries up here like water but our time is still spent.

In the mornings, we got to Ulpan. I am placed in the "advanced" class, meaning intermediate. There are only two levels: those who spend their time learning the aleph-bet, starting from absolutely nothing, and those of us who speak just a little. Today, I went out and bought a dictionary. My problem is not a lack of understanding. It is a fear of speaking, a lack of confidence.

We are here to volunteer. I have found what I was looking for: a dance floor. Ballroom dancers in this country number merely seven hundred. Ninety percent of these dancers are Russian. The method of teaching is as foreign to me as the Russian language. The instructors do not promote teams, only couples. Couples do interact with one another. They are enemies. "We would all benefit it we dance together," I say, knowing this from experience. "No. We are Russian. It's not going to happen," is all I am told. And that is supposedly the end of that. I will see what three months of American influence can do. Social dancing does not exist here. The dance floor is full of animosity and competition. I begin dancing three days a week: Sunday, Monday, Wednesday. On Thursdays, I tutor Russians in English. I help beginners dance and I am allowed to take the overly-priced classes for free. It is good to be an OTZMAnik. Ashkelon has been made a volunteer city and we are volunteers. We are highly revered. Last Wednesday, the mayor came to us. Kalanit threw him a party for us.

On Thursday night, we were taken to Jerusalem for slichot, a spiritual all-nighter before Rosh Hashana. We got a walking tour of Jerusalem and were then let free on our own with maps that could hardly be made sense of, so that we could go and observe the crack-of-down services. Tallit and tefilin on men dressed in white are nothing new to me. I got lost, ran into others of the group and followed them to our destination, where we were given breakfast. Then, I got on a bus to Tel Aviv and got a train up to Binyamina and Zichron. I have gone there every weekend to be with my adoptive family. It is a always a relief to get away after the long (and hot) weeks in Ashkelon.

This weekend was the New Year. I went to shul on Shabbat, which was nice, and refrained from Quaker Meetings on the second day. Not that there are Quaker Meetings to be had in Zichron. On Sunday, I took a walk in the nature reserve and the botanical gardens with with my friend. The views are gorgeous and the walking is good. I ignore my flat feet.

The wind is good at the those heights, and the view is far and wide. As usual, I am not alone and my celestial companions stand guard everywhere. They remind me constantly:

"You are close to the place where we were born, Little Girl," and all Orders populate the landscape . There are the Orders without names. They are voices only, arrows in suggestive directions. They remind me of my purposes for being here.

I look around at faces, physically young and actually old. Where I come from, young faces accompnay people into adulthood. The world does not press down on us so heavily, so noticeably. There is no need to escape from reality. For most. Here, I look into young faces and see the kind of expression I have always worn looking back. They understand--the world is not easy, it must be carried. Happiness is not free. Here, we know the price.

In high school we were always preached at for being privileged. They showed us pictures of starving children in India or Africa. "Oh, yes," we'd nod our head. "We are privileged," and then go home to our nintendos 64s, reach into our pockets and dole our our money and not our time. We tuck the notion of disadvantage and despair away in a file labeled with a number and not faces. Here, each individual face counts, each individual face counts, each individual life. This is why we come upon dilemmas where we debate trading one soldier for hundreds of prisoners with the pressing knowledge that those released prisoners will mean more lives later, and usually, lives out of uniform. Maybe even our own lives. But this is the way the game is played. We continue. There is nowhere for us to go. It comes down to (once again) the notion of Heimat: "I don't necessarily enjoy living here," someone said, "but I couldn't live anywhere else".

The people here are warm and kind. It is like one big family and for the first time in my life, I feel truly welcomed everywhere. At least outside the typical drama of the living situation. I don't feel unwelcome here, but it's just the typical story with me and my age group. I stay out of the loop. I am through with trivialities. So I branch out to the locals. I get phone numbers and Shabbat dinner invitations. I accept. As usual, I am most popular and most impressed with those a generation older than I am. Still, I have not caught up with myself. It is like waiting for rain in a drought.

But, as the weather proves, be careful what you wish for. The opposite of drought is a flood. Casualties result from both. It has rained non-stop at home. The city is drowning. It has begun to rain here, too, a little bit early. The climate is changing. Nature is angry and in the face of it, our work on the ground is inconsequential. I work anyway. All things in moderation. For an individual, a little can mean a lot. And to save one life is to save an entire world.

The world around me is full of music, fresh fruit, the screams of military airplanes flying low at night, Amharek, Russian, Hebrew, birdsong, laughter, arguments. It is full of the sounds of life. It is Israel. This may be a little hard to paint in words, especially for those who have never been here, and particularly because o the media's portrayal of it.

Israel is just as multicultural as New York City, London, or Berlin. The difference lies in the fact that in all those cities, we're Jewish, and in Israel we are American, British, or German, Ethiopian, Russian, Iranian, French, Argentinian...You get the picture. Like I spoke about in Germany, Jews have the uncanny capability of assimilation/acculturation almost too perfectly into any culture world wide. Except for the fact that we are viewed as Jews in those countries by the host population, we are more French than the French, more German than the Germans, more American than the Americans, and on and on. In Israel, we are all Jews, so that label disappears and we are left with the host cultures we have become and carried with us; we are left with what we are: the embodiment of cultures with a Jewish twist that we held in such great esteem but which slighted us more often than not.

But pooled together, we are only Iraqi and French and German and Moroccan and American, and all the rest. Left to our own devices, we become like all the others. We have our feuds and prejudices, our racism, our alliances, our assumptions, and our own ardent display of Octavia Butler's "Human Contradiction" of intelligence and hierarchy. More on that later. I will be working with a lot of Ethiopian children in the coming weeks, teaching them English, improving their skills in whatever they need improving in. It's a class struggle like in every other country. This is why I refuse to grant any group of people greater respect than another--we are all quite Human in the end. I just feel the right to hold my own to a higher standard. I live my life attempting to embody it. Let us see how it goes.

Travel Log #16

September 3, 2009

Another city and another country. I have traveled again. This time, to the country of my final destination, at least for a while. Admittedly, it feels rather like a dream. I had nearly given up, after all. But here I am in the capital, Jerusalem, Israel, and all my nerves have been quieted.

I landed right on time, at 2:21 in the morning on September 1 in Tel Aviv. I sat next to two Norwegian women, a mother and daughter, visiting another daughter/sister who has lived in Israel for thirty years. Also, on the plane, I met a girl named Stephanye, who has moved to Israel for the year to be with her boyfriend. She's a graduate student in English. I run into these everywhere and remind myself that in my mind I am not switching disciplines although on paper, I am.

Luggage took about 45 minutes to arrive and Therem, who they took away at the gate, for supposed lack of space, was missing. I found her abandoned on an oversized luggage belt across the airport. I think I almost had a heart attack over her going missing, but no worries.

After the luggage was picked up, I sat around and waited for Sue for about an hour in the public part of the terminal. I read some more of the fantastic Amir Hamza and bought some water, after I traded my Euros for shekels. After a while, I wondered how we would find each other, since I don't think either of us knew what the other looked like. Somehow, she walked right up to me, recognizing me by Therem (who was luckily found), and then we were off!

It took almost two hours to get to Zichron, and I had a really good time and a good conversation in the car. When we got to the house, I opted to stay up and go on a walk with the two very aweesome dogs. The cat bit me and ran away. No worries, I understand. I'm a cat person. Anyhow, the "hike" was awesome and gorgeous, through a nature reserve kept up by the Rothschild foundation. I didn't get to go in because dogs aren't allowed and it was too early, but in the middle of the reserve is an amazing botanical garden. I saw the edge of it. In the distance, the Mediterranean.

Finally, we got back to the house, I took a shower and went to sleep, got up, and went to sleep again. When I really got up, we went to the grocery store, which didn't have fresh mozzarella, to my utmost dismay. But they did have good bread and Boursin.

At home, I met Keren over dinner, who will be eighteen on Monday. I also met Mike, the dad, and ended up having a thought provoking political conversation with him. It is very werid but very good how I feel like I fit in so well. Hopefully, I'll go back next weekend. Everyone will be home and there's a birthday celebration for Keren.

After dinner, some really good fish, etc, I took Therem out and sang for a while. In the morning, I rearranged my things, left a bunch of stuff here and repacked. Sue and Mike were at work, so a friend's daughter, Ayelet, picked me up and took me to the train station. The security guard had a little too much fun with all of my crap and ended up giving up. "I'm going to trust you," he said to me. "Don't blow up the train, ok?" Like I would have explosives.

The train ride to the airport was pleasant. Once I arrived, I waited twenty minutes for the Nesher shuttle, which took me right where I wanted, which ended up being JAFI, the Jewish Agency for Israel. Everyone was waiting there. I went to sign in and found myself face-to-face with Ya'el, who was my madricha from Seminar! "I knew you were coming. I told Benny [Levi!] to tell you." "He didn't but..." and both of us said "He was too busy getting married!" All is forgiven.

We had a very low energy pre-orientation. Almost everyone was jet-lagged. We piled onto the bus with all of our stuff and unloaded at the Yitzchak Rabin Youth Hostel where we will be staying until Sunday morning. The food here is amazing. Especially for a hostel.

Today, we had orientation, rules, regulations, scheduling, security issues, etc. I love having a phone again, but the plans here are ridiculous. I can change it at any time but I'll test it out for the first month. After lunch and more orientation, we went on a scavenger hunt through Jersualem (not the Old City). When it was over, we met at the windmill, then had dinner with representatives from our partnership communities. Mine is Yokneam-Meggido, which is twenty minutes from Haifa to the Southeast. In the hostel, I'm rooming with Andi from St. Louis, Rachel from North Carolina, and Stephanie from Pittsburg. I'll be living with Andi and Max (also from St. Louis) during Part II.

August 4, 2009
After all that was done with, Rachel and I desperately searched for a bathroom because we were about to experience spontaneously combusting bladder syndrome. The rest of the group walked of toward Ben Yehuda. We walked into the cafe, asked where the WC was located and ran off. Its amazing what a difference thirty seconds can make. By the time we were through, everyone else was long gone, so we walked and decided to wait for bus 17. We waited for forty-five minute! IT wasn't even 21:00 yet. What the hell kind of "good" public transportation system is that? Anyway, once we were on the bus, we realized that the driver should be in a padded cell. Tearing up the road, cutting people off, screaming at them at traffic lights, screaming at us to sit down when asking him a question. WTF. We actually arrived alive and unharmed at the hostel. Miraculously.

I forgot to mention the OTZMA opening ceremony, which took place at the windmill at Heinrich Heine Street. (Heinrich Heine seems to follow me around, right?) We did a ceremony in the manner of Havdalah, in order to separate ourselves from our "past lives" and to get on with the new. We were overlooking the Old City and the New.

August 5, 2009
For Shabbat, we stayed together at the Rabin Hostel and hung out on the porch with a unit of army boys who are being trained to be commanders. We sang and danced and chatted. Lots of people drank, etc, and I went back to my room around 1:30 and had some great bonding time with roommates. I forgot to mention that we went into the Old City and to the Kotel for Kabbalat Shabbat--before we went to the Wall Annie, Ariel, and I led a mini service for everyone.

During the day on Shabbat, we got to sleep in and then we had an educational program on some Halacha in the morning before lunch. Then, we had the OTZMA cafe, where we got together in groups of six and had more group bonding time with food. After that, chofesh, dinner, more chofesh.

Tomorrow, we hike perpendicular cliffs and end up in a Bedouin tent...until next time.

Travel Log #15

August 31, 2009

I have three-and-a-half hours to spare in Schipol before I board my long-awaited flight to Tel Aviv. But I promised you Turks. You'll get them this time. I promise.

In the meantime, my European adventures are at a close. The most advanced German I have ended up with is most unuseful unless I find myself in some sex fantasy theatre shop, but I have no idea why I would spend my money on a schamhaar toupe. Look it up yourself. Don't ask. Kate Winslet apparently had a need.

In Luxembourg, I avoided French, as usual, and learned a tiny bit more of Italian. Also, it was just as wonderful as I remembered. I met more extremely nice people, from Portugal, to Italy, to Israel, to France, to Belgium. The fairy dust hung in the air. My visits with old friends and colleagues were spectacular and I wish I could stay forever just so that I can see them as often as I want.

As for my promise, my last days in Berlin have left me with continued speculation, even twelve days out. I suppose what I mean by "giving you Turks" is not necessarily "Turks" per say, but minorities--anywhere--and the notion of Diaspora.

In Germany, as I have mentioned, the largest minority (and growing) is that of the Muslim Turks. They began entering the country around thirty years ago as "guest workers"--people invited in to help boost the country's economy as cheap labor, and later, encouraged to stay, in the early 2000s, with the opening up of Germany's borders in order to make it appear and actually be, on paper, an "immigrant country", also known as "accepting of minorities". I view this as yet another aspect of vergangenheitsgewaltigung, the untranslateable word for German "reconciliation", "making better again", or "coming to terms with" Germany's history as a society and as individuals. Gewalt--it can never be better again. This is an eternal, ongoing process of the prevention of hatred and genocide that can only be overcome by the individual in his constant vigilance against a past that repeats itself constantly under different names.

Of course, Germany is composed of human beings. So, the immigrants come in and are ghettoed off into their own neighborhoods. It is both a self-imposed isolation as well as one passively sanctioned by the host society. As for the Turks, many third-generation Germans already, have a loose handle of the Turkish and German languages, and sometimes a very great command of both. Yet "assimilation" is not happening easily. Like Jewish identity, are they Muslim Turks in Germany, German Turks of the Islamic religion, German Turks, Turkish Germans, etcetera, etcetera, you get the point.

It is a question of home, of homeland, of Heimat. Wherever they go, they will not be entirely welcome, nor entirely dismissed as "Other". To make themselves feel more acculturated or assimilated, many "official organizations" spring up that claim to represent the Turks in Germany. But, like any other minority, there are various groups and factions. Who can claim to represent anyone at this rate? We have anit-assimilationists, raidcal zealots, assimilationists, secularists. The list goes on.

The big question asked is: "Why can't the Turkish minority in Germany assimilate smoothly in one generation or less like the Jews? For the more liberal Turks, a partnership has been formed with the "Jewish Community" of Germany (whatever that means--we've already been through Jews in Germany). Human rights groups batter the ball back and forth across the net with the German government and the populace.

Minorities band together, if we can, under many labels. The truest label is not given, though--it is hard to label vagabonds who feel themselves permanently settled but not quite at home. It is the "packed suitcase" mentality.

When I applied to LBSU I had a notion of "home" that lacked concrete definition, and a notion of being a "Diaspora Jew" that has now been upset at the least. Most likely, it has been overturned. "Diaspora"--those dispursed from a homeland--"diasporic"--those who (literally translated) are monsters in a strange land. Eventually, that strange land becomes home, perhaps even Heimat, to those monsters, but they remain different, Other, monsters to the majority. Masked beneath their assimilation, they speak the local language flawlessly, perhaps they speak no other language, perhaps they speak it more correctly than their assumed "mother tongue"; their dress is like the majority's; their skin, hair, mannerisms, all match those of the populace. Assimilation is good camouflage but minorities, though masked beneath assimilation, remain cloaked in their alterity. It is an assumed and, inevitably, an inherent difference. It is most often a difference imposed upon them. Nonetheless, there is a separation.

Before I left the United States, I wrote an essay that railed against the American Jewish Community for being particularly hypocritical. I said that we have forgotten the meaning of being Jewish, that their preaching of charity is too often merely empty rhetoric because what is preached is all too often not practiced. Of course this is an anthropomorphic phenomenon, but I like to hold my own to a higher standard, as I do myself. I finished by caustically reminding us that true assimilation is impossible (look what happened in Germany, after all) and that we must, above all, cling to our roots.

Yet Germany has swallowed me and spat me back out again. In the process of digestion, it dawned on me that I did not have it quite right in regard to American Jews. I said that they act as such precisely because they--we--are allowed to in America. My flaw was in assuming that the people I come from knowingly practice their hypocrisy--again, precisely because we are allowed to. This is the blessing and the curse, and the unfortunate nature of Jews and probably many other minorities in the United States: we are allowed to assimilate, acculturate, so well that we forget the fact that assimilation and/or acculturation has occurred. It has occurred so thoroughly that mainstream American accepts us, becomes us, allows us to become it. My criticism has changed now. Do not take this fact for granted: We are all too often American Jews.

I will explain. In Germany, I realized that because of the United States' natural order of acceptance of most (not all, because doctrine only goes so far), that I can be an American Jew and fully accepted. This is why I must not be one. I am, and proudly, a Jewish American. If it is a matter of Heimat, I was born in mine. Ethnically, I have another and I am en route, but I cast my votes primarily in the interest of the former.

I am anti-Diaspora, another notion introduced to me in Germany. I bring my home with me and it is not attached necessarily to a physical place, but a spiritual one. I long for nowhere as home, except for America, because it is only there where "in the beginning all the world was...". And I take it with me--American is everywhere, and I don't just mean commercially. The Dream is everywhere. American is made of everyone and in so, I can find it everywhere and take the brunt of the diatribe against me for knowing only one language, although that is soon to change. I can go home and be home anywhere because that is the nature of America and "all come to look for" whether for good or for bad, whether for dreams of creation or destruction. I am aware that since America is composed of populations representing everyone from everywhere, it carries within it both the best and worst of all worlds. In turn, it creates a new one everyday.

It is potential, realized and growing. The world is big and full of people. We all have the same potential, the same virtues and flaws. But the more I travel, the more I realize that there is only one place (at least in my experience) that carries out that potential kinetically so well. And so I am proud to be a Jewish American--an American, because that carries more weight than most things.

It will be a year until I see her again. It is boarding time.

23:15
This plane flies forward, accelerating time. This kind of travel underlines the arbitrary nature of the clock. We continue to move against the grain. The moon is bright and waxing. It reminds me of my last flight involving Israel. It was flying west, back home, and the moon was low and orange-pink against the sky of Tel Aviv. I whispered goodbye. I was seventeen. The rest of that flight has completely flown from my memory.

In the Luxembourg airport, I had to pay over $200 for my excess baggage or throw it out. Guess which one I chose? I'm not that cheap. United States baggage policies are so much better than Europe's. Only 20kg period. And 15 Euros for every ADDITIONAL kilo. I was twenty over. The man was nice. He told them it was only 10. Still an FML moment. I'm throwing my life out over the course of this year, or shipping everything by snail mail.

On the City Hopper flight from Luxembourg to Amsterdam, I had the pleasure of sitting next to this very large, smelly guy from Denver who was either reading his paper, sticking his elbow into me, or complaining to the flight attendants. I had to go through passport control again to switch gates in Schipol. A three-and-a-half hour layover ensued.

During the layover, I got the last bit of writing done. In the middle, I decided to eat the food I packed and in my normal clod fashion, ended up with water all over me, the notebook, and the seats around me. After I dried that up, I resumed writing. I have also finally started reading The Adventures of Amir Hamza. (Thank you, my wonderful friend--you know who you are--you know me and my tastes far too well.) For those of you who don't know of this tale, it is the Indo-Persian Islamic epic of the Medieval Period. Adventure, magic, mythology at its greatest. It excellent, particularly for learning of what it is that people dream and how.

The flight to Tel Aviv is rather pleasant. My iPod layers over the screaming babies. KLM by far has the best airplane food I have ever encountered. Good seatmates, too--this time from Norway. However, the flight is completely full, so they took Therem away at the gate and put her in cabin baggage. She will hopefully be returned unharmed at the gate in Tel Aviv. My Weimar vase will hopefully be unharmed, too. It is very padded, but you can never tell with how airport luggage people throws things around. And let us hope my luggage actually makes it.

Right now, a million stories are buzzing through my head but none of them are solid. They are gestating and will come out when they are ready. At the same time, I am thinking of what I am missing: the first day off classes at Clark University. I have left my life behind and am going forward into the absolute unknown. I know that I am crazy. My views are not deluded.

The plane continues forward--through turbulence.