TRAVEL: Lessons on Love and Lasagna

Travel is my teacher and I am a willing student.

I am going about my journey with two selves. There is the self that goes through the motions of life and then there is the other one that watches and notices. When I am outside of my normal place and routine, my 'watching self' blooms.

This journey is a little different for me in some ways. I am traveling solo for one thing. Another is that I've been in Israel before so I don't feel compelled to see certain sights before leaving. I am therefore doing a few things that I might ordinarily do if I were living here and not just visiting. Like cooking, for example. Something so simple, becomes an adventure because I am out of my environment. Doing the ordinary in the extraordinary environment awakens my watching self. Come watch with me:

I am going to cook some lasagna. First I have to shop and that means finding a store on the map and plotting a course. Driving here isn't so difficult as navigating. I have become convinced that most of Jerusalem was built before the discovery of the right angle. That and that fact that it is carved from the limestone hillsides makes for interesting urban planning when it comes to the layout of the streets. An important tool for my adventure is a map that shows one-way streets. I have a fear of being able to get somewhere and not find my way back. This, of course, only generally happens if I have purchased ice cream on a warm day.

I am also always a bit distracted by the sights around me. Everything is so new and different that I exist in a heightened state of awareness. Like the buildings that must all be covered in Jerusalem stone. There is a sameness, yet a certain uniqueness to most of them. Sometimes, I like to think of Jerusalem as the City of Second Thoughts. "On second thought, I should have put another room there. So maybe I will." And it is just built up as people have second thoughts about the design. It's like stream of consciousness architecture.

Now I have successfully arrived in the neighborhood of Nayot. I have to fight the Israelis for a parking space. Keep in mind that these are the people who win wars in Six Days. Keep in mind that these are the people who survived thousands of years in the Diaspora. Keep in mind that these are the people who travel through life, packed into busses and undaunted by the rash of blood and terrorism that brought tourism to it's knees for the past half-decade. I am not intimidated. I am fitting in nicely here. I am learning that if you yell and scream long enough, you can get what you need. I love it!

I am walking from the parking place to the store and I am remembering that to get a cart, I have to deposit a 5-shekel piece. O dear, I hope I have one. Israel is refining my ability to plan ahead. It's always teaching me that. I think that's why everything closes on Shabbat -- to reinforce that lesson. Oh, I suppose there's that whole Torah thing as well. I notice that I am beginning to neurotically think about Shabbat as I travel through my week. I am reviewing that mental checklist so that all is purchased and in place for my day of rest. Last Saturday, (oooh-- it's so strange to say Saturday. Everyone here says Shabbat, like what are you doing for Shabbat or you're invited to come for lunch on Shabbat or it's closed on Shabbat. In fact, I don't think I've heard the word Saturday at all since I've been here. I think also that I've digressed. Let see, where was I? Oh yeah...) Last Shabbat, Kara and I had planned a trip and as we are about to depart for Tel Aviv, we discover that I had less than a quarter tank of gas. Oy. Eventually we make a few phone calls and we find a place to fill up. Nonetheless, I think I am now suffering a mild case of PTSS (Post-Traumatic Shabbat Syndrome).

I'm sorting through the coins looking for the 5-shekel piece. I am also making a mental note in case I am elected to dictator of the planet. I am always planning on the rules I will implement as dictator, such as the abolishment of neckties and nylons. I will also require that all coins in all countries be minted in a way that size reflects denomination. Why is the 5-shekel piece larger than the 10 shekel piece? Why is a dime smaller than a nickel? Aren't things hard enough already?

I am in the store. Ingredients. I have asked around and learned that the hard form of mozzarella cheese is not usually sold here. People on the Mediterranean generally seem to use the soft version that is packed in water. But I have discovered the cheese counter in the 'Super Sol' (name of the large grocery store) and am trying to ask for Mozzarella in Hebrew. Finally, the cheese man is understanding me and teaches me the word for Mozzarella in Hebrew: Mozzarella. (okay, I knew that) He is wanting to know how much I want and I am wanting to know how much it costs. The problem here is that he is explaining in shekels and kilograms and I am the one that flunked general math in high school. I suppose if I were here long enough I would just start thinking in the indigenous terms of measure but I still feel compelled to convert everything into my native tongue: pounds and dollars.

Tov. [Good.] Got the cheese. Now I need some Ricotta cheese. I take a SWAG at the Hebrew word for Ricotta and get it right the first time. Ricotta! I am buying whatever is left in the case because I am to the point where paying too much is less painful than math and converting currency. Now, on to the noodles.

There are these small boxes of lasagna noodles and the directions say that pre-boiling is not necessary. Wow, that's sounds convenient, but I am not entirely trusting. However, since there are no other alternatives I am getting a crash course in trust. The boxes are very small about half the size of the lasagna noodle box at home. Since I usually use two boxes at home, I am buying four boxes here. They are about 15 shekels or three dollars each. No wonder Italian food isn't a big hit here.

I have searched through the twenty-five cans of tomato-something, looking for English words. I think I have stewed tomatoes and tomato paste. We'll see when I get home. I am paying for my purchase and practicing my Hebrew as I respond to the cashier's question: Lo Ivrit. This means 'No Hebrew.' I am overjoyed! She understood me!!

I am back at home now and I am reading the directions to the noodles. They instruct me to prepare a béchamel sauce and to pour a layer over the noodles and lay my pasta sauce over that. Well, isn't that convenient? We've now substituted the simple boiling of noodles for the preparing of a béchamel sauce. I've never even made a béchamel. I look at my watch -- it's the middle of the night in San Diego. I always call my friend Warren with cooking questions and although I would consider this a culinary emergency, I reluctantly conclude it can wait until tomorrow. Patience. I am learning to plan ahead and patience.

***

It is tomorrow morning and Warren has assured me that I can skip the whole béchamel thing. I have my cheeses and noodles and homemade sauce layered and am ready for the oven. I have used one-half of the first box and I'm imagining what my hosts will think when they return and find three and one-half boxes of unused lasagna noodles in their small pantry. Before I bake, I have to run in and log on to find how to convert Celsius into Fahrenheit. Next, I am trying to figure out all of the strange symbols on the oven knob. I don't get it. Too early in the morning to call anyone here. I'll just pick something. The square with the line inside. I have a one in six chance of being right.

It's an hour later and my casserole is barely warm. I am noticing that nothing is easy when you are not in your environment. This whole cooking thing is now taking up several hours and days. But the process is teaching me. I am a willing student of travel, remember? I up the temperature and wait another hour and it's a bit warmer. I decide that maybe it's cooked after all and that these strange noodles absorbed so much liquid that it's not going to boil like at home. I take the foil off and give it one last 20 minute stretch to perfect the cheese on top. When I return I find the entire top layer of the lasagna is that shade of brown that occurs just before the smoke alarm goes off. [expletive deleted]

***

It's late afternoon now. I've been for a jog up and out of Ein Kerem and down into the Jerusalem Forest located behind Yad Vashem (The Mother of All Holocaust Museums) [Ed. Note: non-literal translation of the Hebrew] and back. I've returned from a second trip to the Super Sol w/ more mozzarella and the intention to re-do the top. My cousin has stopped by and I am recounting my oven misadventures. He looks at the knob and explains that I have been using the broiler. This is pretty funny. Now that I know what I have done, the symbol on the knob makes sense. Everything is fixed and now I'm really cooking -- literally.

***
It's evening and I am relaxing over a delicious plate of lasagna. The only thing missing is the voice of my sweetie telling me how tasty it is. I am also reflecting on the whole experience and listening to the voice of my watching self. I started this process three days ago. It began with phone calls and e-mails trying to sort out whether and where ingredients were available. I needed to locate a decent map, phone San Diego and also got help from Joey in working the oven.

I am looking at myself being a stranger in a strange land. Just trying to accomplish the ordinary routines of life requires that I connect to others. I am not an island, I am vulnerable and needy. On one hand, I don't like this. On the other hand, I love that I have accomplished this small, yet challenging task, with help. It imbues the food with the flavor of love and friendship that is available only to one who needs and receives.

I am also listening to my watching self speak about compassion. My home in San Diego is the resting place for a multitude of strangers. Most of the people who live there have migrated, either from other cities or other countries. In this way, San Diego is much like Israel. I am reminded how difficult the easy things are when our environment is foreign. Each moment of every day can be a struggle and the effortless help of another unbelievably relieves my burden.

I must be vigilant in watching for opportunities to extend my hand to the stranger, having been reminded about the impact of even the smallest kindness. Travel is my teacher and I am a willing student.

TRAVEL: The 4 Spiritual Stages of Driving in Israel

According to my observation,

The 4 Spiritual Stages of Driving in Israel are:

1. Awareness: A sense of amazement at how much people honk their horns
2. Detachment: Development of an overall lack of concern regarding horn honking
3. Connection: Engaging in horn honking, both responsive and random
4. Enlightenment: Recognition that honking the horn does no good whatsoever, followed by repetition of stage 1.

PHOTO Still Beautiful

Though tattered and a bit torn, I am still beautiful after all these years. 

PHOTO Darbuka

Here is a photo of my new Darbuka. I bought it in the Old City of Jerusalem -- in the Arab shuk (market). I paid 110 shekels which is between 20 and 25 dollars. I still haven't decided whether to wrap it well and put it in checked baggage or carry it as my carry-on through Heathrow and O'Hare. Ugh.

I also picked up a few CD's with Middle-Eastern music all of which include great samples of darbuka-playing.

I think playing the darbuka is an excellent new hobby for this humble, middle-aged housewife. I draw the line at dreadlocks, however...

PHOTO Ein Kerem

The kitchen where I am so lucky to be able to stay. I get to cook and, by the way, wanna know how hard it is to find tortillas in Jerusalem? Plans are for special Shabbat (Friday night) dinner w/ homemade Mexican food in honor of Kara and to celebrate her 17th birthday. 

PHOTOS Ein Kerem

The dining room of this hamudi home. 

PHOTOS Ein Kerem

I just love this -- it's the front door of 'my Israeli home.' 

PHOTOS Ein Kerem

The entry way to the home where I am staying in Israel 

PHOTOS Ein Kerem

Garden where I'm staying in Jerusalem 

PHOTO Ein Kerem

Sitting area in the garden 

PHOTOS Ein Kerem

View from the garden -- across the canyon 

PHOTO: Ein Kerem

Taken from the garden 

PHOTO: Ein Kerem

I am staying in the home of friends who are traveling in the U.S. They live in the village of Ein Kerem which is considered a neighborhood of Jerusalem. It is charming and small and quaint. This is the footpath leading to their home. 

TRAVEL: Kara wins Gadna Award!!

Kara returned from Gadna, the youth army program, after 5 days in the sands of the Negev desert. She wore a uniform and received all types of military training, including shooting a gun. Oy. She reports having a wonderful time and returned with a certificate that is presented to the top female cadet. Marcia translated it for us as follows:

The nation builds the army builds the nation.
{Symbol of theEducation Corps}
{Symbol of Pioneer {Symbol of
Fighting Youth Corps} Youth Corps}

The Education and Youth Corps
Center for Youth and Nahal [Pioneer Fighting Youth Corps]

Certificate
Outstanding Cadet in
Troop 13
Presented to Kara Conover

For Your Outstanding Work in the Training Week
Experience at the Gadna [Youth Corps] Base

Date: November 24, 2005–11–25


Unit Commander Company Commander Base Commander

"To teach archery to the children of Judah" (II Samuel 1:18)

 

PHOTOS Tel Aviv

Kara says one of the things she loves about Tel Aviv is the architecture. This building is on the boardwalk overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.

PHOTO Tel Aviv Tush

In this diverse and fascinating city, there is something to catch the eye of every sightseer...

PHOTO: Kara Tel Aviv Med Sea on Shabbat

We had a great day together on Shabbat. We drove to Tel Aviv and the weather was exceptionally warm. We hung out on the beach, went for a walk and even found a Mexican Restaurant.

PHOTO Lee - Portrait by Kara

This is the best shot of me ever! Kara's photographic talent has made me look so glamorous. 

TRAVEL: Ein Kerem Arrival and Dead Sea Adventure

* See below and archives for photos...

It is Sunday morning, November 20, 2005 and I am up at 6 a.m. after not enough sleep, having had trouble dozing off last night. I run four short laps of the kibbutz roads and stop by Kara’s room where the door is unlocked and she is still fast asleep. I lean over and give her a sweaty kiss being surprised by her gentle acceptance. She is not complaining about the ‘sweat’ or the fact that I have awakened her. Of course, I am only entitled to use the term ‘awakened’ by applying it’s most liberal interpretation. It is nice to have back the small things like a good morning kiss. The details of life are like the spices in cooking – sometimes they flavor the entire experience.

I shower and dress and begin to pack my things, preparing to leave the kibbutz hotel. I make another trip to Kara’s room to drop off all of her stuff, including the Chanukah presents I bought and wrapped before leaving home. Soon after I receive a text message asking where I am and realize that Kara has headed to services without stopping by my room. I drop what I’m doing and immediately head off to join her. She has saved me a seat and she is hugging me and holding my hand and not at all embarrassed about public displays of affection for her mom. Are the teenage years really over? No, it can’t be.

We’re at breakfast and the kids are a little nervous about gadna, the Israeli army experience for teenagers. They have heard nothing good from anyone who has gone through it. There’s that and the thought of no computers or internet for a whole 5 days and this would make any teenager feel concerned, above and beyond the whole living in tents thing. I am secretly sad to see her leaving so soon after I have arrived. I’ve had a few sips, but I’m still very thirsty for her presence.

I check out and head over for the village of Ein Kerem, a quaint and charming neighborhood of Jerusalem. I will spend most of the rest of my trip staying here, in the home of my close friends, Walter and Paula Zanger. They are in the United States and are kind enough to let me use their place during their absence. I am overwhelmed by the charm of their home. It is ancient, comfortable, quiet and inviting. I spend time with Walter’s daughter Jenia who shows me around and how things work. Jenia tells me that she had a great time in gadna and that she enjoyed ‘playing soldier’ for a week. Kara phones a bit later from the bus while on the way to Sde Boker, the military base in the Negev. I ask Jenia to share w/ Kara about her perspective so Kara will have had at least one positive opinion
.
I am settling in and waiting for my cousin Joey to finish his commitments so we can make plans for an adventure. He is taking off a few days from work, which, coincidentally is at a restaurant in Ein Kerem.

Eitan stops by. He is a neighbor and very good friend of the Zangers. He has recently made alliyah which is a term we use when a Jew immigrates to Israel. It means ‘to go up,’ The same word is used when we are given the honor of going up on the bima at a synagogue to say a prayer or help in some way with the rituals of the service. There is tremendous spirituality and pride in making or receiving an alliyah. Eitan and I have a pleasant chat. He is very interesting -- an author. I am enjoying hearing about his latest book and book ideas along with the trials and tribulations in the pursuit of literary agents, publishers and the like. He has stopped by to offer any assistance I might need during my stay at the Zangers. I am sure he is knowledgeable about the village and details of Israeli life such as how to use this crazy looking machine that I am assured was designed for washing clothes.

When Joey calls, the decision is made to head over to the Dead Sea for a day or two. There are lots of hiking opportunities and the hotels have lovely indoor pools, filled with the salty, mineral waters of Yam Amelach (Dead Sea). Marcia finds us a deal online. She explains that Israelis get a better price. I think because they are more intimidating than we Americans. We end up w/ a suite on the eleventh floor of Le Meridian, overlooking Yam Amelach. Included in the price is breakfast and dinner. I get the bedroom with this huge soft bed and Joey is in the other room on the pullout. This is fair because Joey has just finished his Army service. I hear that in the Israeli army you learn to sleep anywhere, anytime. So technically, he doesn’t even need a bed at all; I could just stand him up in the corner and wake him in the morning. This whole sleeping thing will probably also come in handy when he heads off to University.


In Israel, army service is mandatory for everyone, men and women, after graduating high school. Thereafter, annual reserve duty is required. The requirement varies, but Joey is estimating that it is about 45 days every three years, more or less depending on what your job was in the army. This continues through until age forty or forty-five.

I am going to sleep early tonight because we have an early morning adventure planned.


***

It is 4:00 a.m. and my cell phone alarm just went off. We are getting up and rubbing the sleep from our eyes in preparation for our ambitious, pre-dawn hike up Masada. There is no coffee in the room and when I phone the front desk to see if there might be any in the lobby, I am invited to order room service. Right. Even in the U.S., where things operate on a much quicker time continuum than in other countries, room service takes until forever. I pass – thank you anyway. ‘Whose idea was this, anyway?’ I am calling to Joey from the other room as I slip into my shorts. I am hoping that this verbal offensive will catch him off-guard and possibly he won’t notice or remember that it was MY idea.
Aaah, sunrise from the top of Masada.

As we pass through the lobby, I ask if there is any bottled water or a mini-market that is open in the area. Again, I am invited to order room service. Again I decline, but now this is beginning to show promise as the start of an ongoing joke. Excuse me sir, there is a fire in the lobby; have you a fire extinguisher? No madam, but you might try room service.

We arrive at the trailhead just before 5:00 a.m. and it is still dark, but the moon is bright and seeing is not an issue. The guard says that the trail opens at 5, so by requiring us to wait that extra five minutes, he has earned his salary for the day. I hope his boss is reading this, or his mom. Either would be proud.

We are heading up the Snake Trail. I am wondering about the name and if I should be worried about where I step. Haven’t serpents caused enough problems in this part of the world already? Joey is regaling me with army stories, which I thought were supposed to be boring, but his are not. He is also telling me about the survival night in the pre-army program. As we make our way up the trail, it begins to gradually lighten. We are at the top by 6 a.m. and Joey has lugged up a pakal café which includes a can of propane, water, coffee, coffee cups, a coffee pot and he is at work lighting the cooker in the wind. (I told you he is cool!) He is making us coffee and explaining about the meaning of pakal which has something to do with a mandatory standing order of certain things a soldier must carry such as a gun, communication device, water, a stretcher for each 15 people in the unit and so forth. Now, I don’t think they are required to carry a Turkish coffee kit, but I do think it’s a good idea and apparently so does he.

The sun is coming up, however, rain is predicted and clouds are covering the Jordanian hills to the east of us and across the Yam Amelach. I watch, anxiously awaiting a photographic opportunity and a hot Turkish coffee.

Joey and I are talking. The desert is beautiful. On this we agree. But I am puzzled by this beauty. It is inexplicable. The first time I was in Israel, it wasn’t quite this pretty, not because it looked any different, but because I was different. I have learned to see the beauty. Appreciating the desert landscape is an acquired taste and Joey is agreeing. But neither of us can explain it. Look, Joey, I am exclaiming. Look at the color of the rocks. Just moments ago, they were a totally different color. Now the light has changed and so has the landscape.

Maybe part of the desert’s beauty lies in it’s willingness to be changed. The desert is solid – sand and rocks. But it is fluid too, a constantly changing reflection of colors throughout the day. Here and there a tree or flower and I have to admire this living thing growing from the impossible. Heat of day, cold of night, no water, unfettered winds, and it stands – no, not stands, thrives -- in defiance of logic. I am in awe of the strength and tenacity that is a subtle energy everywhere, in the desert.

My sights are eastward. My camera is on a tripod pointed to where the sun is to make it’s grand appearance. I am waiting and watching. I just happen, at one point to look behind my back and I notice that to the south west, the sky has become quite lovely. Of course, to me this becomes a metaphor for those times in life when I cling to a vision or expectation and my gaze is fixed in one direction only. And with eyes forward, I am waiting for that one anticipated moment or event to occur. Meanwhile, I am missing out on all the beauty around me. So I am squeezing off a few shots and we are walking around and it is becoming colder and windier and cloudier. But I am on top of Masada and on top of the world and the weather cannot touch me.

***

It is now after breakfast. We have returned from our hike and are ready for a dip in the pool. I am surprised how crowded it is for a Monday in the end of November. Joey and I look around and notice that we are rather young compared to our companions. I estimate that by adding our ages together and multiplying by two, we can arrive at the average age in the pool. On the other hand, this is Torah territory, land of 900-year-old Methusala and pregnancy and childbirth in the 10th decade of life. Maybe it’s the water – and I’m gonna buy bottled, thank you very much.

Joey heads off the sauna and I’m in the pool and settling in at the side to enjoy that magical floating sensation that I’ve only ever experienced in Dead Sea waters. The water is salty beyond imagination and it is as though one floats on top of the water. When I am here, walking on water doesn’t seem miraculous, but most ordinary. There are two Israeli men next to me speaking Hebrew and I don’t understand a word. There is a pair of metal crutches on the deck next to us. I am wondering to whom they belong. When the men finish their chat, the one that leaves the pool picks up the crutches and heads off on his one leg. What is his story? Was he an army officer wounded in battle? Was he passing by Sbarro pizza that fateful day when a terrorist homicide bomber blew apart families and children and lives? We hear only of the dead. But the injured, the ones who lose eyes or limbs or loved ones, are not forgotten because one must be first noticed before being left behind by the mind.

***

It is evening and time for dinner. Most people measure adjustment to a new destination by their body’s recovery from jet lag. I am measuring differently. I am wondering when arriving at an Israeli buffet with it’s vast array of salads and cheeses and hummus, olives and fruits, rice, meat, chicken, fish, stewed and grilled vegetables, soups, [saying the desserts completely suck is an understatement] will become ordinary. I am wondering when the urge to remember the ingredients of each salad and to recite to my journal each of the endless variety of dishes, when this insane need to hold on mentally to each meal will pass and I will settle in. Then, I will have adjusted. Maybe I will never adjust and that will be a good thing as well. Would it be strange for a tourist to stroll through the buffet with a camera rather than a plate? Hmmm.

***

Ooooh- oooooh. It’s a return text message from Kara:

“ I love you too. It rained today. Did field work Was fun. Night.”

The cryptic text messages of today = telegrams of yesterday. The same brevity and cadence.

I write back: Lila Tov sweet p

# # #

Post your comments of feel free to e-mail me directly at lawyrlee@hotmail.com

PHOTO: Joey on Masada

We're waiting for the sun to come up. It's windy. Joey is unpacking the coffee pot, cups, coffee, propane canister and everything else we need for fresh Turkish coffee as we overlook Yam Amelech (The Dead Sea), the Judean Desert and the hills of Jordan. What more could a girl want from her hiking buddy?? He's 10x better than Starbucks and he delivers... 

PHOTO: Cafe Pakal on Masada

Here I am happily awaiting coffee and the sunrise on top of the world!! 

PHOTO: Sunrise Atop Masada

Here, the sun begins to rise above the hills of Jordan and peek through the clouds. 

PHOTO: Early Morning Masada

 

PHOTO: Building on Top of Masada

The thing I love about this photo most is the color of the stones. They just say Israel. 

PHOTO: Tree on Top of Masada

The water in the background is the Dead Sea. This may be the only tree on top of Masada. 

PHOTO: Masada

These ancient walls on top of Masada are set against a distant backdrop of sedimentary layers in the Judean Desert. 

PHOTO: Atop Masada

A Tristam's grackle pauses so we can look at one other 

PHOTO: Lee Inside the Walls Atop Masada