Warning: get ready for some clichés.
I recently read The Kite Runner. The author, Khaled Hosseini, remarks quite correctly, I think, that sometimes clichés are the most appropriate choice of words. Now, late Sunday night, looking back over the past couple of days, I realize that a bunch of clichés—maybe they’re idioms—best describe what I feel.
I feel like I’m in a bubble, like I’ve taken a ride on an emotional roller coaster over the past couple of days.
Wednesday was nuts. I studied for a big Hishtalshilut (Jewish history) test on the time periods of the Tannaim and Amoraim, which left me really wanting to learn some Gemara. (FYI: I’m really enjoying my learning here in Israel, but I realize that I miss learning Gemara.) I went to class in the morning and again straight through from three in the afternoon until 9:20 P.M. I ate dinner, had a job interview over the phone, and caught up with a bunch of people who I hadn’t spoken to in a while. By one in the morning, I was exhausted, but it had been a great day.
Thursday was exhausting, physically and emotionally. I had a huge Navi bekius test on fifteen perakim of Shmuel I-II. I hadn’t had much time to study for it on Wednesday, so I had to fit in time to study throughout Thursday. It was also the first day of the 70-80 degree weather we’ve been having here lately in Yerushalayim, so studying outside was actually really nice. Later, my dira ate Dira Dinner together (lasagna from Village Green), and I kept studying. At 8:30, when my bekius test was done, I thought my crazy week would be over.
About 20 minutes later, I was sitting outside checking my email. It was a beautiful night, and I wasn’t in a rush. All that I had to do that night was make chocolate-covered pretzels for my dira’s long-awaited Shabbaton and sleep until very late the next morning. Enjoying the leisure of a free night, I was pretty much unaware of the sirens I kept hearing. After having lived in Manhattan for a year, I’ve become pretty immune to the sound of ambulances and police cars. But moments later when I got a text from my school, reporting that there had been a terrorist attack, all of the calm I felt disappeared.
When I found out that Mercaz HaRav had been attacked, I immediately thought of my chesed family. I tutor a 17-year-old Israeli girl in English, and her family lives a couple of houses down from the yeshiva.
Until then, I had never actually felt the terror of a terrorist attack, and I mean terror.
Thank G-d, I felt safe in my school, but knowing that minutes from where I live, a bunch of students my own age were gunned down at their school was absolutely horrifying.
It felt like Tisha B’Av.
The night was taken up with contacting family in the United States, saying Tehillim, and comforting friends.
The next morning, I woke up at 6:30 to the surreal sound of girls singing. Despite the terror, it was somehow still Rosh Chodesh Adar Bet, the happiest month of the year. Outside my window, I could hear beautiful voices, singing Hallel.
An hour or two later, I received a text from school, saying that the funerals for the eight victims killed in Mercaz HaRav would be in a couple of hours and that we should know that the streets would be closed off.
Friday was spent busily preparing Shabbos meals for seventeen teenagers. By Friday morning, our small Shabbaton for the eight members of our dira had more than doubled in size as friends’ Shabbos plans quickly fell through. (Almost needless to say, we pulled it off, and our Shabbaton was a success.)
Motzei Shabbos, a friend of mine and I walked to the Kotel. When we got there, it was packed with people. We spent a good 45 minutes davening. It was good to stop and reflect after rushing non-stop from Thursday night and on. On our way back through the Old City, we heard singing and stopped to see what was happening. A group of 50 or so Bnei Akiva and seminary girls were gathered in the Cardo, the ancient shopping thoroughfare. They were sitting in a big circle singing together. One girl played the guitar. In the center, eight yahrtzeit candles were lit.
***
Actually being here in Israel has made this experience so much more real for me. Every one you speak to knows someone who is related to one of the victims; two of the murdered boys’ mothers work at my school. The boys’ hometowns aren’t just random locations listed in The Jerusalem Post—they’re places I’ve spent Shabbos. The 21 bus, the line that runs to my school, passes Mercaz HaRav. How many times have I walked past the yeshiva on my way to tutor?
Before he began teaching l’iluy nishmatam, the dean of my school told us that Mercaz HaRav has a mesiba every Rosh Chodesh and that boys had been setting up for the celebration, since Thursday night was the beginning of Rosh Chodesh. A number of boys chose to go back to learning rather than set up for the celebration. It was there in the library where they sat learning that they were killed.
Hashem yinkom damam.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
On Thanking G-d
I love seminary. I love Israel.
I automatically feel obligated to qualify the above statements with an emphatic “thank G-d.” I guess seminary is getting to me. Just kidding. Well, kind of.
The truth is (yes, take that to mean that I’m usually not telling the truth, or am I?) that seminary is kind of getting to me. In a good way, I think. For example, since fourth grade, I’ve been settled on becoming a lawyer when I grow up. (When exactly am I officially considered a grown-up, by the way? When I graduate college? Grad school? When I start paying for my own cell phone bill? When I get married? When my formerly black Bis from 5th grade stops fitting? (It is elasticated, after all.)) In any case, my experience this year of learning Torah full time—or as full time as one can learn Torah when one has other pressing obligations such as lengthy moviemaking sessions, trips to Fro-Yo (truth is that I’ve only gone twice, or have I?), frequent walks to burn off the Fro-Yo, and all-night crochet parties—has compelled me to consider a career in learning and teaching Tanach full time. (I’m thinking at the undergraduate level.) This is not to say that there’s anything wrong with being a lawyer. I may very possibly become one when I grow up, whenever that may be.
If you’re concerned that I’m flipping out (as in “Flipping Out” by Blue Fringe), don’t be. Or if you’re excited that I am flipping out, you may have to be patient and wait a couple more months for seminary to have its full effect. The reason that I recommend exercising some caution is that although I’ve been pretty set on law for the past decade or so, I have experienced a series of similar career-choice uncertainties.
For example, after taking a class in international relations, I considered a career with the CIA or the State Department. I still find a job in international diplomacy kind of tempting, although I would probably have to majorly improve my foreign language skills (ha’Ivrit shellee lo kol kach tova, v’ani lo midaberet shoom lashon acheret milvad anglit). Then, when I took a journalism class, I was almost convinced my calling lay at The New Yorker. However, when my first attempt at being a creative journalist led to a thinly veiled death threat, I basically gave up on that idea. (More about that another time, perhaps.)
All of this uncertainty is pretty liberating. I’m enjoying the freedom of choice that comes along with multiple career options, a freedom I haven’t felt since prepubescence. This choice is contingent, though, on doing well on my LSATs, G-d willing.
Take the poll:
Should DDP follow a career in…
A. Diplomacy
B. Journalism
C. Law
D. Tanach
E. Other
I automatically feel obligated to qualify the above statements with an emphatic “thank G-d.” I guess seminary is getting to me. Just kidding. Well, kind of.
The truth is (yes, take that to mean that I’m usually not telling the truth, or am I?) that seminary is kind of getting to me. In a good way, I think. For example, since fourth grade, I’ve been settled on becoming a lawyer when I grow up. (When exactly am I officially considered a grown-up, by the way? When I graduate college? Grad school? When I start paying for my own cell phone bill? When I get married? When my formerly black Bis from 5th grade stops fitting? (It is elasticated, after all.)) In any case, my experience this year of learning Torah full time—or as full time as one can learn Torah when one has other pressing obligations such as lengthy moviemaking sessions, trips to Fro-Yo (truth is that I’ve only gone twice, or have I?), frequent walks to burn off the Fro-Yo, and all-night crochet parties—has compelled me to consider a career in learning and teaching Tanach full time. (I’m thinking at the undergraduate level.) This is not to say that there’s anything wrong with being a lawyer. I may very possibly become one when I grow up, whenever that may be.
If you’re concerned that I’m flipping out (as in “Flipping Out” by Blue Fringe), don’t be. Or if you’re excited that I am flipping out, you may have to be patient and wait a couple more months for seminary to have its full effect. The reason that I recommend exercising some caution is that although I’ve been pretty set on law for the past decade or so, I have experienced a series of similar career-choice uncertainties.
For example, after taking a class in international relations, I considered a career with the CIA or the State Department. I still find a job in international diplomacy kind of tempting, although I would probably have to majorly improve my foreign language skills (ha’Ivrit shellee lo kol kach tova, v’ani lo midaberet shoom lashon acheret milvad anglit). Then, when I took a journalism class, I was almost convinced my calling lay at The New Yorker. However, when my first attempt at being a creative journalist led to a thinly veiled death threat, I basically gave up on that idea. (More about that another time, perhaps.)
All of this uncertainty is pretty liberating. I’m enjoying the freedom of choice that comes along with multiple career options, a freedom I haven’t felt since prepubescence. This choice is contingent, though, on doing well on my LSATs, G-d willing.
Take the poll:
Should DDP follow a career in…
A. Diplomacy
B. Journalism
C. Law
D. Tanach
E. Other
Monday, October 15, 2007
A Dvar Torah on Parshas Noach
This one’s for you, Dad—
At the end of Parshas Noach, after describing the Mabul (the great flood) and the Dor HaPalaga (the generation that built the Migdal Bavel—the tower in Babylon), the Torah lists the generations between Noach and Avram, culminating in a short description of Avram’s family. Pasuk 27 of Perek 11 lists Terach’s sons, Avram, Nachor, and Haran, and Haran’s son, Lot. Pasuk 28 describes Haran’s death in Ur Kasdim. Pasuk 29 describes Avram and Nachor’s respective marriages to Sarai and Milkah. Rabbeinu Bechayei (a student of the student of the Ramban) focuses on Pesukim 30 and 31. In pasuk 30, the Torah writes, “Va’ti’he Sarai akarah, ain lah valad”—Sarai was barren, she had no child. In pasuk 31, the Torah describes Terach, Avram, Lot, and Sarai setting off from Ur Kasdim in order to go to Eretz Canaan, but ending up in the land of Charan and settling there. Pasuk 32, the last pasuk of Parshas Noach, describes Terach’s death in Charan. The next Parsha begins with the command of “lech lecha,” Hashem’s command to Avram to go Eretz Canaan.
Rabbeinu Bechayei addresses the following three questions on pesukim 30 and 31:
1. If the Torah writes that Sarai is an “akarah,” barren, then isn’t it redundant to also write “ein lah valad,” that she had no child?
2. How is the piece of information that Sarai is barren relevant to the story line, which is describing the family’s journey to Eretz Canaan? Why does the Torah introduce this detail here?
3. Why are Avram and his family traveling to Eretz Canaan at all, especially if the command of Lech Lecha isn’t even given until the next parsha?
In regard to the first question, Rabbeinu Bechayei explains that the word “akarah” means that Sarai was barren in the same way that some women have difficulty conceiving, but later are able to have children. The second phrase, “ein lah valad,” however, indicates that “ein b’tivah lihiyot lah valad li’olam”—that it wasn’t in her nature to ever have a child, meaning that from a medical perspective she would never be able to conceive.
Rabbeinu Bechayei answers the last two questions as one. Since Sarai was completely barren, she and Avram decided to go to Eretz Canaan in the hope that “oolai b’zchut ha’aretz ha’kdosha yi’banu sham”—perhaps in the merit of the holy land they would have children there. They hoped that the kedusha, the holiness, of Eretz Yisrael would bring about a real nes, a miracle that would defy the rules of teva, nature. The Torah must relay Sarai’s barren state here in order to explain why the family is traveling to Eretz Canaan.
Indeed, Avram and Sarai are correct—being in Eretz Canaan would cause them to be worthy of having a child, despite the constraints of teva. In the very first pasuk of the next parsha, Hashem commands Avram, “lech lecha.” In the following pasuk, Hashem promises Avram that in the land that He will show him, “v’eh’escha l’goy gadol,” I will make you into a great nation. Rashi explains that the word “lecha” means that going to Canaan will be good for Avram. How so? There, Avram will be made into a great nation. Why specifically in Canaan? Rashi explains, "v'kan ee atah zocheh l'banim"—because here, in Charan, you do not merit having children. Rashi’s explanation of “lecha” correlates perfectly with Rabbenu Bechayei’s explanation of why Avram and Sarai are heading to Canaan: to merit having children. Indeed, Hashem’s promise to Avram comes true—Sarai gives birth to Yitzchak in Canaan.
Interestingly, later in Sefer Beraishis, in perek 24, Avram commands his servant to go to his homeland to find a wife for his son Yitzchak. Avram tells his servant that if the woman who he finds to be suitable for Yizchak refuses to come live in Canaan, then the servant should leave her and return. Why? Avram says in pasuk 8, because “rak et bni lo tashev shama”—only my son cannot return there. The pesukim are ambiguous concerning where “there” is. To which country is Avram referring? Ramban explains that “there” is Charan, not Ur Kasdim, Avram’s original homeland. Ibn Ezra, however, explains that the pasuk is not emphasizing wherever “there” is, but rather the pasuk is emphasizing that Yitzchak must remain in Eretz Yisrael (Ibn Ezra calls the land Eretz Yisrael—not Eretz Canaan). The ambiguity of the pesukim regarding the place that the servant is visiting supports Ibn Ezra’s explanation.
I have not found a source for this idea, but perhaps in combining the ideas of Rabbeinu Bechayei—that Avram and Sarai go to Canaan in order to merit having a child, Rashi—that, in Charan, Avram and Sarai do not merit having a child, and Ibn Ezra—that Yitzchak must stay in Eretz Yisrael, it is possible to infer that the reason that Avram is so adamant that Yitzchak not leave Eretz Canaan is that outside of Canaan, Yitzchak does not merit living. His birth was brought about through a miracle that was only possible due to the kedusha, the holiness, of Eretz Yisrael.
So what? These ideas are beautiful, inspiring, but so what?
I think that the “so what” may be that the existence of the Jewish people is a nes, a miracle that is entirely dependent on Eretz Yisrael. If not for Eretz Yisrael and its holiness, Yitzchak our forefather would never have been born, and the Jewish people would never have been brought into existence. As a people, we are historically and eternally bound to the land. Just as the land held potential for great merit for Avram and Sarai, in Israel, we have special zechuyot, opportunities for merit. We have the opportunity to fulfill the mitzvot ha’tluyot ba’aretz, the mitzvot that can only be fulfilled in the land of Israel. We can walk daled amot, four cubits, in the land. At the end of a parsha filled with destruction and dispersion, we learn about the special holiness of Eretz Yisrael
At the end of Parshas Noach, after describing the Mabul (the great flood) and the Dor HaPalaga (the generation that built the Migdal Bavel—the tower in Babylon), the Torah lists the generations between Noach and Avram, culminating in a short description of Avram’s family. Pasuk 27 of Perek 11 lists Terach’s sons, Avram, Nachor, and Haran, and Haran’s son, Lot. Pasuk 28 describes Haran’s death in Ur Kasdim. Pasuk 29 describes Avram and Nachor’s respective marriages to Sarai and Milkah. Rabbeinu Bechayei (a student of the student of the Ramban) focuses on Pesukim 30 and 31. In pasuk 30, the Torah writes, “Va’ti’he Sarai akarah, ain lah valad”—Sarai was barren, she had no child. In pasuk 31, the Torah describes Terach, Avram, Lot, and Sarai setting off from Ur Kasdim in order to go to Eretz Canaan, but ending up in the land of Charan and settling there. Pasuk 32, the last pasuk of Parshas Noach, describes Terach’s death in Charan. The next Parsha begins with the command of “lech lecha,” Hashem’s command to Avram to go Eretz Canaan.
Rabbeinu Bechayei addresses the following three questions on pesukim 30 and 31:
1. If the Torah writes that Sarai is an “akarah,” barren, then isn’t it redundant to also write “ein lah valad,” that she had no child?
2. How is the piece of information that Sarai is barren relevant to the story line, which is describing the family’s journey to Eretz Canaan? Why does the Torah introduce this detail here?
3. Why are Avram and his family traveling to Eretz Canaan at all, especially if the command of Lech Lecha isn’t even given until the next parsha?
In regard to the first question, Rabbeinu Bechayei explains that the word “akarah” means that Sarai was barren in the same way that some women have difficulty conceiving, but later are able to have children. The second phrase, “ein lah valad,” however, indicates that “ein b’tivah lihiyot lah valad li’olam”—that it wasn’t in her nature to ever have a child, meaning that from a medical perspective she would never be able to conceive.
Rabbeinu Bechayei answers the last two questions as one. Since Sarai was completely barren, she and Avram decided to go to Eretz Canaan in the hope that “oolai b’zchut ha’aretz ha’kdosha yi’banu sham”—perhaps in the merit of the holy land they would have children there. They hoped that the kedusha, the holiness, of Eretz Yisrael would bring about a real nes, a miracle that would defy the rules of teva, nature. The Torah must relay Sarai’s barren state here in order to explain why the family is traveling to Eretz Canaan.
Indeed, Avram and Sarai are correct—being in Eretz Canaan would cause them to be worthy of having a child, despite the constraints of teva. In the very first pasuk of the next parsha, Hashem commands Avram, “lech lecha.” In the following pasuk, Hashem promises Avram that in the land that He will show him, “v’eh’escha l’goy gadol,” I will make you into a great nation. Rashi explains that the word “lecha” means that going to Canaan will be good for Avram. How so? There, Avram will be made into a great nation. Why specifically in Canaan? Rashi explains, "v'kan ee atah zocheh l'banim"—because here, in Charan, you do not merit having children. Rashi’s explanation of “lecha” correlates perfectly with Rabbenu Bechayei’s explanation of why Avram and Sarai are heading to Canaan: to merit having children. Indeed, Hashem’s promise to Avram comes true—Sarai gives birth to Yitzchak in Canaan.
Interestingly, later in Sefer Beraishis, in perek 24, Avram commands his servant to go to his homeland to find a wife for his son Yitzchak. Avram tells his servant that if the woman who he finds to be suitable for Yizchak refuses to come live in Canaan, then the servant should leave her and return. Why? Avram says in pasuk 8, because “rak et bni lo tashev shama”—only my son cannot return there. The pesukim are ambiguous concerning where “there” is. To which country is Avram referring? Ramban explains that “there” is Charan, not Ur Kasdim, Avram’s original homeland. Ibn Ezra, however, explains that the pasuk is not emphasizing wherever “there” is, but rather the pasuk is emphasizing that Yitzchak must remain in Eretz Yisrael (Ibn Ezra calls the land Eretz Yisrael—not Eretz Canaan). The ambiguity of the pesukim regarding the place that the servant is visiting supports Ibn Ezra’s explanation.
I have not found a source for this idea, but perhaps in combining the ideas of Rabbeinu Bechayei—that Avram and Sarai go to Canaan in order to merit having a child, Rashi—that, in Charan, Avram and Sarai do not merit having a child, and Ibn Ezra—that Yitzchak must stay in Eretz Yisrael, it is possible to infer that the reason that Avram is so adamant that Yitzchak not leave Eretz Canaan is that outside of Canaan, Yitzchak does not merit living. His birth was brought about through a miracle that was only possible due to the kedusha, the holiness, of Eretz Yisrael.
So what? These ideas are beautiful, inspiring, but so what?
I think that the “so what” may be that the existence of the Jewish people is a nes, a miracle that is entirely dependent on Eretz Yisrael. If not for Eretz Yisrael and its holiness, Yitzchak our forefather would never have been born, and the Jewish people would never have been brought into existence. As a people, we are historically and eternally bound to the land. Just as the land held potential for great merit for Avram and Sarai, in Israel, we have special zechuyot, opportunities for merit. We have the opportunity to fulfill the mitzvot ha’tluyot ba’aretz, the mitzvot that can only be fulfilled in the land of Israel. We can walk daled amot, four cubits, in the land. At the end of a parsha filled with destruction and dispersion, we learn about the special holiness of Eretz Yisrael
Sunday, October 14, 2007
On Soft Drinks, Yom Tov, and Canada
It’s kind of interesting writing on a blog entitled “Diet Dr. Pepper” when I haven’t had the extreme pleasure of imbibing this particular beverage in approximately six weeks. In any case, I’m doing unexpectedly well without the drink, a pleasant surprise, which I think can be attributed to a number of causative factors:
1. Since calling the manufacturer (Cadbury Schweppes) in the summer (it’s not the summer anymore; strange, isn’t it?) and inquiring about their international sales operation, I’ve known that DDP is unavailable in Israel. This experience has taught me that knowledge is power, empowering, whatever.
2. I’ve started ingesting an incredible amount of Diet Coke. No, Diet Coke is not as good as DDP. However, it is proving to be a suitable alternative. Just an interesting piece of information (oh l’fachot davar sheh’ani choshevet sheh’he mi’anyenet—that reminds me I’ve started speaking and writing Hebrew at random): Diet Coke in Israel contains calories. Well, really, it contains less than one calorie per cup, but that’s still more than the number of calories in American Diet Coke.
3. I’ve become a more spiritual person who simply does not have the time nor interest to focus on such mundane, physical matters as soft drinks. I’m just kidding. Actually, being in Israel and being relatively (emphasis on the word “relatively”) independent has forced me to focus on my nutritional needs, since I’m now responsible for buying all of my own food, except for lunch.
Besides for drinking an obscene amount of Diet Coke in the past couple of weeks, I’ve also been pretty busy observing 3-day Yomim Tovim, a time-consuming, unpredictably exhausting, but extraordinarily fun experience. My first 3-day Yom Tov (besides for Rosh Hashana, which everyone observes) was spent in Efrat. Simply put: I love Efrat. Go visit, spend a Shabbos, spend a 3-day Yom Tov. Besides for the fact that the people there are warm and generous and interesting to speak with, they also speak Hebrew. So not only did I have the opportunity to spend time with a family in a real house (not just a bunch of seminary girls in a sparsely-furnished dira), but I actually got to speak Hebrew, a hard-to-come-by experience in my heavily American seminary.
Since I haven’t written in a while, I’m feeling kind of partial to lists, so here’s a much-abbreviated account of my Chol HaMoed Sukkos in list form:
1. My friend (let’s call her Jinji; she may guest-blog someday) and I waited for the bus on Motzai Shabbos to get from Efrat back to Yerushalayim. While waiting for the bus, I finally got to pretend to be Canadian, which I’m not. It’s kind of strange, but I have a bunch of friends from Toronto (that part isn’t so strange), and I find their accents kind of interesting. When I was younger, I used to wonder why Canada is its own country rather than being part of the United States. After kind of taking A.P. U.S. History, I kind of understand why Canada is independent (it has something to do with 1812, right?), but I still think it’s kind of funny/cool that Canadians exist. But being Canadian has practical advantages. For example, when someone meets you and starts making fun of the fact that you’re American (this kind of thing happens quite frequently in Israel), a Canadian can be like, “Actually, I’m not American; I’m Canadian. (I didn’t vote for George W. Bush.)” Which brings me back to the bus stop. Jinji and I are waiting for the bus, and a yeshiva guy is also waiting at the stop. Desperate to introduce himself to us (again, not such an infrequent occurrence in Israel), he does. Jinji turns to him and says, “I’m Jinji; I’m from X. This is DDP; she’s from Canada.” So you see, having a Canadian alter ego is not only fun, but also convenient.
2. The Old City: over Chol HaMoed, I visited the Old City three times. Once for Birkas Cohanim, once to meet friends and to visit the Burnt House Museum, and once to daven Vasikin at the Kotel on Hoshana Raba. Birkas Cohanim on Sukkos is beyond description. Standing at the Kotel with thousands of other Jews caused me to think about what the aliyah l’regel must have been like, how many more people, how much more special.
3. My school took us to the Biblical Zoo. I like zoos; I like Tanach. I liked the Biblical Zoo.
4. My friends and I decided to go to one of those famous Geulah/Meah Shearim Simchas Beis HaSho’evas. We never did find a Simchas Beis HaSho’eva, although we did follow the signs, including the ones that enjoined us to stay on the right side of the street due to the heavy foot traffic during Chol HaMoed. There were even security guards hired for the sole purpose of keeping men and women on the correct sidewalks. “Nashim b’tzad yemin. Anashim b’tzad smol. Nashim b’tzad yemin. Anashim b’tzad smol.” It has a catchy tune.
5. On Tuesday of Chol HaMoed, my roommate, Jinji, and I took a trip to the north of Israel. We visited the grottoes of Rosh HaNikra, the medieval Crusader castle in Acco, and a mosaic-covered shul in Acco. Jinji will be guest-blogging about the trip soon, bli neder, which promises to be an amusing read. Just a small preview: “I ain’t doing no kvarim, Ta.”
Shemini Atzeres, Simchas Torah, and Shabbos were an interesting experience in a heavily Anglo-Saxon, affluent community. Never before had I seen carpet (or marble or sterling silver) in Israel.
In the midst of all of these Yomim Tovim, I also managed to attend two weddings, both of which enabled me to see some very special people who I haven’t seen in a long time.
Oh, by the way, I’m attending school here.
1. Since calling the manufacturer (Cadbury Schweppes) in the summer (it’s not the summer anymore; strange, isn’t it?) and inquiring about their international sales operation, I’ve known that DDP is unavailable in Israel. This experience has taught me that knowledge is power, empowering, whatever.
2. I’ve started ingesting an incredible amount of Diet Coke. No, Diet Coke is not as good as DDP. However, it is proving to be a suitable alternative. Just an interesting piece of information (oh l’fachot davar sheh’ani choshevet sheh’he mi’anyenet—that reminds me I’ve started speaking and writing Hebrew at random): Diet Coke in Israel contains calories. Well, really, it contains less than one calorie per cup, but that’s still more than the number of calories in American Diet Coke.
3. I’ve become a more spiritual person who simply does not have the time nor interest to focus on such mundane, physical matters as soft drinks. I’m just kidding. Actually, being in Israel and being relatively (emphasis on the word “relatively”) independent has forced me to focus on my nutritional needs, since I’m now responsible for buying all of my own food, except for lunch.
Besides for drinking an obscene amount of Diet Coke in the past couple of weeks, I’ve also been pretty busy observing 3-day Yomim Tovim, a time-consuming, unpredictably exhausting, but extraordinarily fun experience. My first 3-day Yom Tov (besides for Rosh Hashana, which everyone observes) was spent in Efrat. Simply put: I love Efrat. Go visit, spend a Shabbos, spend a 3-day Yom Tov. Besides for the fact that the people there are warm and generous and interesting to speak with, they also speak Hebrew. So not only did I have the opportunity to spend time with a family in a real house (not just a bunch of seminary girls in a sparsely-furnished dira), but I actually got to speak Hebrew, a hard-to-come-by experience in my heavily American seminary.
Since I haven’t written in a while, I’m feeling kind of partial to lists, so here’s a much-abbreviated account of my Chol HaMoed Sukkos in list form:
1. My friend (let’s call her Jinji; she may guest-blog someday) and I waited for the bus on Motzai Shabbos to get from Efrat back to Yerushalayim. While waiting for the bus, I finally got to pretend to be Canadian, which I’m not. It’s kind of strange, but I have a bunch of friends from Toronto (that part isn’t so strange), and I find their accents kind of interesting. When I was younger, I used to wonder why Canada is its own country rather than being part of the United States. After kind of taking A.P. U.S. History, I kind of understand why Canada is independent (it has something to do with 1812, right?), but I still think it’s kind of funny/cool that Canadians exist. But being Canadian has practical advantages. For example, when someone meets you and starts making fun of the fact that you’re American (this kind of thing happens quite frequently in Israel), a Canadian can be like, “Actually, I’m not American; I’m Canadian. (I didn’t vote for George W. Bush.)” Which brings me back to the bus stop. Jinji and I are waiting for the bus, and a yeshiva guy is also waiting at the stop. Desperate to introduce himself to us (again, not such an infrequent occurrence in Israel), he does. Jinji turns to him and says, “I’m Jinji; I’m from X. This is DDP; she’s from Canada.” So you see, having a Canadian alter ego is not only fun, but also convenient.
2. The Old City: over Chol HaMoed, I visited the Old City three times. Once for Birkas Cohanim, once to meet friends and to visit the Burnt House Museum, and once to daven Vasikin at the Kotel on Hoshana Raba. Birkas Cohanim on Sukkos is beyond description. Standing at the Kotel with thousands of other Jews caused me to think about what the aliyah l’regel must have been like, how many more people, how much more special.
3. My school took us to the Biblical Zoo. I like zoos; I like Tanach. I liked the Biblical Zoo.
4. My friends and I decided to go to one of those famous Geulah/Meah Shearim Simchas Beis HaSho’evas. We never did find a Simchas Beis HaSho’eva, although we did follow the signs, including the ones that enjoined us to stay on the right side of the street due to the heavy foot traffic during Chol HaMoed. There were even security guards hired for the sole purpose of keeping men and women on the correct sidewalks. “Nashim b’tzad yemin. Anashim b’tzad smol. Nashim b’tzad yemin. Anashim b’tzad smol.” It has a catchy tune.
5. On Tuesday of Chol HaMoed, my roommate, Jinji, and I took a trip to the north of Israel. We visited the grottoes of Rosh HaNikra, the medieval Crusader castle in Acco, and a mosaic-covered shul in Acco. Jinji will be guest-blogging about the trip soon, bli neder, which promises to be an amusing read. Just a small preview: “I ain’t doing no kvarim, Ta.”
Shemini Atzeres, Simchas Torah, and Shabbos were an interesting experience in a heavily Anglo-Saxon, affluent community. Never before had I seen carpet (or marble or sterling silver) in Israel.
In the midst of all of these Yomim Tovim, I also managed to attend two weddings, both of which enabled me to see some very special people who I haven’t seen in a long time.
Oh, by the way, I’m attending school here.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Shavua Tov
Whoa. So much has happened in the past week.
I've heard that the beginning is a good place to start, so here's the beginning:
Last Tuesday, I went on a tiyul with two friends to the Jerusalem Archaeology Park. Beginning in the late 1800s, I believe, archaeologists began digging up the area around Har HaBayit and the Kotel. After 1967, Israeli archaeologists put great efforts into uncovering the layers of history surrounding Har HaBayit. As a result of archaeologists' efforts over the past hundred years or so, you can now visit Bayit Sheini-era mikvaot, storefronts, and ruins, all located along the Western Wall (just a bit south of the Kotel Plaza). A couple of hundred feet away, on the southern side of Har HaBayit, you can walk through a Byzantine-era home (the mosaic floors are in perfect condition) and explore the former grounds of an Ummayad palace. Robinson's Arch and Chulda's gate, two of the former entrances to the Beit HaMikdash are must-sees as well. (I realize that I sound like a tour guide.) Near the end of our time in the park, I witnessed a pretty eery sight. I noticed dogs running through the excavations on the southern side of Har HaBayit; the image reminded me so much of the story of Rabbi Akiva and the foxes roaming Har HaBayit.
Rosh Hashana was an intense experience. I spent the chag in Beitar. Shachris began at 6:30 A.M. and ended at around 2:00 P.M. At the Yom Tov and Shabbos seudot, my hosts only discussed divrei Torah. It was a different sort of Yom Tov for me, which I think is a good thing since the Aseret Yimei Teshuva are a time to try to be a better person. My Rosh Hashana's atmosphere was definitely conducive to achieving that goal.
Today, Tzom Gedalya. After an abbreviated schedule of classes, a couple of friends and I visited Yad VaShem. (You know the quote in Maus, where Art Spiegelman quotes someone famous who said that putting an idea to words detracts from the idea, but Art comments that the person bothered to say that very idea?) Regardless of whether I paraphrased that idea correctly at all or not and regardless of whether it was intelligible, I'm trying to say that Yad VaShem goes beyond description. Description wouldn't do the place justice. All I can say is that three hours is not enough time to properly visit the museum, so I hope to go back sometime soon.
And now. I'm sitting outside, under some palm trees and across from a bed of rose bushes, typing. That's right. We've got Wifi.
I've heard that the beginning is a good place to start, so here's the beginning:
Last Tuesday, I went on a tiyul with two friends to the Jerusalem Archaeology Park. Beginning in the late 1800s, I believe, archaeologists began digging up the area around Har HaBayit and the Kotel. After 1967, Israeli archaeologists put great efforts into uncovering the layers of history surrounding Har HaBayit. As a result of archaeologists' efforts over the past hundred years or so, you can now visit Bayit Sheini-era mikvaot, storefronts, and ruins, all located along the Western Wall (just a bit south of the Kotel Plaza). A couple of hundred feet away, on the southern side of Har HaBayit, you can walk through a Byzantine-era home (the mosaic floors are in perfect condition) and explore the former grounds of an Ummayad palace. Robinson's Arch and Chulda's gate, two of the former entrances to the Beit HaMikdash are must-sees as well. (I realize that I sound like a tour guide.) Near the end of our time in the park, I witnessed a pretty eery sight. I noticed dogs running through the excavations on the southern side of Har HaBayit; the image reminded me so much of the story of Rabbi Akiva and the foxes roaming Har HaBayit.
Rosh Hashana was an intense experience. I spent the chag in Beitar. Shachris began at 6:30 A.M. and ended at around 2:00 P.M. At the Yom Tov and Shabbos seudot, my hosts only discussed divrei Torah. It was a different sort of Yom Tov for me, which I think is a good thing since the Aseret Yimei Teshuva are a time to try to be a better person. My Rosh Hashana's atmosphere was definitely conducive to achieving that goal.
Today, Tzom Gedalya. After an abbreviated schedule of classes, a couple of friends and I visited Yad VaShem. (You know the quote in Maus, where Art Spiegelman quotes someone famous who said that putting an idea to words detracts from the idea, but Art comments that the person bothered to say that very idea?) Regardless of whether I paraphrased that idea correctly at all or not and regardless of whether it was intelligible, I'm trying to say that Yad VaShem goes beyond description. Description wouldn't do the place justice. All I can say is that three hours is not enough time to properly visit the museum, so I hope to go back sometime soon.
And now. I'm sitting outside, under some palm trees and across from a bed of rose bushes, typing. That's right. We've got Wifi.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Philadelphia Cream Cheese
Thank G-d, I'm having an all-around great time in Israel.
I'm even adapting well to the paucity of Diet Dr. Pepper in this country; I've taken up drinking Diet Coke by the liter instead. It's not the same, but it will suffice.
The one thing, however, that I've been trying to find here that I just can't seem to locate is American-style cream cheese. You know, the normal stuff you put on a lightly toasted whole wheat poppy seed bagel. Yeah, that stuff. Strangely, this country sells many, many varieties of cheese, but not regular, old-fashioned cream cheese. Israeli cheese even comes with the exact percentage of fat contained within printed on the package. Talk about full disclosure. But for an industry that has shomen-content down to the percentage, the Israeli dairy industry does not seem to produce cream cheese. So I was pleasantly surprised today when I opened up the fridge and found a package of Philadelphia cream cheese, tied in silver ribbon, laying on my shelf.
I have really sweet dira-mates. Thanks guys.
I'm even adapting well to the paucity of Diet Dr. Pepper in this country; I've taken up drinking Diet Coke by the liter instead. It's not the same, but it will suffice.
The one thing, however, that I've been trying to find here that I just can't seem to locate is American-style cream cheese. You know, the normal stuff you put on a lightly toasted whole wheat poppy seed bagel. Yeah, that stuff. Strangely, this country sells many, many varieties of cheese, but not regular, old-fashioned cream cheese. Israeli cheese even comes with the exact percentage of fat contained within printed on the package. Talk about full disclosure. But for an industry that has shomen-content down to the percentage, the Israeli dairy industry does not seem to produce cream cheese. So I was pleasantly surprised today when I opened up the fridge and found a package of Philadelphia cream cheese, tied in silver ribbon, laying on my shelf.
I have really sweet dira-mates. Thanks guys.
Monday, September 3, 2007
I Think I'm Falling in Love with Israel
Okay, so I've been here in Yerushalayim for just about a week and three hours now, and it's been quite an experience.
When I first arrived in Yerushalayim (after a rather lengthy delay in JFK), I had one of those simple yet profound realizations. I so badly wanted to visit the Kotel--merely a remnant in the place where a magnificent Beit HaMikdash should be--and I thought to myself, How awesome would it be to take a sheirut from Ben Gurion to the Beit HaMikdash. Halevai.
I forgot, or perhaps I never realized, how beautiful the city of Yerushalayim is. The hills, the valleys, the panoramic views, the brilliant sunshine--and that's just Bayit Vegan. I've got a great davening spot under a lime tree in a small courtyard outside my dira. Talk about a makom kavuah.
Thank G-d, the learning is great. Lots of Tanach, a good bit of Halacha, and a sprinkle of some Machshava. Maybe even a drop of Torah Sheh'bi'al Peh.
I love the street signs proclaiming the names of Rishonim. I love struggling with Ivrit and Israeli money. I love the cashiers who play Jewish geography ("Where are you from?" "Random Midwest city." "Oh, I have a friend there." "Yeah, it's a great place."). I love the fact that sketchy looking men walk around with giant gold Magen Davids, instead of crosses, around their necks.
I think I'm fallig in love with Israel.
When I first arrived in Yerushalayim (after a rather lengthy delay in JFK), I had one of those simple yet profound realizations. I so badly wanted to visit the Kotel--merely a remnant in the place where a magnificent Beit HaMikdash should be--and I thought to myself, How awesome would it be to take a sheirut from Ben Gurion to the Beit HaMikdash. Halevai.
I forgot, or perhaps I never realized, how beautiful the city of Yerushalayim is. The hills, the valleys, the panoramic views, the brilliant sunshine--and that's just Bayit Vegan. I've got a great davening spot under a lime tree in a small courtyard outside my dira. Talk about a makom kavuah.
Thank G-d, the learning is great. Lots of Tanach, a good bit of Halacha, and a sprinkle of some Machshava. Maybe even a drop of Torah Sheh'bi'al Peh.
I love the street signs proclaiming the names of Rishonim. I love struggling with Ivrit and Israeli money. I love the cashiers who play Jewish geography ("Where are you from?" "Random Midwest city." "Oh, I have a friend there." "Yeah, it's a great place."). I love the fact that sketchy looking men walk around with giant gold Magen Davids, instead of crosses, around their necks.
I think I'm fallig in love with Israel.
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