Can you tell the difference between arguements against interracial marriage and same-gender marriage? Give this handy-dandy test a try!
Same Race, or Same Sex?
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Thursday, May 29, 2003
Ah, a writer's life
Yes, I write smutty books. People often ask me if that's a good way to make money. Go take a look at what the Insta-Industry gets in royalties and tell me what you think.
Friday, April 18, 2003
Passover haiku
I know, I know, I need to go shopping and start cooking for our seder tomorrow night. But I can't resist Passover Haiku.
Left the door open
for the Prophet Elijah.
Now our cat is gone.
Lacking fins or tail
the gefilte fish swims with
great difficulty.
Left the door open
for the Prophet Elijah.
Now our cat is gone.
Lacking fins or tail
the gefilte fish swims with
great difficulty.
Friday, April 11, 2003
Amazing coolness
Ever wonder how big the Millenium Falcon is compared to, say, the Vorlon Planet Killer, as opposed to the Enterprise?
Go here! But only if you have high speed access.
Go here! But only if you have high speed access.
Friday, March 28, 2003
Wednesday, February 26, 2003
Star Trekin' across the universe...
Mark Simpson over at Salon has a very funny and pointed article on Star Trek. It opens:
The first thing that greets me is Capt. Kirk's package. Jim's intergalactic manhood is clearly, alarmingly outlined against the fabric of his tight 1960s-cut black trousers, dressing very much to the left. I assure you I wasn't looking for it -- it just loomed up like a de-cloaked Romulan Bird of Prey. It shouldn't be surprising that James Tiberius Kirk, the famously gung-ho Starfleet commander, went commando, boldly swinging where no man had swung before. Maybe that, as much as his twinkly mascara'd eyes and his captaincy of the fastest, flashiest vehicle in the galaxy, the USS Enterprise, was the secret of caddish Jim's phenomenal success with lady humanoids and aliens alike.Read the rest of this hilarious piece here.
Tuesday, February 25, 2003
She writes fiction, too
I'd read several modern romance-style books by Naomi Ragen before I discovered she was an editorialist as well. I hear her voice perfectly well in Peace, Peace, but there is no Peace
Thursday, February 20, 2003
Friday, February 07, 2003
File this under, "Only in New York"
With hospital, you get eggroll; and it's kosher!
(updated December 2008) leave it to my wife, Karen, to tell me that there's actually a book out about this hospital *sighs* I guess that's her way of hinting at a Hanukkah gift.
Did I mention that she has odd taste in books?
(updated December 2008) leave it to my wife, Karen, to tell me that there's actually a book out about this hospital *sighs* I guess that's her way of hinting at a Hanukkah gift.
Did I mention that she has odd taste in books?
Tuesday, December 24, 2002
On a lighter note
This is where we ended up having dinner. Mmmm! Five different kinds of salads, cold Carlsberg beer, hot, freshly baked pita right out of a stone oven, steaming chick peas nestled in virgin olive oil on hummus, and then skewers of roasted beef and lamb. Hot tea with fresh sprigs of mint floating in it, and two tiny sweets, and great company. This is where the locals eat, assured our friend Tuvia.
Karen writes about Yad Vashem
We did go to Yad Vashem. It's not easy to describe. Approaching it from another perspective first: the museums we've visited in Israel are designed very differently than those in the U.S. The "one large building" with or without a garden with sculpture or benches is not really the standard look here. Certainly, the museums are large buildings. But they are more often, connected buildings that have open passageways connecting them, which continually keep the visitor experiencing the outside. The Israel Museum, for instance, brings you through a large visitor center/coat room/gift shop/cafeteria space, and then you leave that building in order to go "to the museum." By doing this, you cross through an open landscaped space filled with both modern and contemporary sculpture, and pieces of ancient mosaics. After about 100 yards of walking, you come upon another building, which is actually three interconnected buildings that have entrances on three different levels (Jerusalem being mountainous, it depends where along the open space you choose to enter the building). The Dead Sea Scrolls and their space was described earlier.
The Bible-Lands Museum (which is much, much better than this hokey name implies) is similar -- a large space, built in a vaguely ziggurat style, but still, there are places where you find yourself walking through an open door into a separate building, with the sky above you.
(a brief digression: the Bible-Lands Museum is well worth the visit for anyone interested in the development of civilization in this part of the world. The exhibits are beautifully laid out, and the overlay of pieces of scripture unexpectedly enhance the presentation: "Rebekah went to the well" is inscribed over a series of ancient pitchers and you suddenly realize -- it's THESE pitchers Rebekah would have carried. Ah.)
The archeological museums we visited in Zippori, Jerusalem, Jaffa, and Ceasarea are even more intriguing. For instance, in Jaffa and Jerusalem, we weren't really in a museum. We were in a cleaned-up archealogical dig that exposed a series of ancient Roman houses and streets, with a roof covering the entire area. The exhibited artifacts had never been moved from their original site -- the museum is literally built around them, the foundation stones bursting out of the floor path that has been put in for us to follow.
And then, Yad Vashem.
Similar in construction to these other Israel museums in that there are several buildings, each surrounded by greenery, trees, pathways. This is more than architecturally beautiful -- it is necessary to the visitor. We first visit a large one-story building. It is dark inside, except for a perpetual flame flickering. As our eyes get used to the darkness, we see that we are standing before a floor in which is inscribed the names of the camps where Jews were murdered. We learn that under the floor is the recovered ashes from the ovens, so that these victims can be buried here in Israel. I say kaddish, my throat already constricting with the difficulty of the experience.
And that is the first place. We leave, returning to sunlight, and a wide expanse, a stunning view of the hills of Jerusalem. The trees planted all around us each have a plaque - they are planted in memory of the Righteous Gentiles, those who helped in any way they could to save the Jews. There are hundreds of trees.
We move into the second building. This is the historical building, two or three stories that begin with the history of anti-semitism, and then the rise of Nazi-ism and modern anti-semitism. It is a static exhibit, in one way (my American eyes are used to the US Holocaust Museum, with its video screens embedded next to posters and photographs), but that's more than enough for me. It is still a brutal exhibit of a brutal history.
We are with a small number of English speakers being led through by a guide. I feel briefly sorry for the Americans with us who are shocked to learn that Roosevelt chose not to increase the Jewish immigration numbers during the war. Our guide is describing bomb raids on factories adjacent to the camps, and prisoners desperately screaming, pleading, writing to the American forces begging to have the camp bombed. We see the letters that inform Roosevelt exactly what the purpose of the camps are, and we see the official American response to refrain from bombing them. One woman in our group quaveringly asks "why didn't Roosevelt stop them?" And the guide turning unblinking sabra eyes to her to say "because they were Jews. And no one wanted the Jews." The documents next to the photographs clearly state this. It is terrible to see, but I am at least better informed about this part of American history than the woman beside me, who is nearly unable to continue to the tour because of her shock.
The Hall of Names. I don't know what I expected to see when we followed that sign. Perhaps an artistic rendering, similar to that in the US Holocaust Museum, of inscribed names on cut glass, names of the Righteous. But no, at Yad Vashem, the Hall of Names is a hall of card catalogues. It's the size of the main card catalogue room in the Israel National Library. The card catalogues cannot be approached, but there are copies of some of the documents that are kept in them, and we look at those. They are 5x7 index cards with photographs. Names. Last known residence. Camp, if known. And a verification signature of someone still living, a relative who traveled to Yad Vashem to find their sister, uncle, grandparent's name, and confirm that yes, they were part of the Jewish people, and should be remembered here. I see signatures from 1987, from residents in Brooklyn, Philadelphia, London, Moscow, who visited this place in order to make sure their relative is recorded at Yad Vashem.
This museum also has art, sculptures and paintings that comprise the largest collection of Holocaust art in the world. It also houses a collection of art previously owned by Jews -- art that was stolen by the Nazis, and later recovered. Of course, many of the owners were murdered. At a recent auction at Christie's, a well known Jewish philanthropist, Ron Lauder, purchased a huge collection of this recovered art, and donated it to Yad Vashem. Some of the art is Jewish, some not -- but its presence in the museum is very appropriate. This is what Jews had in their houses. These are paintings that someone used to own who should have been able to pass it on to their children. So now it's here.
We leave that building, and burst into another large open space. Now I truly understand the need for these spaces. The buildings are beautifully constructed, but what they contain can crush you. We need to breathe. We see a large landscaped construction and head toward it, to find out that it is a monument to those Jewish soldiers who fought and died on the Allied side. We head back through the trees, via the Avenue of the Righteous, and past some of the stunning and famous Holocaust sculptures that are stark against the grey skies.
On our return toward the beginning of this vast campus, we visit the Children's Museum. I cannot describe it adequately. The space is dark, with yarhzeit candles burning through walls and mirrors, until we find ourselves in a dark space punctuated by flickering flames. In one area are faces of children projected onto an invisible wall, but mostly it's candles. And voices. Naming children. Their ages. Three. Seven. Nine. Where they are from. It is a profoundly moving place.
Before I finish this message, I must ask you to think about these spaces now, filled with soldiers. Because it turns out that the Israel Defense Forces are required to visit Yad Vashem as part of their training. The officers are required to lead their units through, acting as tour guides. Everywhere we go, olive uniforms and M-16's surround us. Young faces, but hundreds of them, moving in groups of 20 or so. We are first afraid to push ourselves past these guns (wouldn't you be?), but after watching our tour guide do so, we realize that it's not a problem. The soldiers move aside as we travel through the closed spaces, the open spaces. We pass groups of them on the lawns, standing in large circles, listening to their officers. We are nearly crushed by them as they move into new exhibit spaces, staring at the posters that read "Death to Jews" in all of the modern European languages. Together, we look at the photographs of the leader of the Mosque in Jerusalem meeting with Hitler, shaking hands and agreeing that they have a common enemy. That strikes close to home for these soldiers.
When I first visited the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC, it was during the 1993 March on Washington. The Museum had opened just that month, and thousands of gay men and lesbians were standing in line to visit the space. Together, we traveled through that incredible space, Jews and queers, sometimes together, sometimes even comforting each other. Outside, on the mall, was the AIDS quilt. Our communities know far too much about devastating death and lack of government response. The collective pain was palpable that day.
At Yad Vashem, the pain is not just palpable, it is still alive. I felt that even more, surrounded by soldiers. This place is here so that these young people can see one of the most important reasons why they are in uniform, why they must be called to fight. It is a terrible thing, and yet... what monuments do we have in the US that are REQUIRED as part of our military's education?
The Bible-Lands Museum (which is much, much better than this hokey name implies) is similar -- a large space, built in a vaguely ziggurat style, but still, there are places where you find yourself walking through an open door into a separate building, with the sky above you.
(a brief digression: the Bible-Lands Museum is well worth the visit for anyone interested in the development of civilization in this part of the world. The exhibits are beautifully laid out, and the overlay of pieces of scripture unexpectedly enhance the presentation: "Rebekah went to the well" is inscribed over a series of ancient pitchers and you suddenly realize -- it's THESE pitchers Rebekah would have carried. Ah.)
The archeological museums we visited in Zippori, Jerusalem, Jaffa, and Ceasarea are even more intriguing. For instance, in Jaffa and Jerusalem, we weren't really in a museum. We were in a cleaned-up archealogical dig that exposed a series of ancient Roman houses and streets, with a roof covering the entire area. The exhibited artifacts had never been moved from their original site -- the museum is literally built around them, the foundation stones bursting out of the floor path that has been put in for us to follow.
And then, Yad Vashem.
Similar in construction to these other Israel museums in that there are several buildings, each surrounded by greenery, trees, pathways. This is more than architecturally beautiful -- it is necessary to the visitor. We first visit a large one-story building. It is dark inside, except for a perpetual flame flickering. As our eyes get used to the darkness, we see that we are standing before a floor in which is inscribed the names of the camps where Jews were murdered. We learn that under the floor is the recovered ashes from the ovens, so that these victims can be buried here in Israel. I say kaddish, my throat already constricting with the difficulty of the experience.
And that is the first place. We leave, returning to sunlight, and a wide expanse, a stunning view of the hills of Jerusalem. The trees planted all around us each have a plaque - they are planted in memory of the Righteous Gentiles, those who helped in any way they could to save the Jews. There are hundreds of trees.
We move into the second building. This is the historical building, two or three stories that begin with the history of anti-semitism, and then the rise of Nazi-ism and modern anti-semitism. It is a static exhibit, in one way (my American eyes are used to the US Holocaust Museum, with its video screens embedded next to posters and photographs), but that's more than enough for me. It is still a brutal exhibit of a brutal history.
We are with a small number of English speakers being led through by a guide. I feel briefly sorry for the Americans with us who are shocked to learn that Roosevelt chose not to increase the Jewish immigration numbers during the war. Our guide is describing bomb raids on factories adjacent to the camps, and prisoners desperately screaming, pleading, writing to the American forces begging to have the camp bombed. We see the letters that inform Roosevelt exactly what the purpose of the camps are, and we see the official American response to refrain from bombing them. One woman in our group quaveringly asks "why didn't Roosevelt stop them?" And the guide turning unblinking sabra eyes to her to say "because they were Jews. And no one wanted the Jews." The documents next to the photographs clearly state this. It is terrible to see, but I am at least better informed about this part of American history than the woman beside me, who is nearly unable to continue to the tour because of her shock.
The Hall of Names. I don't know what I expected to see when we followed that sign. Perhaps an artistic rendering, similar to that in the US Holocaust Museum, of inscribed names on cut glass, names of the Righteous. But no, at Yad Vashem, the Hall of Names is a hall of card catalogues. It's the size of the main card catalogue room in the Israel National Library. The card catalogues cannot be approached, but there are copies of some of the documents that are kept in them, and we look at those. They are 5x7 index cards with photographs. Names. Last known residence. Camp, if known. And a verification signature of someone still living, a relative who traveled to Yad Vashem to find their sister, uncle, grandparent's name, and confirm that yes, they were part of the Jewish people, and should be remembered here. I see signatures from 1987, from residents in Brooklyn, Philadelphia, London, Moscow, who visited this place in order to make sure their relative is recorded at Yad Vashem.
This museum also has art, sculptures and paintings that comprise the largest collection of Holocaust art in the world. It also houses a collection of art previously owned by Jews -- art that was stolen by the Nazis, and later recovered. Of course, many of the owners were murdered. At a recent auction at Christie's, a well known Jewish philanthropist, Ron Lauder, purchased a huge collection of this recovered art, and donated it to Yad Vashem. Some of the art is Jewish, some not -- but its presence in the museum is very appropriate. This is what Jews had in their houses. These are paintings that someone used to own who should have been able to pass it on to their children. So now it's here.
We leave that building, and burst into another large open space. Now I truly understand the need for these spaces. The buildings are beautifully constructed, but what they contain can crush you. We need to breathe. We see a large landscaped construction and head toward it, to find out that it is a monument to those Jewish soldiers who fought and died on the Allied side. We head back through the trees, via the Avenue of the Righteous, and past some of the stunning and famous Holocaust sculptures that are stark against the grey skies.
On our return toward the beginning of this vast campus, we visit the Children's Museum. I cannot describe it adequately. The space is dark, with yarhzeit candles burning through walls and mirrors, until we find ourselves in a dark space punctuated by flickering flames. In one area are faces of children projected onto an invisible wall, but mostly it's candles. And voices. Naming children. Their ages. Three. Seven. Nine. Where they are from. It is a profoundly moving place.
Before I finish this message, I must ask you to think about these spaces now, filled with soldiers. Because it turns out that the Israel Defense Forces are required to visit Yad Vashem as part of their training. The officers are required to lead their units through, acting as tour guides. Everywhere we go, olive uniforms and M-16's surround us. Young faces, but hundreds of them, moving in groups of 20 or so. We are first afraid to push ourselves past these guns (wouldn't you be?), but after watching our tour guide do so, we realize that it's not a problem. The soldiers move aside as we travel through the closed spaces, the open spaces. We pass groups of them on the lawns, standing in large circles, listening to their officers. We are nearly crushed by them as they move into new exhibit spaces, staring at the posters that read "Death to Jews" in all of the modern European languages. Together, we look at the photographs of the leader of the Mosque in Jerusalem meeting with Hitler, shaking hands and agreeing that they have a common enemy. That strikes close to home for these soldiers.
When I first visited the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC, it was during the 1993 March on Washington. The Museum had opened just that month, and thousands of gay men and lesbians were standing in line to visit the space. Together, we traveled through that incredible space, Jews and queers, sometimes together, sometimes even comforting each other. Outside, on the mall, was the AIDS quilt. Our communities know far too much about devastating death and lack of government response. The collective pain was palpable that day.
At Yad Vashem, the pain is not just palpable, it is still alive. I felt that even more, surrounded by soldiers. This place is here so that these young people can see one of the most important reasons why they are in uniform, why they must be called to fight. It is a terrible thing, and yet... what monuments do we have in the US that are REQUIRED as part of our military's education?
Because it is, after all, Christmas Eve
Santa Claus - with an Armenian twist - has come into the internet cafe and is distributing candy to all the kids here. The Little Drummer Boy is playing in Arabic. The kids are cramming chocolate in their mouths and ringing little bells and cheerfully wishing everyone a Merry Christmas in at least three different languages. It's a sort of glorious chaos, and I am glad we came one last time. The sun is setting and soon the stores will close down. If Christians are coming to the Old City, they should be coming in now.
I understand that the people in Bethlehem, in protest of the Israeli security measures taking place around that city, are not decorating their city this year, but celebrating in purely religious ways. More power to them, I say. Take the decorations out of Christmas and keep it religious, a festival of faith and personal joy. When I woke up this morning, I said, in wonder, to Karen, "For the first time in my life, this isn't Christmas Eve. It's Tuesday." Part of that is my growing comfort with the Jewish calendar. But a bigger part, I think, is the fact that here, Christmas *is* a religious holiday. (Except to some Russians, LOL) There are no garish displays in store windows, at least none that I've seen. No "Xmas Sales!!" No countdown of shopping days.
So, to those celebrating in Bethlehem tonight, may the loss of lights and glass balls and garlands be completely unnoticeable. May they be warmer than we are right now in Jerusalem, and may the wind not blow their candles out. And may they be grateful to be able to celebrate Christmas in a land where Christians are the minority. Plenty of Christians in other lands tonight, from China to, oh, our allied countries like Saudi Arabia, will be celebrating quietly at home, and hoping for the day when they can gather in public and not be afraid.
I understand that the people in Bethlehem, in protest of the Israeli security measures taking place around that city, are not decorating their city this year, but celebrating in purely religious ways. More power to them, I say. Take the decorations out of Christmas and keep it religious, a festival of faith and personal joy. When I woke up this morning, I said, in wonder, to Karen, "For the first time in my life, this isn't Christmas Eve. It's Tuesday." Part of that is my growing comfort with the Jewish calendar. But a bigger part, I think, is the fact that here, Christmas *is* a religious holiday. (Except to some Russians, LOL) There are no garish displays in store windows, at least none that I've seen. No "Xmas Sales!!" No countdown of shopping days.
So, to those celebrating in Bethlehem tonight, may the loss of lights and glass balls and garlands be completely unnoticeable. May they be warmer than we are right now in Jerusalem, and may the wind not blow their candles out. And may they be grateful to be able to celebrate Christmas in a land where Christians are the minority. Plenty of Christians in other lands tonight, from China to, oh, our allied countries like Saudi Arabia, will be celebrating quietly at home, and hoping for the day when they can gather in public and not be afraid.
Where we were in Jerusalem
Here are three shots taken in the neighborhood we stayed in. The first is looking down the pedestrian mall of Ben Yehuda street, Can you spot the rainbow flag? That's where the Jerusalem Open House is, the local gay organization where we found great hospitality. The second picture is of one of the famous Irish stores you can find here in Israel. Yes - get your tallis on sale at Danny Boy's place. Half off on all Hanukkah items. The third picture is of a huge open air market a few blocks away from our hotel which would make any chef cry for the quality of the produce.
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The sounds of Jerusalem
Sting, moaning about "How Fragile We Are."
Besame Mucho, played on an instrumental tape in a cab
The rapid ticking at the corner of Ben Yehuda and King George when the light turns green and it's safe to cross
"Jingle Bells" in Arabic
The Israeli pop music mixed with American stuff coming out of the trendy clothing shops on Jaffa Road
The crunch of walking through another street under construction
"I have here wonderful guide, wonderful shop, no need to buy, just look..."
Jerusalem, City of Gold, played on a balalaika by a street musician
Store and car alarms that go off making everyone stop for a second, look for the source and continue as usual
"Are you Jewish? Have you ever done this? Come, let us show you how!"
The buzz of radios clipped to shoulders of police and soldiers
"We we gathering stars while a million guitars played our love song..." in a cab
Celine Dion and Julio Iglascias
The call to prayer; the many calls to many prayers, voices and bells and men looking for a tenth man to bless the new month
"America? New York? I have a cousin in New York!"
Horns, and the shaky sound of 4 cylinder engines that need tune ups.
"L'chiam!"
"Come back again...and bring your friends!"
Besame Mucho, played on an instrumental tape in a cab
The rapid ticking at the corner of Ben Yehuda and King George when the light turns green and it's safe to cross
"Jingle Bells" in Arabic
The Israeli pop music mixed with American stuff coming out of the trendy clothing shops on Jaffa Road
The crunch of walking through another street under construction
"I have here wonderful guide, wonderful shop, no need to buy, just look..."
Jerusalem, City of Gold, played on a balalaika by a street musician
Store and car alarms that go off making everyone stop for a second, look for the source and continue as usual
"Are you Jewish? Have you ever done this? Come, let us show you how!"
The buzz of radios clipped to shoulders of police and soldiers
"We we gathering stars while a million guitars played our love song..." in a cab
Celine Dion and Julio Iglascias
The call to prayer; the many calls to many prayers, voices and bells and men looking for a tenth man to bless the new month
"America? New York? I have a cousin in New York!"
Horns, and the shaky sound of 4 cylinder engines that need tune ups.
"L'chiam!"
"Come back again...and bring your friends!"
Karen talks shopping
Remember the earlier entry Laurie did about visiting a shop that was owned by the brother of another shopkeeper and was business partners with the son of another shopkeeper we also visited?
Well, what she didn't mention was the nearly two hours we spent in the shop bargaining. This was AFTER the hour or so we spent actually deciding on the things we were going to buy. It was pretty amazing to see this side of her -- and moreover, how naturally she fell into it!
I'm sure most of you know that bargaining is a time-honored (as in thousands of years) tradition in the Middle East. It is an expected part of the marketplace experience. And most of you also know that Americans are notoriously bad at bargaining in these environments. We tend to do one of two things: first, we feel guilty that we're so wealthy compared to these guys and only cover one round or so of bargaining before agreeing to a price, knowing that we would still be paying more in our own country for the same merchandise. Or, we bargain badly, by whining, complaining, denouncing the quality of the stock, or insulting the shopkeeper. By the end of the transaction, we still end up paying more, and worse, we've confirmed the Ugly American stereotype.
Laurie does neither of these. We start to gather items together. The shopkeeper follows her, giving a running commentary on quality, quantity, and history of every item she looks at. Laurie listens patiently, and then announces "no, I'm not going to pay that price." He argues, she smiles, and replaces the item. He picks it up, offering a lower price. Laurie shakes her head, attention turned elsewhere. This leaves the shopkeeper in a dilemma - does he continue to offer a lower price on the original item, or follow her to the new location and begin discussing the merits of that item?
Periodically, he turns his attention to me. I'm obviously the easier target -- me with my midwestern face and carrying a purse. I smile, and tell him that I don't buy anything without Laurie. He grimaces and says "your friend -- she's tough. Nice, but tough."
And you know, Laurie IS nice. She is firm in her refusals, and equally firm in her determination about what she is not willing to pay. She never denounces the quality, but if she questions quality, she does so by asking the shopkeeper if he has something "similar, but nicer." She is praised for her keen eye.
Finally, Laurie has compiled a pile of items, and we are only actively looking at one or two other things. At this point, we are offered beverages -- tea, coffee, coca-cola. We accept. Because now, the serious bargaining begins. This is where Laurie shines. Me, I would have assumed we already did the bargaining part -- where each item has been identified as being of interest, and a price put to it. But not Laurie.
"What price are you offering for all of this?" she says, pointing her hand to our pile of jewelry, blankets, purses, Roman coins, and the like. The shopkeeper offers a price, plus reduced shipping to the U.S. Laurie shakes her head and says "too much." She moves one item out of the pile. The shopkeeper immediately returns the item to the pile, and suggests another price. "No, still too much. I think I can do without this," she says, pushing the item out of the pile again. The shopkeeper argues with her. How can she leave his shop without such a beautiful piece? One of a kind! Unique! Hand-crafted! Found only in remote locations of the Negev, brought in on camels. "It's not to my taste," she says. Now, the price is reduced on that item, by about 30%.
But still, Laurie persists. "How much NOW for all of this?" she asks. The shopkeeper goes through the list again, reminding her where he has offered earlier discounts, suggesting that he has been terribly kind in the new 30% discount, and then offering perhaps, free shipping of all items to the U.S.
We are now about 1/2 the way through our beverages, and I am intrigued by the body language around me. There are four of us in the shop, Laurie and me, the shopkeeper, and an assistant. The assistant is quietly putting things back in order, periodically catching my eye to hold something he thinks may be of interest. Mostly jewelry, "for beautiful lady." I smile and say I rarely wear jewelry, and have already chosen pieces for my friends and family. He shrugs, smiling, and returns to his task. The shopkeeper bargaining with Laurie is communicating his agony, how we are dragging his blood out by the fingernails. But I also see how relaxed he is, how happy. I know of course that some of this is because he knows we will buy something, and businesses in the Old City are hurting badly from the lack of tourists. He knows this, of course, because our body language is also relaxed. Neither of us look like we're about to bolt out of the shop, give up on this difficult bargaining challenge, and leave in an angry huff. So the shopkeeper can relax. We will buy.
But I suspect he also is relaxed because he has found a worthy shopper in Laurie. She is focused, committed to leaving with the best possible deal. He understands this, and he is giving us the full benefit of his travails. We are an appreciative audience.
By this time, the coca-colas have been empty for 30 minutes. Evening shoppers are ducking their heads in. They see us, hear American accents, and feel safe -- if WE shop here, it must be a place that is safe. But I feel sorry for them. If they buy, they will not have Laurie with them. They will miss out on a significant part of the shopping experience here.
We leave with what would have been another full suitcase of items, but we're getting them shipped, free of charge, instead. And I think we also leave a shopkeeper who must struggle with a dearth of business, punctuated with bouts of poor bargainers. I hope that his evening with us gives him a smile through these dark and economically difficult times in the Old City, just inside Jaffa Gate, at the Petra Shop.
Well, what she didn't mention was the nearly two hours we spent in the shop bargaining. This was AFTER the hour or so we spent actually deciding on the things we were going to buy. It was pretty amazing to see this side of her -- and moreover, how naturally she fell into it!
I'm sure most of you know that bargaining is a time-honored (as in thousands of years) tradition in the Middle East. It is an expected part of the marketplace experience. And most of you also know that Americans are notoriously bad at bargaining in these environments. We tend to do one of two things: first, we feel guilty that we're so wealthy compared to these guys and only cover one round or so of bargaining before agreeing to a price, knowing that we would still be paying more in our own country for the same merchandise. Or, we bargain badly, by whining, complaining, denouncing the quality of the stock, or insulting the shopkeeper. By the end of the transaction, we still end up paying more, and worse, we've confirmed the Ugly American stereotype.
Laurie does neither of these. We start to gather items together. The shopkeeper follows her, giving a running commentary on quality, quantity, and history of every item she looks at. Laurie listens patiently, and then announces "no, I'm not going to pay that price." He argues, she smiles, and replaces the item. He picks it up, offering a lower price. Laurie shakes her head, attention turned elsewhere. This leaves the shopkeeper in a dilemma - does he continue to offer a lower price on the original item, or follow her to the new location and begin discussing the merits of that item?
Periodically, he turns his attention to me. I'm obviously the easier target -- me with my midwestern face and carrying a purse. I smile, and tell him that I don't buy anything without Laurie. He grimaces and says "your friend -- she's tough. Nice, but tough."
And you know, Laurie IS nice. She is firm in her refusals, and equally firm in her determination about what she is not willing to pay. She never denounces the quality, but if she questions quality, she does so by asking the shopkeeper if he has something "similar, but nicer." She is praised for her keen eye.
Finally, Laurie has compiled a pile of items, and we are only actively looking at one or two other things. At this point, we are offered beverages -- tea, coffee, coca-cola. We accept. Because now, the serious bargaining begins. This is where Laurie shines. Me, I would have assumed we already did the bargaining part -- where each item has been identified as being of interest, and a price put to it. But not Laurie.
"What price are you offering for all of this?" she says, pointing her hand to our pile of jewelry, blankets, purses, Roman coins, and the like. The shopkeeper offers a price, plus reduced shipping to the U.S. Laurie shakes her head and says "too much." She moves one item out of the pile. The shopkeeper immediately returns the item to the pile, and suggests another price. "No, still too much. I think I can do without this," she says, pushing the item out of the pile again. The shopkeeper argues with her. How can she leave his shop without such a beautiful piece? One of a kind! Unique! Hand-crafted! Found only in remote locations of the Negev, brought in on camels. "It's not to my taste," she says. Now, the price is reduced on that item, by about 30%.
But still, Laurie persists. "How much NOW for all of this?" she asks. The shopkeeper goes through the list again, reminding her where he has offered earlier discounts, suggesting that he has been terribly kind in the new 30% discount, and then offering perhaps, free shipping of all items to the U.S.
We are now about 1/2 the way through our beverages, and I am intrigued by the body language around me. There are four of us in the shop, Laurie and me, the shopkeeper, and an assistant. The assistant is quietly putting things back in order, periodically catching my eye to hold something he thinks may be of interest. Mostly jewelry, "for beautiful lady." I smile and say I rarely wear jewelry, and have already chosen pieces for my friends and family. He shrugs, smiling, and returns to his task. The shopkeeper bargaining with Laurie is communicating his agony, how we are dragging his blood out by the fingernails. But I also see how relaxed he is, how happy. I know of course that some of this is because he knows we will buy something, and businesses in the Old City are hurting badly from the lack of tourists. He knows this, of course, because our body language is also relaxed. Neither of us look like we're about to bolt out of the shop, give up on this difficult bargaining challenge, and leave in an angry huff. So the shopkeeper can relax. We will buy.
But I suspect he also is relaxed because he has found a worthy shopper in Laurie. She is focused, committed to leaving with the best possible deal. He understands this, and he is giving us the full benefit of his travails. We are an appreciative audience.
By this time, the coca-colas have been empty for 30 minutes. Evening shoppers are ducking their heads in. They see us, hear American accents, and feel safe -- if WE shop here, it must be a place that is safe. But I feel sorry for them. If they buy, they will not have Laurie with them. They will miss out on a significant part of the shopping experience here.
We leave with what would have been another full suitcase of items, but we're getting them shipped, free of charge, instead. And I think we also leave a shopkeeper who must struggle with a dearth of business, punctuated with bouts of poor bargainers. I hope that his evening with us gives him a smile through these dark and economically difficult times in the Old City, just inside Jaffa Gate, at the Petra Shop.
Doing our bit to save the Israeli economy
No diamonds this trip. But we did spend a small fortune on things to bring home, including a piece of Druze fabric big enough for a bedspread, about a dozen pillow covers in Bedouin and Druze styles, pastel wine glasses, silver and stone mezuzot, knitted kippot with American and Israeli flags on them, a large supply of Dead Sea products, and assorted ritual objects requested by friends who gave us THEIR money to spend here. We've also given tzedaka (charity, very loosely defined) and we've done our best to be good ambassadors of American tourism in general.
Yesterday, I went to a store on Rivlin Street, which is known for being in an area with a lot of great craft shops. This one, Gans, is spectacular. That was where I found a Druze kippah. I brought Karen back over there today, just to see if there was "one last thing" we could cram into our luggage. Well, many sheqlim later, we are figuring that a laundry bag makes dandy luggage, so we'll just cram some clothes in it and slap a label on it to make room for more stuff. Unlike a lot of Israeli stores, Gans is larger than it looks, and artistically arranged with hundreds of hand-made objects so pretty that you go from one display to another making crazy shopping sounds like "Ohhh!" and "Look at this!" and "Oooooh." Well, I can tell you, or I can show you a bit.
GANS2.JPG
By the way, the reason I am putting links instead of just posting the picture visibly on the page is because people with slower computers take longer to load the page with pictures on it.
Gans was probably our next to last shopping visit for the trip. We will, after all, be going through the Duty-Free shop at the airport tonight. But it'll be so late, I am hoping we'll just breeze through security, get our VAT tax refund and fall asleep on the plane as soon as possible. My one other hope is that the number of people flying on Christmas Eve will be smaller than those who flew in with us, perhaps allowing us a little more space to stretch out. El Al has not followed the American Airlines direction of creating just a little more room in steerage - er, coach class.
Yesterday, I went to a store on Rivlin Street, which is known for being in an area with a lot of great craft shops. This one, Gans, is spectacular. That was where I found a Druze kippah. I brought Karen back over there today, just to see if there was "one last thing" we could cram into our luggage. Well, many sheqlim later, we are figuring that a laundry bag makes dandy luggage, so we'll just cram some clothes in it and slap a label on it to make room for more stuff. Unlike a lot of Israeli stores, Gans is larger than it looks, and artistically arranged with hundreds of hand-made objects so pretty that you go from one display to another making crazy shopping sounds like "Ohhh!" and "Look at this!" and "Oooooh." Well, I can tell you, or I can show you a bit.
GANS2.JPG
By the way, the reason I am putting links instead of just posting the picture visibly on the page is because people with slower computers take longer to load the page with pictures on it.
Gans was probably our next to last shopping visit for the trip. We will, after all, be going through the Duty-Free shop at the airport tonight. But it'll be so late, I am hoping we'll just breeze through security, get our VAT tax refund and fall asleep on the plane as soon as possible. My one other hope is that the number of people flying on Christmas Eve will be smaller than those who flew in with us, perhaps allowing us a little more space to stretch out. El Al has not followed the American Airlines direction of creating just a little more room in steerage - er, coach class.
Monday, December 23, 2002
Anyplace that has goose is OK by me
But there are definitely comforting things on the many menus we've perused which have helped us overcome the sometimes (OK, often) shoddy service. One of them, at least for me, is that geese are not rare creatures to be discovered in "game" shops, but just another yummy option for what's cooking. At Focaccia, a trendy restaurant/cafe right next to Spaghettim, Karen had what was lightly called an "Avocado salad." Hah! Avocado salad in the States usually means a green salad with some slices of avocado in it. At Focaccia, it's a Babel Tower of goodies, starting with crisp, fresh greens, lovely, ripe chunks of avocado, red onions, walnuts, pecans, and goose breast, sliced lengthwise and sauteed to resemble hickory smoked bacon.
Glenda - it's even better than your turkey bacon.
And then they topped it off with an herbal dressing that tastes of freshly squeezed lemon juice, dill, and parsley. I liked it without the dressing, actually; lightly tossed with just a little olive oil. We considered left overs, but, well, there weren't any.
Glenda - it's even better than your turkey bacon.
And then they topped it off with an herbal dressing that tastes of freshly squeezed lemon juice, dill, and parsley. I liked it without the dressing, actually; lightly tossed with just a little olive oil. We considered left overs, but, well, there weren't any.
Saturday, December 21, 2002
Karen talks about work
Meeting The Elderly
Okay, so I'm here to study, remember? And as part of that purpose, I am visiting a series of programs for seniors, including a "Warm Home" program which is exactly what it sounds like -- small gatherings for otherwise isolated elderly within walking distance of their own homes, where they can congregate. It's a little more complicated, but if you really want to know, wait for my paper (currently in draft form back at the hotel).
Most of the warm home programs I've seen are for Russian olim, seniors who either moved here by themselves or with their families. Either way, they are often alone and not working, and have trouble learning their new homeland's language. So getting together with folks from the old country can be comforting. These warm home programs are very mixed -- always a few more women, but the one I visited here in Pizgat Zev was nearly 50% men as well. They choose their own program, and this group was very much like the others I've visited -- they relied on their own members to provide lectures and topics of interest. Very easy to do in a group of retired scientists, historians, engineers, etc. etc. They were filled with advice for me, as well -- sharing their insights and assumptions about their counterparts in New York, and what would and wouldn't work for them.
Tben, we visit Afula, north of Nazareth (and tantilizingly close to Tiberius, by American standards, but not enough time on this trip). This warm home has been described to me as "Argentinian." Actually, it's Argentines, Brazilians, Venezualans, with a sprinkling of seniors from Paraguay, Urugay, and Columbia. Thankfully, my very poor Spanish feels hundreds of times better than my useless Hebrew, and I can communicate basic social courtesies much to their delight. This is also good because otherwise, it's a complicated translation process -- Ladino to Spanish to Hebrew to English. Nearly everyone in the room arrived within the last 10 years. They are spending one night a week together learning Hebrew, and a second learning Israel's history. When I ask them whether they have lectures conducted by other members of their group, they laugh. At first, they think I am asking if they bring in professionals for lectures, but when they understand, they are incredulous. Lectures? Too much like work. They are retired, in the land of their ancestors, and learning to be here. It's a group that's been together for only about four months, but is clearly bonding well. I am sorry I have to leave them -- but we have a three hour drive back to Jerusalem to make that evening.
(Laurie adds- What Karen didn't mention was that she tried a little Ladino on these folks as well! Ladino is the language of the Sephardic Jews, a combination of Spanish, Hebrew and other words and sounds. At our synagogue, we sing a couple of Ladino songs from time to time. Of course, the one she remembered was a children's Hanukkah song, sort of like a tango, about lighting the candles. It's a counting song, with a stirring (grin) chorus of "Un candelika! Dos candelikas! Tres candelikas!" etc. I am sure the elderly Jews were charmed.)
Okay, so I'm here to study, remember? And as part of that purpose, I am visiting a series of programs for seniors, including a "Warm Home" program which is exactly what it sounds like -- small gatherings for otherwise isolated elderly within walking distance of their own homes, where they can congregate. It's a little more complicated, but if you really want to know, wait for my paper (currently in draft form back at the hotel).
Most of the warm home programs I've seen are for Russian olim, seniors who either moved here by themselves or with their families. Either way, they are often alone and not working, and have trouble learning their new homeland's language. So getting together with folks from the old country can be comforting. These warm home programs are very mixed -- always a few more women, but the one I visited here in Pizgat Zev was nearly 50% men as well. They choose their own program, and this group was very much like the others I've visited -- they relied on their own members to provide lectures and topics of interest. Very easy to do in a group of retired scientists, historians, engineers, etc. etc. They were filled with advice for me, as well -- sharing their insights and assumptions about their counterparts in New York, and what would and wouldn't work for them.
Tben, we visit Afula, north of Nazareth (and tantilizingly close to Tiberius, by American standards, but not enough time on this trip). This warm home has been described to me as "Argentinian." Actually, it's Argentines, Brazilians, Venezualans, with a sprinkling of seniors from Paraguay, Urugay, and Columbia. Thankfully, my very poor Spanish feels hundreds of times better than my useless Hebrew, and I can communicate basic social courtesies much to their delight. This is also good because otherwise, it's a complicated translation process -- Ladino to Spanish to Hebrew to English. Nearly everyone in the room arrived within the last 10 years. They are spending one night a week together learning Hebrew, and a second learning Israel's history. When I ask them whether they have lectures conducted by other members of their group, they laugh. At first, they think I am asking if they bring in professionals for lectures, but when they understand, they are incredulous. Lectures? Too much like work. They are retired, in the land of their ancestors, and learning to be here. It's a group that's been together for only about four months, but is clearly bonding well. I am sorry I have to leave them -- but we have a three hour drive back to Jerusalem to make that evening.
(Laurie adds- What Karen didn't mention was that she tried a little Ladino on these folks as well! Ladino is the language of the Sephardic Jews, a combination of Spanish, Hebrew and other words and sounds. At our synagogue, we sing a couple of Ladino songs from time to time. Of course, the one she remembered was a children's Hanukkah song, sort of like a tango, about lighting the candles. It's a counting song, with a stirring (grin) chorus of "Un candelika! Dos candelikas! Tres candelikas!" etc. I am sure the elderly Jews were charmed.)
More from Karen
Our Taxi Driver
Hooray for Mayer, our taxi driver! We are keeping his card, and insist that everyone we know who wants a friendly driver to use Mayer's services when visiting. Mayer is a "type" we're becoming familiar with here in Israel -- a burly man, vaguely Eastern European in heritage, but born here in Israel, married and 8 children ranging in age from 9 to 24. He is warm, affectionate, curious, and so proud of his country. Our language barriers are nothing when we are with Mayer. His hand sweeps across the Negev, proclaiming its vastness. He discovers new routes (Israel's first toll road is being built between Jerusalem and Haifa), and we experiment with them, feeling completely safe. He points out cities, his voice letting us know whether they are Palestinian or Arab Israelis, Jews, and religious Jews. He joins us on our tour of Zippori National Park, equally curious about the mosaics and the countryside, staying to read the Hebrew inscriptions below the clay pots in the museum. I find out that at one point on our journey, while I am inside visiting another elderly home, Laurie has carefully explained to him that we live together, without husbands. His response is curious, with no disgust. "This is okay in New York?" he asks. When she says for some it is okay, he nods and says "very different. Like in Tel Aviv." He seems far more fascinated by the fact that we have a woman rabbi, though.
(Laurie adds; He was actually thrilled that we had a woman rabbi. "I think is good," he announced firmly. "Woman is ima (mom) - woman is doctor, soldier, (prime) minister. Why not rabbi?" I told him that even in NY, there were Jews who thought it wasn't OK, and he nodded in sympathy. "But you do it anyway," he said, almost like a command.)
Hooray for Mayer, our taxi driver! We are keeping his card, and insist that everyone we know who wants a friendly driver to use Mayer's services when visiting. Mayer is a "type" we're becoming familiar with here in Israel -- a burly man, vaguely Eastern European in heritage, but born here in Israel, married and 8 children ranging in age from 9 to 24. He is warm, affectionate, curious, and so proud of his country. Our language barriers are nothing when we are with Mayer. His hand sweeps across the Negev, proclaiming its vastness. He discovers new routes (Israel's first toll road is being built between Jerusalem and Haifa), and we experiment with them, feeling completely safe. He points out cities, his voice letting us know whether they are Palestinian or Arab Israelis, Jews, and religious Jews. He joins us on our tour of Zippori National Park, equally curious about the mosaics and the countryside, staying to read the Hebrew inscriptions below the clay pots in the museum. I find out that at one point on our journey, while I am inside visiting another elderly home, Laurie has carefully explained to him that we live together, without husbands. His response is curious, with no disgust. "This is okay in New York?" he asks. When she says for some it is okay, he nods and says "very different. Like in Tel Aviv." He seems far more fascinated by the fact that we have a woman rabbi, though.
(Laurie adds; He was actually thrilled that we had a woman rabbi. "I think is good," he announced firmly. "Woman is ima (mom) - woman is doctor, soldier, (prime) minister. Why not rabbi?" I told him that even in NY, there were Jews who thought it wasn't OK, and he nodded in sympathy. "But you do it anyway," he said, almost like a command.)
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