tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23959494600919222752023-10-29T11:19:47.695+02:00A Little Bit East of YerushalayimFred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.comBlogger139125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-3118494584881031312015-11-19T10:06:00.001+02:002015-11-19T10:06:32.324+02:00I'm At It Again
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<span lang="EN-US">I’m at it again. I’ve begun a new series of
articles, this time using WordPress, which, once I get the hang of it, will
allow me a little more formatting flexibility than I had with Blogspot. If you
are interested in my new musings about life in The Land,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>just go to alittlebiteast.wordpress.com,
which will bring you to my home page. On the right side of the page, under “Recent
Posts,” you will find my introductory article, entitled “Grizzlify, grizzlify.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also on the right hand side of the screen you
will find “Follow Blog via E-mail,” which will absolutely, positively assure
your getting anything I post with all the speed the Internet allows. Happy
reading – I hope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-62446117275567618332014-12-10T14:26:00.000+02:002014-12-10T14:26:08.866+02:00A Lot of Wine, A Little Whisky<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">A LOT OF WINE, A LITTLE WHISKY<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I dare say that<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>almost no one getting this post has seen most
of my most recent articles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s
because they were written for and shared only with a few of my friends here in
The Land who share my enthusiasm for Israeli wine, one of our most glorious products.
My articles were mostly about my gallivanting around Jerusalem, looking for
choice selections to <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>fill my brand new twenty-eight
bottle wine fridge, in the process, checking out the most important wine shops
in Jerusalem. I started to take notes <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as
to which shops carried which wines. I wound up creating a spreadsheet that
listed over eighty different Israeli kosher wineries and where their wines were
available in Jerusalem. Some of the companies, like Golan and and Carmel, are
available everywhere, but there are some terrific wines that you have to hunt
to find – hence the reason for the spreadsheet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">As I wrote recently – in the articles you
didn’t see – back in the Exile, wine was not a major item of interest in the
circles I traveled in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of us didn’t
have the extra cash available to indulge in anything more than the most modest
of the kosher wines available to us. Barbara and I did have friends who
appreciated a decent glass<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>at a Shabbat
meal. But I can’t think of anybody who was truly excited by it. In some
circles, there seemed to be more enthusiasm over Single Malt Scotch (not a bad
thing!) or, heretically, some good bourbon (also a good thing!). Kosher wine
may have been a requirement, but it certainly wasn’t a passion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Twice a year, there would be a wine tasting
and sale at our shul in Teaneck, when they would give you some samples – in
little plastic cups. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not the best way to
size up a good vintage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(As a matter of
fact, the guy who knew the most on the subject was Kevin, the gentile who owned
the store that ran the wine tasting.) Of course, all of the wine we
sampled<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>was from far away: California,
South America, Italy, Australia, some from Israel. (Don’t get the stuff from
France. If it’s any good, it’s much more than you can afford.) There was no way
we could learn very much about the grapes, the soil, or how the wines were
made. All we could do for a Shabbat meal was to drink it and decide if we liked
it or not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">No doubt about it, things are different
here in The Land – where the Hagim are not extended and the wine is not boiled.
As I wrote recently:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">Here, wine is local. You can visit the wineries; you
can even see the grapes growing in the fields. Here, wine is ubiquitous. You
can find respectable entry level kosher wine at any supermarket in the country.
Here, wine is plentiful. Every year finds new wineries getting started and more
wine that is either excellent or close to it. Wine here is for sharing: not
only the tasting, but also the knowledge and enthusiasm. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Now if we are talking about sharing and
tasting wine, then there’s every chance in the world that our friends Barbara
and Richard Levine are involved in it somehow. Either they are spending a
Shabbat with us or we are heading up to visit them at their headquarters all
the way up north in Har Halutz. Which was exactly what we were doing a few
weeks ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">One bit of advice: don’t start out a
journey the way we did. We got off the bus from Ma’ale Adumim across from the
Central Bus Station in Jerusalem, and as we were walking towards the station, I
let out a cry, “Our suitcase!” We had left it on the bus. Fortunately for us,
the CBS is the last stop, and the terminal for the Egged buses is just down the
hill. So we skedaddled down there and waited for our bus to wend its way
through traffic to the terminal. What a wonderful sight: our driver walking to
the office, carrying one large, rose colored suitcase with all our stuff in it!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Back to the CBS, onto the #480 to Tel Aviv,
just in the nick of time to get on the train that Richard was on, heading north
to Acco, where his car is parked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up to
Har Halutz to pick up Barbara; then back to Karmiel for a burger and fries
before heading off to the once a month Karmiel folk music club. By the time the
three guys from Tel Aviv finished with their Irish fiddle music, it was way
past our usual bedtimes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Richard and I got up bright and early Fri.
morning – much too early, in my opinion. But he needed to do the weekly
shopping, and the few times I’m around, I volunteer to be his assistant and chief
cheerleader. A lot has changed in Israel over the years, and one of the biggies
is what’s available to buy and where you can go to get it. Check out the
Supersol Deal in Karmiel; it’s as least as big as your typical Shoprite in New
Jersey, plus it’s stocked from top to bottom, aisle after aisle, with kosher
food. A far cry from your local makolet! But something even more special is a
few minutes away: TAKEAWAY. Not only do the folks in this part of The Land have
enough to eat these days (more than enough!), they don’t even have to cook
their own Shabbat meals. Every Friday, a catering outfit takes over the
premises of a local restaurant, and a platoon of chefs spends Thursday night
preparing over thirty different dishes (not counting the salads), a bewildering
array of fish, chicken, meat, rice, potatoes, and vegetables – a menu that
changes week to week. As an added bonus, the proprietor, because he knows
Richard, handed him two scrumptious North African-style flat challas – piping
hot, right out of the oven. We left Karmiel, laden with a week’s worth of groceries,
plus a staggering number of aluminum foil and plastic containers, enough food
for Friday night dinner with enough left over for Richard and Barbara to have
an evening meal the rest of the week. We were not going to spend this beautiful
fall day in the kitchen cooking for Shabbat. No sirree!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The four of us were going to get into their
car and head over to Kishorit to sample some wine. Oh joy!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Once upon a time, there was a kibbutz in the
western Galilee called Kishor. It apparently never really got going and was
essentially out of business. To save the day, a few wise people took over much
of the property and created something special, Kishorit, self-described as “a
home for life in the Western Galilee for adults with special needs.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some 150 of the members live and work there,
in the organic garden, the dairy, the bakery, the toy factory, the stable, or
the communication center. Richard and Barbara could probably find their way
blindfolded to the kennels there. That’s where they got their miniature
Schnauzer, DonnaDog (who along with MobyDog and SheezaDog are no longer with
us), and where they boarded these respective canines when they went on
vacation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But that day we were not going to stop at
the kennels. You don’t let Richard, a man who, for the first time in
twenty-five years is without a dog, near a kennel. Not unless you’re planning
to return home with an extra passenger or two. Nor were we intending to inspect
the livestock or visit the toy factory. When we were stopped by the guard at
the entrance to the yishuv, we all shouted in unison, “yekev.” We were headed
to the winery – or to be precise, the winery’s new visitors’ center.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s true that our friends haven’t been to
the visitors’ center as often as they’ve been to the kennel, but they’ve been
there often enough to get a royal welcome when they do show up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The drill is simple: you sit down on some
benches and watch Kishorit’s video, showing some of the residents and how happy
and proud they are to have a meaningful job to perform, the kind of video
designed to cause copious quantities of American money to flow in their
direction. That’s how the attractive visitors’ center got built; that’s how the
grapes got planted in the first place. I should mention that the vineyards are
on the other side of the road directly opposite the visitors’ center. Definitely
local. You can stand there and watch the grapes ripening on the vine -- if you have
enough patience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Next, we were invited to sit down at a
table for a light mid-day meal. The simple menu, I’m sure, never changes:
several kinds of their best bread, several kinds of their best goat cheese,
several kinds of their best vegetables, and as many kinds of their wine as we
wished to sample. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s easy: whatever
you got! We started with a white wine and proceeded to sample both of their
reds, each of which has been awarded a medal at the most recent Eshkol Hazahav
Israeli wine competition. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a
wonderful way to spend a late autumn Friday in The Land, on a hilltop in the
Galil, with the sunlight streaming through the picture windows and a glass of
wine in hand– topped off with a very nice cup of coffee. No worries; plenty of
time before Shabbat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">An hour or so went by, and the “plenty of
time” was starting to look less plentiful. We left the visitors’ center with
our purchases of wine (in a sturdy cardboard packing case), bread, and cheese –
oh, and some of their freshly baked cookies – and returned to Har Halutz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enough time to start a cholent and get ready
for Shabbat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There is, unfortunately, no minyan in Har
Halutz, so Shabbat in this small yishuv is fairly low-key: relax, chill out,
take a walk around the new neighborhood to look at the rather opulent homes
under construction, have non-binding debates on questions of halachah, solve
the problems of the world, and repair to the dining area for our required
number of meals – washed down with copious quantities of wine from Kishor and
Netufa, another local winery – both of which are hard to find in our neck of
the woods – topped off with a generous selection of desert wines.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As it always seems to, this Shabbat came to
an end. There’s not much we were going to do that evening. We would have to get
to bed real early because we needed to be up before 4:30 (ouch!) Sunday
morning. We would have to leave Har Halutz before 5AM, in order to catch the
5:50 train at Acco – allowing Richard to get to work on time in Tel Aviv. The
trains Sunday morning are particularly crowded with soldiers returning to their
base, schlepping all their gear. Before long, there would be no more seats and
precious little room to stand in the aisles. Usually I put on my tallit and
tefillin where I’m sitting on the train (people do that here), but that morning
I was just too tired. Wait until I get back to Ma’ale Adumim. Instead, I
drifted in and out of sleep, occasionally waking enough to look out at the rows
of small houses<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>right by the railroad
tracks, the high rise buildings nearer the shore, the industrial complexes
scattered here and there, and, occasionally, a glimpse of the Mediterranean
itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We finally arrived in Tel Aviv,
got on the #480 bus going back to Jerusalem, and then the #174 to Ma’ale
Adumim. Cookie and Moby were delighted to see us; we unpacked our suitcases and
put our two bottles of Kishor wines into the wine fridge. The start of another
week in The Land……<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">POST SCRIPT<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Several months ago, Mordechai, who sits
across the aisle from me at Musar Avicha, hosted a Scotch tasting evening on a
motzei Shabbat at his apartment. Because we had made a commitment to be out of
town that Shabbat, I could not attend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But when I received an e-mail invitation for another such event, I was
determined to be there. This one was to mark the completion of a section of
gemarrah by his regular Sat. night group AND his son Daniel’s bar mitzvah the
previous week.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I think it’s fair to say that Mordechai
knows his Scotch whisky; he is certainly willing to share both his best bottles
and his extensive knowledge. Over the next hour and a half, in addition to some
salads and crackers, we got to sample 1) a Tomintoul 14 year old, 2) a Glengyle
Kilkerran Work in Progress 6, 3) a Caol Ila Cask Strength, 4) a Lagavulin 12
year old Cask Strength. All of the above were served, very sparingly, in
matching Glencairn tasting glasses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The whiskies we were offered that evening have
two distinctions in common: neither is chilled filtered and neither has any
added coloring, both of which are what you find with almost all Scotches on the
market. Until I walked in the door, I had no idea about any of this; certainly
not what difference it would make – but, trust me, it does BIG TIME, as I
discovered with my taste buds. So we finished the evening, all of much wiser
and definitely happier. There will be more events like this, and,
meanwhile,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll be nosing around the
various spirits emporiums – the same ones that sell the wines – with a
increased attention to the whiskies on hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And yet…. In a way, it reminded me of being
back in New Jersey, sampling wines from faraway places. The Scotch whiskies,
especially the best one, are truly wonderful, but that by itself doesn’t give
me a warm, fuzzy feeling about the place of origin, nor any sense of pride
about what its people have accomplished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Speyside? It could be Guantanamo Bay or the Gobi Desert, for all I care.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Just like with the fine whiskies from
Scotland, what is special about wine in The Land is the care with which the
best of it is produced. But here I have a stake in the outcome. Slowly, very slowly,
at times barely perceptibly, we can see the old Israeli mentality of “It’s good
enough” being replaced by a determination to create the world’s finest
products: hi-tech, medical innovations, environmental solutions, and, bless my
soul, the fruit of the vine. Yes, I feel truly blessed to be able to witness it
all in my lifetime – right in front of my eyes. May it continue, and may you
all be so blessed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-35699088581609076812014-10-30T11:46:00.003+02:002014-10-30T11:46:52.853+02:00You Would Think<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">YOU WOULD THINK<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">During the last several weeks, I have
listened patiently to Natania’s daily rants about her on-going battles to
register for school, deal with the government bureaucracy so that she will
ultimately get the tuition refund she’s entitled to, and, last but not least,
get her rav kav (transit card) validated with the student discount. You would
think it wouldn’t be so difficult; after all, it’s all computerized; most of it
you can do on-line. You would think. (Before you go any further, it would
behoove you to get her account – all four parts – first hand by clicking <a href="http://mylifeisacosmicjoke.blogspot.co.il/">here</a>.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I understood all too well. Forty-five years
ago, I too was trying to register for college courses, not at Hebrew U., but
City College (C.C.N.Y.), which in our time had as high a percentage of Jewish
students as an Israeli institution does today. Of course, nothing back then was
computerized, so the process was a bit complicated and somewhat harrowing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It’s sometime in Sept.1958, and the
freshman class will finally get its turn to register for classes – after the
seniors, the juniors, and the sophomores have had their turns. We will have
spent a considerable amount of time poring over the catalogue of classes (an
item readily discarded after the fact, but I’d love to take a gander at one
right now just to see). We know what we’ve got to take: freshman classes that
are either mandatory for everyone or pre-requisites for the courses in what you
suppose will be your major. My courses would include English, a foreign
language (French), math for morons, European history (I think I also started
Latin – then a required course for English majors – that year, but I’m not absolutely
certain). Every student probably has it all worked out in theory so that the
earliest class starts at 10AM and the last one at 3PM, with an hour for lunch.
Nothing to it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">And then………….<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To understand the heartache, you have to
understand the process. In the middle of Shepard, the main building in the
north campus (we’re talking about the uptown campus on 141<sup>st</sup> St.) is
the Great Hall, a place where even the strongest of us could be reduced to
tears – perhaps in keeping with its Gothic architecture. We enter and take a
place at the back of a large throng of our fellow freshmen and other stragglers
who haven’t yet finished registering. In the front of the hall are seated the
registrars, noting on paper who has registered for what. There are also a
series of movable blackboards with all the courses listed on it. If a student
is able to register for a class (say History 101 with Prof. Goldstein, MWF at
10AM), someone will so note that on the board. When that session is filled,
that someone will draw a line through it, telling everyone else that they are
out of luck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Of course, standing at the back of the
line, you can’t begin to see the imminent danger lurking up front. It would be
like sitting in the bleachers and trying to detect the pitcher putting some forbidden
substance on the baseball. You might ask someone to save your spot so you can
go up and get a peek at the blackboards, but you might not realize the depth of
your dilemma until it’s too late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every
class you planned to take is filled. Every attempt to revise your schedule is
thwarted. You could be two feet away from the registration table, and that last
place in English 101 gets taken and you have to start reconfiguring all over
again. So much for your well thought out schedule; now what are you going to
do? There are in theory enough spots in Freshman English for everyone, as there
are in theory enough spots in math for morons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But what happens when the only sessions remaining are at the same time? To
make matters worse, some very frustrated young lady twenty feet ahead of you,
who has been trying for three hours to come up with a workable schedule, is
having a complete meltdown. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I would wind up with Mr. Nesselrode’s 8 AM
French class (where he closes the door at exactly 8AM; so if you’re a minute
late, you can’t get in – after you spent an hour getting there).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Math for morons was at 4PM, with everything
else somewhere in the middle – leaving me much too much time to hang out on the
south campus lawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, I was happy,
no, ecstatic, because at least I got through, I got something, unlike Miss
Meltdown, who could have gone to school seven days a week and still not be able
to fit in her classes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It would get better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It did get easier the closer you were to
graduating and your classes became more specialized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You were pretty much assured a spot in third
term Ancient Greek or first term Anglo-Saxon (I can show you my battered copy
of “Beowulf </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 9.0pt;">and</span><span lang="EN-US"> Judith, done in a normalized orthography and edited by Francis P.
Magoun, Jr, Department of English, Harvard University, 1959, to prove I was
there). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there was always this hope. There
has to be a better way and someday, somebody will figure it out. There’s no
reason for students to have to go through all this torture just to register for
classes. Had we known about computers back then, we would have understood how
easy everything could be. You would think.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-40635168759523472662014-07-28T10:42:00.001+03:002014-07-28T10:42:33.831+03:00<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">THE MONRONOVITZ DOCTRINE,
OR BETTER KEEP WALKIN’<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Those who know me as
I am now, a gracefully aging curmudgeon with certain ideas and strong opinions
about the state of the world, would have had trouble recognizing me in my
former life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There I was, part of the
decidedly secular, left-liberal culture that was The City College of New York
some fifty years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you looked
closely, you could see me, one of the hundreds (maybe more, but I never
counted) of idealistic youths demonstrating at the U.N. in October 1962. What
was on our collective minds, you ask?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
little history about the Cuban Missile Crisis for those (most!) of you who
weren’t around at the time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The year before
(1961), the U.S. government, in an attempt to topple Fidel Castro’s decidedly left-wing
government, had sponsored the ill-fated invasion of Cuban émigrés at the Bay of
Pigs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The net effect of this debacle was
a rapid heating up of the Cold War, with nuclear missiles popping up around the
globe like mushrooms after the rain on a suburban lawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Americans put them in Italy and Turkey,
aimed at the heart of the U.S.S.R, the Russians had snuck them into Cuba<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– aimed directly at the coast of Florida – which,
as we all know, is only ninety miles away – and all points north and west. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, the uproar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>James Monroe was undoubtedly turning over in
his grave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">To remove these
rather unsettling weapons, the Kennedy administration considered an all-out air
and sea invasion of the island, but settled for a naval blockade instead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’ll larn ‘em!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately, Nikita Khrushchev, the Soviet
leader, was at best an indifferent student.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He must have been playing hooky or shooting spitballs when the teacher
was discussing the Monroe Doctrine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
far as he was concerned, if the Americans could place nuclear missiles where
they wanted, he could do the same – even in the Western hemisphere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s the big deal?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">And if the
Americans were going to try to prevent shipping to his good pal Fidel, well,
the least he could do would be to send some of his own warships to run the
blockade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So now you had this armada of
Soviet ships heading west, determined to sail unimpeded into Cuban waters, and
an appropriate number of American ships in international waters off the Cuban
coast, determined to intercept them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Each side was armed to the teeth; each side had enough nuclear weapons
to blow up at least a section of the solar system. Each day, the distance
between the two fleets was getting smaller and smaller, and the “winds of war”
were blowing stronger and stronger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">And there we were,
this rag-tag collection of Stalinists, Trotskyists, anarchists, Fidelistas, “Progressives,”
pacifists and other anti-war types, plus friends of the above and hangers-on –
this type of event being a great way to meet the right somebody – demonstrating
at the U.N. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, to be more accurate,
having two simultaneous demonstrations, one to join and one not to be caught
dead at, because what’s more important than an ideological dispute when the
world might have been blown up?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Fortunately for
all of mankind, the future of the world was not to be left to the collective
wisdom (?) of the students on the picket lines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A number of other people had assessed the situation and understood that
if nothing were done to the contrary, the world would be in trouble, big time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A deal was brokered under the aegis of the
United Nations (one of the few times that agency actually did something
useful).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Soviet fleet turned around
and went home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nuclear missiles were
removed from Cuban soil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The U.S.
committed itself never to invade Cuba.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It also removed its nuclear weapons from Italy and Turkey. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Whew!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We wouldn’t all be blown to smithereens after
all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were free to return to the safety
of the South Campus lawn, where we could continue our search for truth,
justice, and the opposite sex.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I can certainly
understand why someone of a younger generation might have difficulty
understanding what all the ruckus was about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No missiles were ever fired from Cuba.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No one – neither the Cubans nor the Russians – was threatening to fire
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one was planning to use
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was all “just in case.” Simply
put, “You got missiles; we got missiles.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The hope was that if you flaunted your enormous stash of firepower, it
would remind the other side not to consider using its enormous stash of
firepower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each side was then free to
subvert and undermine the other in less dramatic ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s why it was called “The Cold War.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It was just that pesky
Monroe Doctrine (actually written, I understand, by John Q. Adams), which
stated in part: </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">“</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1c1c1c; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">We owe it, therefore, to
candor and to the amicable relations existing between the United States and
those powers to declare that we should consider any attempt on their part to
extend their system to any portion of this hemisphere as dangerous to our peace
and safety.”</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1c1c1c; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> In
the less formal language of today’s world, it would be something like, “You’re
in our turf now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Better keep walkin.’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1c1c1c; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">When the Monroe Doctrine was first announced, the fledgling
U.S.A. was in no position to enforce it, relying, ironically enough, on the
Brits, who had their own reasons for keeping the Spanish, the French, and other
interested parties out of the Western hemisphere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(The Doctrine respected the British claim to
Canada.) But the point was made, and it stuck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And there came a time when the Americans were more than able to enforce
it, by land, by air, and by sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s
what Khrushchev didn’t understand. (Dear Mrs. Khrushchev, your son Niki is too
busy making spitballs to pay attention when we study the history of the
Imperialist West….)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1c1c1c; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Perhaps what we need here in The Land is a Monronovitz
Doctrine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right, a Monronovitz
Doctrine, making it clear in diplomatic language that, </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1c1c1c; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">We will consider any attempt on anyone’s part to
extend their system or subvert our own in any part of The Land as dangerous to
our peace and safety.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1c1c1c; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This is our
neighborhood, and don’t mess with us here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The minute you even THINK of starting something, we’ll give it to you
good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So better keep walkin’.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe we can’t yet make that stick, but it
would be a start, something to express how we feel about things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It might cut through a whole lot of useless palaver
with the John Kerry’s of the world. Yeah, that’s it, short and sweet: Better
keep walkin’.</span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-15934730003815889912014-03-09T21:54:00.000+02:002014-03-09T21:54:00.880+02:00A Beeg Deal About Wine
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>A BEEG
DEAL ABOUT WINE</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are a few bits of
advice, some common sense ideas, that you pick up over the years if
you’re wise, all to make life a little more manageable. One biggie
is, never ask a woman if she's pregnant – because if she's not, boy
are you in trouble! In a different vein, there's the simple,
homespun advice that you should never, ever, do your weekly grocery
shopping when you're hungry – unless you have room to store the ten
pound sack of pistachios that you brought home with you. Then there's
the somewhat obverse corollary: don't start buying wine right after
you've had a few glasses.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I followed the last bit
of wisdom punctiliously when we were back in Teaneck, NJ. Twice a
year, before Pesach and before Rosh Hashana, our shul, Congregation
Beth Aaron, would host a wine tasting, organized by Kevin, the
proprietor of a local spirits emporium – as a warm-up to the wine
sale that he and the shul would run. We would buy at a discount, the
shul would get a percentage, and Kevin would make his well-earned
profit. By the second or third such event, I figured out something
startlingly brilliant. Don't get there at 7PM when the thing
started. Saunter in at 9:15. That would allow ample time to sample
the twenty or so wines that had been opened (unfortunately served in
plastic cups!) and still be there when they were closing up shop –
which was when they had to dispose of all the open bottles. Some of
the bottles would stay in the shul, but some of us would generously
offer to take a bottle or two or three of the leftovers off their
hands. There were order forms available to buy wine, and lots of
folks availed themselves of the opportunity to fill one out, hand it
back to the young lady at the table, write a check, and go about
their business. I was not going to do that. No, no, no! I would
leave with a few half-filled bottles of good wine nestled in my arms,
and a blank order form in my pocket. Several days after, when the
alcohol had gone through my system and I had calmed down, I sat down
with the list, mindful of our limited budget, and placed our modest
order. In the proverbial cold light of day, I was aware that there
was a lot of wonderful wine out there that was simply out of my price
range. My task was to locate and purchase the best of what I could
afford and anticipate the day when.….....</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We seem to have a
little more money at our disposal, now that we are retired and living
in The Land and not dealing with the insane expenses associated with
life in Bergen County. Therefore, our budget for wine is not as
limited as it used to be. The availability of wine and other goodies
has also increased, now that we are living where kosher food is not
merely a concession to a minority, but a way of life. As a result I
have more opportunity to go haywire and spend more than I ought to on
some incredible cheese or a fine vintage. We have managed so far to
control ourselves – most of the time. (<i>Unless Barbara goes by
herself to the cheese shop in our local mall, where they offer
samples of the good stuff to customers </i><i>who are both </i><i>discern</i><i>ing
and weak-willed</i><i>.</i>) One way to tempt fate is to visit one of
the many kosher wineries that are no more than a drive away. You
usually get a tour and are able to sample some of what they have to
offer. It goes without saying that, sooner or later, you would wind
up in their store where you could buy a bottle or two, or a case or
two....... Some of these places are complete rip-offs. They would
select their cheaper wines to sample and offer to sell them for a lot
more than you could find in downtown Jerusalem. Other wineries are
much more insidious. After sharing their genuine enthusiasm about
what they doing, they let you sample some of their top-of-the-line
stuff, the kind you like, the kind you want, the kind they hope you
will purchase….</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Of course, if going to
one winery is dangerous to your bottom line, imagine the effect of a
wine tour, where you go to a bunch of wineries, one after the other –
and you're there, not just with a random group of visitors, but with
a coterie of wine lovers. Oh the temptation!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Several weeks ago, we
were actually on such a tour, organized by the Israeli branch of the
Young Israel movement and run by Eli Poch, the founder and proprietor
of the Jerusalem Wine Club, who had arranged for us to visit three
first-rate wineries in the Shomron (that's the area north of
Jerusalem sometimes called “Samaria”) – easily doable in one
wine-filled day. Eli is just the kind of guy you want to give a
running commentary on a wine tour, a legitimate authority on wines of
Israel, in fact an authentic Wine Expert – one who can sit down
with nine other Wine Experts, all of whom will correctly identify the
unlabeled wine being quaffed as a Fruit of the Loom Pinot Blanc,
2007.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The largest and best
known of the three wineries, the one we stopped at first, is Psagot,
now owned by the Royal Wine Company (“Kedem”), the largest
distributor of kosher wine in The States. No surprise, their
visitors center is suitably impressive, designed to host a busload or
two of people. What they do there is show you movies: the first
short film was about how Jews had lived in this area, the part of the
Land assigned to the biblical tribe of Binyamin, how we still
retained our connection to it, and that we needed to remain there.
Of course, the film was “preaching to the choir,” given the
nature of people on our bus, right-wing wine lovers to a person. We
were then ushered into a larger screening room, where we saw a
half-hour film, impressively produced, if somewhat bizarre.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>As the film opened,
we see a young secular Israeli, riding in a cab in Tel Aviv. He’s
talking to his boss on the phone. Boss is telling him that he’s
getting a promotion; he will be in charge of the company’s London
office and will have to leave in a week or so to take over his new
job. This is the young man’s dream; he wants to make it “big
time.” (You have to do it with an Israeli accent: BEEEEG TIME.) He
goes back to his bachelor apartment and is about to open a
celebratory bottle of wine, when the phone rings. His father has
been in a serious accident and is in the hospital. The son rushes
</i><i>there </i><i>to visit him. (We realize something immediately:
the rest of the family is “religious.”) The father is intent on
getting released from the hospital, even though he is in no condition
to do so. The next day is the start of the grape harvest in the
family’s vineyard in – guess where – Binyamina. The son
reassures him; he has grown up in the business, and he can and will
supervise the harvest while his father recuperates. Off he goes.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Two things happen as
our hero is tending to the grapes. First, his old girl friend shows
up. She had left the country but has returned, realizing that she
belongs in the rocky soil of Binyamina, </i><i>all of </i><i>which
she explains in a long speech to our hero. She is, of course,
contemptuous of her old flame’s intention of leaving The Land to
make it BEEG TIME. Then our hero starts having real-live
hallucinations, seeing events from all over the Bible that occurred
in the area where he is standing. He forgets to call in to his boss;
he forgets to call the London office. His boss gets angry because he
went out on a limb to recommend this guy. Is he going to London or
not? What’s going to happen?????? You’ll never believe how the
film ends. Our hero marries his old sweetheart and takes over the
family business. We see him, with wife and kids in the background,
on the phone, making a BEEG DEAL with a wine distributor in London.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The basic premise of
the film could have been turned into a moving, sensitive film instead
of the agit-prop it was. But more to the point, I hadn’t woken up
early and headed to the bus by the Prima Kings Hotel in Jerusalem to
attend a film festival or a political rally. Where’s the wine? Oh
yes, when the screenings were over, we were ushered into the tasting
room, where we spent a few minutes sampling some of their stuff.
Certainly respectable, although a tad overpriced – in my humble
opinion. But we left no wiser about what makes this winery different
from all other wineries – which is more to the point as to why we
bothered to show up. A few people on the tour invested in some Psagot
wine, but not too many. We were in the majority!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Our next stop was the
Gvaot winery (“Gvaot” means “hills”), not that far away, but
v-e-r-y different. Their wine making plant was an industrial shack,
their “facilities” was a Porto-San, and their visitors center, a
long table outside the plant with wine glasses set out for everyone.
But the wine…… Now you’re talking. You’re also paying.
Their least expensive series is about 100NIS (current exchange rate
is about 3.5 to the dollar), their most expensive, about 270NIS.
That’s for <u>a</u> bottle. We had been promised lunch as part of
the package, and Young Israel was true to its word. In the storage
area under the bus were boxes of take-out from Holy Bagel (you want
your bagel with cheese, with tuna, etc.) to go along with our
world-class wine. The English speakers from the winery were either
sampling their products or AWOL, (although they did have a nice
brochure in English) so it was up to Eli to explain a little about
the wine and the family who made it. More people were lugging
shopping bags with wine bottles inside as they got back on the bus.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But not us. I had
already explained to Eli why I hadn’t joined his Jerusalem Wine
Club. (You pay a membership fee and you get discounts on good wine,
which he will select and send to you.) There is no point in buying
higher quality wine, the kind you would hold onto for a year or two
or three, if you have no way of storing it properly. Back in
Teaneck, our basement would do the trick, as it was cool down there
all year long. Not so our dining room here in Ma’ale Adumim. Here
you really need a wine fridge to maintain an appropriate, even
temperature through the short winter and the long summer. Otherwise,
you are wasting your money on such quality wine. And I was not making
that investment until after we had paid for the <i>shiputsim</i>
(renovations) to our bathrooms – which are going on as we speak.
(If your computer starts to shake as you’re reading this, that’s
the guy drilling upstairs.)</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If you drink enough
wine over time and you pay attention to what you are drinking, you
begin to notice the differences in what you are tasting. The wines
at Psagot were grown in soil heavy with limestone, so their wine had
a certain taste. The wines at Gvaot were lighter and full of fruit.
The ones we were offered at the third winery, Tura, where we were
hosted by the wife of the proprietor herself, were fuller-bodied and
less fruity, but equally as good as the wines from Gvaot. Maybe it
was the woman’s personality and enthusiasm, perhaps it was the
quality of the merchandise, or a combination of the above, but people
were lining up at the cash register with their bottles of wine at 100
shekel a pop. I was also waiting my turn; I had picked up a box of
chocolate and a jar of jam, items that the winery was promoting. So
far, so good. Gotta save our money for the fancy faucets that are
being installed. <i>(Ten minutes ago, the guys came down and took</i>
<i>upstairs the new bathtub that had been sitting in our living
room.)</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now would come the big
test. If going to three wineries was an almost irresistible
temptation, imagine the challenge of dealing with scads of wineries
all at once. Every year since we’ve been here, we’ve gone to the
Wine Festival held outdoors in August at the Israel Museum. That’s
always a fun-filled, romantic evening, hanging out with friends,
sipping wine, and looking out at the lights of the city. You have to
get there early while the wineries are showcasing their best
products. As the evening progresses and it becomes more and more
“date night,” the wineries start slipping in some lesser quality
stuff, figuring the kids are less discerning. The other problem is
keeping track of the different exhibits, for there are at least two
dozen wineries represented and everything is spread out over the
grounds of the museum. You need a map, which the festival no longer
provides.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A few weeks after our
wine tour, there was another BEEG wine event, this time at the
Jerusalem convention center. It was advertised as the largest kosher
wine event anywhere in the world. This year, the third time it’s
been held, there would be forty wineries represented, showcasing 160
varieties of wine. That's a lot of wine; would we be up to the task?
Well, yes and no. It was obvious to me from the get-go that even a
mouthful, a sip, of 160 kinds of wine was out of the question. I
needed a plan, a strategy to get through the evening – so I could
walk out when we were done and get on the #174 back to Ma'ale Adumim.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The layout for the
event was quite user friendly. There is a large entrance area at the
convention center with plenty of comfortable chairs and couches. On
the left is an area where the food court was set up. In the large
middle room, the wineries had their booths, all arranged along the
perimeter. In the center of the room was a large roped-off area.
That was the “wine store.” First step, get your wine goblet as
you come in. Then slowly, methodically, walk around and see who and
what is there. Unlike the summer event, you can't miss anything and
you can't get lost. Make some mental notes and set some priorities.
You know which booths you can skip and which ones are an absolute
must. When you're good and ready, start at one end, wine glass in
hand, and go around the room. If a booth is too crowded, skip it and
go back later. Engage the folks working the booth in conversation;
they all speak some English. Try to remember what floats your boat
and which wines you dumped after one taste. Drink enough to enjoy
yourself but not so much as to dull your senses and your memory.
That's not so hard, is it!!!????
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After a while, Barbara
pooped out (she had been tired to begin with), leaving me to finish
the important business at hand. She repaired to the lobby, sat on
one of the white couches, and got into a long conversation with a
young woman from Beit Shemesh. After a while, when I had drunk as
much as I thought was prudent, it was time to start doing some
shopping. I left my wine glass with Barbara and went back in to find
one of the small shopping carts that people were wheeling through the
aisles of the “wine store.” Every kind of wine I had sampled
that evening was there, stacked neatly and, most importantly, every
bottle had some notation as to how much it cost. 100 shekels, that
would be the most I would spend, I reminded myself as I wheeled my
little cart between the displays. Remember you are in debt BEEG TIME
for your new bathrooms. I was nearly done – I thought; I had a few
bottles in my cart. I was standing at the Tura display, looking at a
few offerings at 105NIS, when a young woman with a sheitel approached
me. She was obviously one of the many hawkers hired to prowl the
store area to steer customers to the wares of a particular winery. <br /><br />
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“Have you tried our
wine,?” she inquired, pointing to a nearby display for the Abouhav
Winery. In fact, I had not. As I had never heard of them, that's
one of the wines I chose to ignore. When I explained my decision to
the young lady with the sheitel, she was visibly distressed. I had
obviously done myself a great disservice, one which she was prepared
to rectify on the spot. The fact that my wine glass was in the lobby
was no obstacle; she would give me another one. How could I say no?
She brought me over to the Abouhav display and poured me a sample.
She was right. It was quite good, surprisingly so. There was only one
thing to do, give a swig to Barbara. I explained to the nice young
lady with the sheitel that I didn't buy wine, especially expensive
wine, unless I was reasonably certain that my wife would like it.
(Refer back to “common sense ideas” described in paragraph 1.)
So I trotted out to the lobby, my glass of Abouhav wine in hand.
Barbara was still sitting on the same white couch, talking to the
same young woman from Beit Shemesh.</div>
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What do you think of
this wine, I inquired, having no idea what she would say, as she had
previously vetoed several selections that I thought were first-rate.
This one got a thumbs-up (or the equivalent). I reported this
information back to the nice young lady with the sheitel. One more
question: How much is a bottle? 135NIS???!!!!!!! I was off the hook;
too expensive, I explained. The problem was, I knew what she was
going to say. The really BEEG DEAL about this wine show was their
sale prices. If you bought any two bottles of wine, the second one
was half price. That's a really BEEG SAVINGS. If you factor that in,
we're back to our 100NIS limit. What could I say? The wine seemed to
be quite good, Barbara liked, and it was in effect on sale. Plus, I
had been sipping wine all evening, and my defenses were down. I was
about to ignore the “obverse corollary,” don't start buying wine
right after you've had a few glasses.
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We left the show with
six bottles of assorted wine, enough to fill up my wine carrying
case. They are all sitting in or on top of the wine rack in our
dining room. A fine layer of dust from the renovation is beginning
to settle on each bottle. Will that be enough protection against the
heat and cold – until I can afford to buy my wine fridge? We'll
find out, won't we?</div>
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Last thing: As I had
never, ever heard of the Abouhav winery, I decided to find out
whatever I could about it. So I did what you would do, I “googled”
it, and this is what I came up with (at
<a href="http://guideforisrael.com/personal-wine-tour">http://guideforisrael.com/personal-wine-tour</a>):
</div>
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<i>While guiding a lovely family in the mystical city of Tsfat
(Safed), we stumbled across a fabulous boutique winery in a narrow
alley. Overlooking the Meiron Mountain, where Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai
is buried, a wonderful couple chose to reside. </i>
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<i>Their home doubles as a charming hospitable visitors’ center
with the best view of the Meiron Mountain. Yigal, a formerly Tel
Aviv party scene producer, and his wife, Odelia, have become
more observant in recent years. While studying and living in Tsfat,
it seemed natural to take on the industry of Kosher wine. The warm
hospitality of the couple complimented the wonderful wine. “We make
only 7200 bottles a year”, says Yigal, “and most of it goes to
elite restaurants in Tel Aviv”. An example for this would be the
new restaurant of the Master Chef Jonathan Roshfeld at the Ritz
Carlton. </i>
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I had actually read about the opening of this restaurant; it is
apparently a BEEG DEAL as kosher restaurants go in the White City.
One thing is certain. Roshfeld is not getting all 7200 bottles. One
of them is here in Ma'ale Adumim at the Casden's. Now all I need is
a BEEG enough event to warrant opening it.</div>
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Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-83133629024682362582014-01-23T19:23:00.002+02:002014-01-23T19:23:51.388+02:00PILPEL COMES AND PILPEL GOES<div align="CENTER" id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1390466387594_59499" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0.1em; padding: 0px;">
PILPEL COMES AND PILPEL GOES: A DOG FOR A WEEK</div>
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It was good and necessary for Natania to move out several years ago and test her wings – even if she wound up back home a year later. The first apartment she was in, she shared with several students, and she wound up playing the role of den mother. That didn't last. The second one was with an “older” woman (in her thirties!) with whom she got along. The arrangement worked for a while, but the apartment was falling apart, and the roommate soon acquired a boy friend, whom she would shortly marry. No room for Natania. The best part of the arrangement, as far as Natania was concerned, was the roommate's dog, Pilpel, a Black Lab-Sharpei mix. Natania grew to love the dog, even walking her when the room mate was not able to. Even after moving back to the luxury (?) of her parents' apartment, Natania continued to miss Pilpel.</div>
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It would be two years later. The former room mate and her husband had moved out of Jerusalem and now had a baby. They were experiencing serious financial problems and the husband really was not enamored of the dog. The family needed to moved to a smaller apartment. In short, there would be no room, no place, for Pilpel in their lives.</div>
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It was December, and Barbara was visiting her sister in Hawaii. Natania and I were taking our usual Sat. evening walk to the Aroma coffee shop in our mall, when she mentioned that her former room mate has posted Pilpel's picture on Facebook, trying to find a new home for her. My reaction was to wait and see. Maybe someone would be willing to take her and that would be the end of it. If not.... Wait until the woman-of-the-house returns from half-way around the world. However, Natania should certainly help in looking for a new home for the animal.</div>
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There's an inherent problem with problems. Sometimes, without even realizing it, you wind up taking ownership of them – when they weren't yours to begin with. Weeks went by, and it was obvious from the re-posts that the search for new quarters for Pilpel were unavailing. The woman was becoming desperate. Barbara, as I knew would happen, was less than thrilled with the notion of a canine addition to our household. But, in response to Natania's pleading, agreed to take the dog on a temporary basis – but only as a last resort.</div>
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<i id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1390466387594_60070">We understood the situation all too well. That's how we acquired Cookie and Moby, our </i><i>two </i><i id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1390466387594_60068">Tonkinese cats. The original owner needed to return to England for medical treatment that he hoped would arrest </i><i id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1390466387594_61765">his deadly</i><i> auto-immune condition. </i><i id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1390466387594_61766">(It didn't.) The last thing on earth he wanted to do was to give away his beloved felines; but he needed to find them a good home, so he could leave for England with some piece of mind.</i></div>
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Anyway, Natania was now in full possession of this particular problem – where would Pilpel go to live – and shortly we would take possession of Pilpel as well. The woman and her husband were scheduled to move to a small, basement apartment in a new community on a Thursday, and the dog could not go with them. The plan was for her to bring her pet to Ma'ale Adumim Wed. afternoon. We would meet at the vet's office so that Pilpel could get her shots. Call us when you get to town and we'll meet you there.</div>
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<i>Procrastination. Avoidance. Passive resistance. Anything to keep from doing the inevitable. I know them all; I've done them all. My favorite (?) was the time I had to move from a wonderful apartment on the Upper West Side (NYC) to a less-than-desirable place on the Lower East Side. A number of buddies volunteered to assist in the moving process, and we piled all my scant belongings into someone's vehicle. As we were about to set off, I realized I had no idea where I had put the key to my new apartment....</i></div>
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It got later and later, and still no word. Finally the phone rang. She had managed to miss all the earlier buses and would arrive in Ma'ale Adumim after 9PM, well after the vet's office hours were over. The new plan was to bring Pilpel straight to us, leave us some money, and we would bring the dog to the vet on Fri. Natania gave her clear directions as to where to get off the bus, but we watched from our window as the bus sailed past our stop. <i>One last desperate act of avoidance.</i> Natania called the woman and went down to meet her. After a while, I could see both of them walking back to our building, Pilpel keeping pace beside them. Up the stairs into our apartment.</div>
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It was a poignant moment. The former room mate began removing all of the dog's worldly possessions from a large backpack: bowls for food and water, a small bag of inexpensive dog food (all they could afford), leashes that had seen better days, the cushion the dog slept on, a number of blankets – most of which had been used outdoors and needed IMMEDIATE laundering. After a few minutes of conversation, the woman had to go, leaving her beloved pet behind. Pilpel stood by the door, expecting her to return any minute. The dog did not know what we knew, that her former mistress would never return and this for now was her new home.</div>
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Our plan had been to keep Pilpel upstairs in Natania's room with the door to her balcony open, so the dog wouldn't be too confined. Except that she was camped out right by the front door, waiting and waiting. So we set up her bowls and her cushion in our living room. We're flexible that way. We also realized very soon that Pilpel was not going up to our second floor. We have an open staircase – meaning that the fitted, varnished steps were laid on a metal frame with no backs. Pilpel is apparently scared of heights and wouldn't go up on her own. We weren't about to carry a sixty-five pound dog where she didn't want to go. So we finally went upstairs to bed, leaving the dog below.</div>
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All the while, Cookie and Moby were in their usual spot on our bed, waiting for us to arrive for their favorite part of the day, bedtime, when they allow us to join them for a good night's snooze. Pilpel's future in or home depended on their response to her. Natania had assured us that the dog was perfectly OK with cats. But would the reverse be true? The street cats here know all about dogs – which ones will chase them and which ones will just walk by – just as they know there's no point in chasing crows or pigeons, and which people are going to leave them food. But our pampered pets who have spent all their days within? I can't say they had ever seen a dog before – at least up front and personal. They tend to be rather timid around humans they don't know, let alone other species. But we could at least give it a try. As a morale booster, BroccoliMama101, a/k/a Natania, had located a video of funny interactions between the two species in question, including one of a Cookie look-alike boxing the nose of a large canine.</div>
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<i>It's been a long time since I lived with a dog. Cindy was a border collie mix that my brother brought back as a puppy one summer from the farm he was working on. She was universally admired – at least by everyone in the neighborhood. I would be walking her, and I would hear people calling her by name. No one knew who I was, but everyone recognized Cindy! There were summer evenings – this was B.A.C. (before air-conditioning) – when I would take her out for a stroll to escape the heat in the apartment and come back an hour or two later. We would just keep walking together, traversing Mosholu Parkway, up Jerome Ave., and finally back to 208<sup>th</sup> St., where we lived. Cindy needed the exercise and I needed the time to think.....</i></div>
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You may wonder: What brought back these memories? Part of the arrangement for Pilpel's stay with us was that Natania would be responsible for her care. I knew from the get-go that I'd have to be the back-up dog walker when our daughter wasn't around. Sure enough, there I was, showing Pilpel her leash and motioning to the door. (<i>Cindy want to go DOWN?</i>) And we would be off, traversing the neighborhood, going through out of the way streets and alleyways where I ordinarily wouldn't venture without the dog as a <i>raison-d'etre</i>. Natania and I had the same reaction: we were suddenly getting a lot more exercise just by walking Pilpel. And sure enough, children would come up to me and ask if they could pet her. At least no one remarked, “Look there's Pilpel!”</div>
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I had never wanted another dog after Cindy. Most of the canines I've met left something to be desired. Little dogs that just kept yipping. Large ones that barked incessantly. Strange looking animals whose parents were aesthetically incompatible. Weird ones that needed tranquilizers. But Pilpel...... It would have been hard not to fall in love with her. Besides being a beautiful dog in the prime of her life, she is gentle, calm, affectionate, and quiet. If someone came to the door, you wouldn't have to spend ten minutes quieting her or putting her in the back room. She would give an obligatory “woof” and then sit down where she was. Several of our friends asked us, at least half-seriously, if they could trade their dog for ours.</div>
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The only ones not impressed with Pilpel's demeanor were Cookie and Moby. They remained upstairs, venturing down the steps only once or twice when Natania was walking the dog. (The irresistible smell of chicken cooking......) It was like having two separate families in one house. You go into one part and the children want you to read them a story; you go into the other part and the other children insist you play ball with them. When I went upstairs, Cookie would wake up and start meowing. When I went downstairs, Pilpel would follow me around. No matter where I was, I was feeling guilty about neglecting the other occupant(s).</div>
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You might be wondering how Barbara was handling all this. Her take on the matter was simple. The dog is wonderful, and it's certainly not her fault the cats didn't like her. But the arrangement was not working. The final straw was that Tuesday night, one week after Pilpel arrived. Natania was out with her for a walk, and Cookie ventured downstairs, seeking some human company. Natania returned and made the mistake of letting Pilpel of the leash before seeing if the coast was clear. The dog spotted the cat and trotted over to say hello. The cat saw this enormous creature coming her way and freaked out, running lickety-split up the stairs. For reasons best known to her, Natania picked up Cookie and brought her downstairs, the idea being to show Cookie that Pilpel just wanted to be friends. Needless to say, that was not a good idea. I rescued our little cat and brought her upstairs, still howling and hissing. Barbara had reached her limit. An ultimatum: Find the dog another home!</div>
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Natania had posted Pilpel's picture on various website and e-mail groups; but in truth her heart had not been in it because she had hoped we could keep her. I had assumed that the dog would be ours, for better or worse. There was simply too much competition: not enough homes for all the dogs who needed one. In the previous few days, just on our local e-mail group, someone was looking for a home for a one year old dog and somebody else had Aussiepoodles to sell. There were dozens of dogs on a “Yad2,” a site for all things second hand, and many more abandoned creatures at the Jerusalem animal shelter. If you wanted a pedigreed puppy, just head over to any of the local pet stores. What chance did we have, no matter how remarkable our dog was? Nonetheless, Natania, suitably chastened, re-worked her flier and sent it out again.</div>
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A friend of ours, who now lives in Beit Shemesh, sent our the announcement to her local shul list. You never know. It turns out that a woman – a stay-at-home mom with a handful of kids – saw the post and was intrigued. Their dog had just died. Whether or not they were planning on a replacement, I can't say. But the picture of Pilpel's soulful expression was enough to generate a phone call. The long and short of it was that several hours later, the woman, a friend, and four youngsters were knocking on our door. The children entered quietly (imagine that!) and sat down on the floor next to Pilpel. Soon they were petting the dog, and shortly thereafter Pilpel, playing her part perfectly, put her head in one of the girl's lap. The woman had two questions, one to us and one to her kids. “Is the dog always this calm?” Yes. “Are we taking her home with us?” YES.</div>
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<span id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_10_1390466387594_50" style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_10_1390466387594_52" style="font-size: 18px;"><br id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_10_1390466387594_54" /></span></span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1390466387594_59709"><span id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1390466387594_59708">We packed up all of Pilpel's earthly belongings, her bowls, her cushion, her washed blankets, the new leash and toys we had bought her, everything but the food we had. From now on she would be eating only the finest dog food on the market. We said our goodbyes. One of the kids attached Pilpel's leash, and the seven of them went off together, heading back to Beit Shemesh. By the next morning, Pilpel (to be known from now on as “Pepper”) was back on Facebook, being hugged by a child. They were all fighting over whose room the dog would sleep in. Yesterday, mom posted a picture of her hugging Pepper with the following comment “<span id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1390466387594_59712" style="color: #2a313d;">Have I mentioned how much I love this sweetheart?!” </span><span id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1390466387594_59713" style="color: #2a313d;">It seems that the dog follows her around the house all day. So if you're wondering how everything is working out, I imagine you have your answer. Pilpel/Pepper got the home she deserved. And Cookie and Moby? Within a few hours, Moby was back at his post, helping Barbara type on her computer. It took Cookie several days to recover and venture downstairs. But she finally returned to her old self, meowing for food and affection. She is on my desk now, reading every word I type.</span></span></span></div>
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Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-31713582948703613802013-10-07T17:08:00.002+03:002013-10-07T17:08:39.882+03:00Road Hogs
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>ROAD
HOGS</b></span></div>
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<br />
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Before
going any further, it might be good for you to read my daughter's
musings on the subject at hand – why her over-age daddy would want
to open a Facebook account.
(</span><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://mylifeisacosmicjoke.blogspot.co.il/"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">http://mylifeisacosmicjoke.blogspot.co.il</span></a></u></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
– Aug. 6, 2013) </span>
</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">If
I wanted to be flippant (not me!), I might say that I got onto
Facebook because I was bored one day and had nothing much else to do
at the time. When Natania was faced with a similar situation, she
went out and had her hair dyed blonde. That didn't seem like a
reasonable option for me, so I sat down at BigMac and went to the
Facebook home page.</span></span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It
was something I had been thinking about for a long time. I knew
there was this beast out there that was taking over the world and
causing people to waste a lot of time in idle chatter. What would be
the benefit to me? Did I need to continue my boycott in order to
maintain my curmudgeonly image? Things to consider.</span></span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">There
was, I had come to realize, a lot of information and social discourse
that I was not privy to. Many of the cultural events in Jerusalem
that would be of interest to me were promoted primarily on Facebook.
Aviella's concerts, Shakespeare in the Rough. Good stuff like that,
things that were coming and going without my knowledge or
involvement. Even though there is still a heavily monitored and
cumbersome MA-chat e-mail group, most of the give and take here in
Anglo Ma'ale Adumim goes on within the confines of the MA Facebook
group. You want to exchange opinions about the up-coming municipal
elections or ask questions about the bus service here in town? It's
either Facebook or stand on the </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>merpeset</i></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
and holler. I wasn't sure how, but I figured I could also publicize
my own efforts, both my articles and, in the future, my web page of
photographs – may I live long enough to do it. Then there's a
time-tested maxim: If you can't lick 'em, join 'em. There's no point
in standing outside the stadium wondering what the score is on the
field.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Believe
it or not, up to that point I had never even seen a Facebook page and
was fairly clueless as to how the thing worked. Yes, you can post
things on your page and you have “friends,” but that's sort of
nebulous; there's more to it than that. One way to find out. So I
opened an account and entered my information. </span>
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">There's
one thing that concerns any Facebook neophyte: how do you hook up
with other people? Of course, it's as easy as pie; in fact, it may
be too easy. Facebook will help you connect with any of the billion
or so people around the world who have accounts. You can start with
anyone and everyone on your e-mail list who has a Facebook account
and anybody they know or you know or you might know or someone thinks
you may want to know. Or someone decides they want to be your
friend. There's a delicate bit of etiquette in play here. You can't
just be someone's Facebook friend. You have to ask permission, and
you have to be accepted. Of course, the reverse is also true. You
get a little note: somebody wants to be your friend. What do you do?
It may be a long-lost friend from high school, and you're delighted
to be in touch. But what if it's a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend
and you have no idea who it is? Or even worse: you have a very good
idea who it is and you're not so sure you want them involved in your
daily affairs? Is it rude to say no thanks, have a good day? Or to
ignore the request? Would that be considered unmannerly? As they
say around the Volga: “Vat to doooo?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">At
this point in time, I have ninety-two Facebook friends, who can be
divided</span><span style="color: #343434;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
– unlike Gaul – in five unequal parts: the locals (friends and
acquaintances from Ma'ale Adumim), </span></span><span style="color: #343434;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Encore!
</i></span></span><span style="color: #343434;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">(people
who I've met doing through our shows), a few other people I know in
Israel, folks back home (from Passaic and Teaneck), and a miscellany
(a few friends from the old days and school mates). It did occur to
me one day: what do all these people have in common? The answer: not
a lot, except for having the dubious privilege of knowing me.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I
also began to wonder: I have (as I said) ninety-two Facebook friends.
But there are people who have more than 500. I get more stuff on my
home page than I can possibly handle, even if I wanted to make
Facebook my main preoccupation. How much stuff would you get if you
had 500 friends? I shudder to think.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #343434;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When
I refer to “stuff,” I'm alluding to the posts that people see fit
to send out to the multitudes: all kinds of information that my
Facebook friends seem to feel I need to know about. A lot of it is
about them and their families: photos, anecdotes of various kinds.
Some of it is well worth sharing, but some of it does not seem of
much consequence: how well a person did or did not sleep the previous
night, how much one is in need of a cup of coffee, a pet peeve that
only one's immediate neighbors might relate to – like a bus not
showing up on time, or some other frustration of a garden variety.
Then there's the political stuff: a lot of it regarding the current
occupant of the White House, by and from people who are even more
politically conservative than I am (How is that even possible?).
Throw in a collection of recipes and the usual potpourri of things
humorous and bizarre floating around the world wide web, and you get
an idea of what I'm bombarded with on a daily basis.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It's
not any particular post that bothers me. (That's not true: I have an
almost irresistible urge to impair the typing fingers of all those
who insists on informing me that they beat so-and-so in Candy Crush
or some other mind-numbing activity.) The problem, as I see it, is
what I affectionately refer to as the “road hogs.”</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #343434;">
</span><span style="color: #343434;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>One
of W.C. Fields' best remembered screen roles was in a 1932 film
entitled “If I Had a Million,” the premise of which is that, on
his death bed, a multi-millionaire directs his secretary to select
eight people at random from the telephone book and give them each one
million dollars. Hence, eight episodes, the relevant one being “Road
Hogs,” with W.C. and his partner, Alison Skipworth. The two of
them are set to take their new (vintage 1932) automobile out for a
spin. No sooner do they get out of their driveway, when their
vehicle is totaled by some fool who ran a stop sign (this being
before anybody ever though of car insurance). Shortly thereafter,
our couple is given a million smackaroos, and they buy another car
plus a fleet of old jalopies. They hire a crew of drivers and set
off down the road, looking for road hogs. Whenever they find someone
who is a menace on the road, W.C. cries out, as only he could,“road
hog,” the signal for his team of demolition experts to go to work.
You've seen videos of car crashes? This is way funnier. At the close
of the scene, their own car is again wrecked. Nonetheless, it has
been a “glorious day.”</i></span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #343434;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Look
at it this way. Let's say you have 100 Facebook friends. Some of
them you're hoping are still breathing because you never hear from
them. Some you hear from – if nothing more than to indicate a
“like” – once in a blue moon. Still others post once in a
while: once every few weeks. Some more frequently: every couple of
days. And so on. If you were so inclined, or had nothing else to do,
you might plot the frequency of other people's posts arriving on your
home page. What I suspect is that most of us would wind up with the
well-known bell-shaped curve, meaning most of your friends would be
somewhere comfortably in the middle, people who post with some
frequency but don't get carried away with what they're doing. But if
you have the Silent Sam's on one end of the chart, what about the
other side? That's where you find the compulsive posters, the ones
who overwhelm you with their own musings and whatever else they can
dig up to entertain and enlighten you.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #343434;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Now
I'm sure that everything that is posted is of interest to some of the
recipients. The question is, how many? Suppose you had the ability
to rate each post you get for interest to you – more than just
“like.” How about the one to ten scale, descending from “thanks
a million” to “why are you even thinking of wasting my time?”
Perhaps, in certain special circumstances one needs to be assertive
in protest against absolute irrelevancy– if not quite as aggressive
as W.C. Fields. When I was first writing this, I noticed something
on my home page, in which the poster wrote X that he was not going to
speak to her until she apologized (for what I don't know). To which
I responded, “</span></span><span style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">This
seems to be a private conversation that a lot of people don't need to
see.” Within one second of hitting the enter key, I got a “like”
from another friend of the friend.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But
in less provocative situations, how do you tell someone you know,
“The first two/three/four/five (political cartoons, recipes,
articles, pictures of your pet, cute things your child has said) were
fine, but don't you think you're overdoing it a little? I know you
don't mean to, but you're simply hogging the road, so I'm no longer
in control of my own home page.” And it's not just the original
post. Someone else decides he likes it and “shares” it, so you
may see it a second or third time. Then there's the post that gets
everyone's attention, prompting dozens of `'likes,” and on a good
or bad day, comments up the wazoo, both to the original post and the
comments on the comments – all taking up more room.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">So
now, I'm in the middle of the virtual highway, trying to catch up
with the one post that interests me – say, Mark Steyn's weekly
column that Ron punctiliously send out or Rachel Miskin's imaginative
“Cake of the Week,” describing her latest incredible creation.
Or posts from people on the special interest groups I belong to: “Hot
Jazz Records,” “Film Noir,” or “Pre-Code Hollywood.” Yet
when I find something intriguing, should I turn away for a moment,
that post is gone because ten other posts have arrived and have
crowded mine off the road. I don't want to start up with people I
know. Again, “Vat to dooooo?” Fortunately, for all concerned,
there are ways of protecting my lane that are less drastic that W.C.
Field's solution. I don't have to start smashing other people's
keyboards – even if I have the irresistible urge to do so. A
discrete, well placed click of the mouse will remove a lot of the
traffic on my Facebook highway, so I can “drive” safely and have
“</span></span><span style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>a
glorious day</i></span></span><span style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">.”
“Road hogs,” beware!</span></span></span></div>
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Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-56009977615015244072013-07-14T17:40:00.001+03:002013-07-14T17:40:30.670+03:00A Light We Ain't
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>A LIGHT
WE AIN'T</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'<span style="font-size: large;">ve decided to go on
strike. After all, everybody else here in The Land reserves that
right, port workers government functionaries, and the like. So why
not me? To be accurate about it, what I'm proposing is not really a
strike, more like a work slowdown – a work-strictly-by-the-rules
job action.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The “Nine Days” are
upon us, the days from the beginning of the Hebrew month of Av, up to
and including Tisha B'Av, the day we mourn the destruction of both
the first and second Temples as well as a whole series of other
calamities – like the expulsion from Spain and the start of W.W.I.
There are all kinds of stringencies that are in effect as to what you
do, wear, and eat, culminating on a Yom Kippur-type fast on Tisha
B'Av itself. I will do what I have to, no more, no less. I'm going
to explain what I'm not going to do, but first a little introduction.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Every year,
organizations here put out announcements that go something like this:</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Big Tisha
B'Av Bash</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Fun for
the whole family!</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Music and
Dancing!</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Refreshments</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And then
underneath it says something like: <u>in the event</u> Mashiach has
not arrived and Beit HaMikdash rebuilt by then, we will read <i>Eicha</i>
and recite <i>Kinot</i> the way we always do, as per the attached
schedule. (Can you imagine the following conversation: So and so is
calling Shloime Schwartz's Simcha Band. <i>“Hello, Shloime. I'm
calling from Congregation Shomrei Galus. We'd like to book your band
for erev Tisha B'Av. Just in case.......”</i>)</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Starting
from right after Tisha B'Av last year, I began paying attention to
various events in the Jewish world. What <i>gevaldig</i> things
would be happening this year to merit the miraculous events we have –
in theory – been waiting for since the second Temple was destroyed
almost two thousand years ago? Have we collectively upped the ante,
so to speak? Are we in any way, shape, or form, doing better in our
efforts to be a “Light Unto The Nations” than we were a year ago;
are we just plodding along without much to show for our efforts; or
are we in fact worse off than we were last year – our spiritual
flashlights getting dimmer and dimmer?</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">If we had
any reason to believe we really, truly, did merit seeing the
fulfillment of this dream that so many generations longed for, and
then it didn't happen..... that would be a reason for reflection,
introspection, and mourning. But for real? We may merit that we all
live wherever we are in relative safety, but that's as good as it
gets and not a drop more. A Light we ain't.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Let's calmly
consider what has been going on regarding the Children of Israel,
both here in The Land and by extension in the Exile. Most recently,
the Chief Ashkenazic Rabbi (not any old rabbi, but the one, for
better or worse, who is supposed to <u>represent</u> the entire
Ashkenazic community here) has been forced to suspend himself because
he and his staff are being accused of financial impropriety.
Granted, the police and the media here have a habit of accusing
people of things they are unable to prove in a court of law,
but...... It is well understood by those who study our texts that
our officials are supposed to be beyond reproach in any way, shape,
or form. We can all think of rabbis and other leaders who fill the
bill, whom no one would dare accuse of any wrong-doing – just not
the one who is in fact in charge.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Then we have
the former Sephardic Chief Rabbi, a man universally regarded for his
amazing erudition in matters of Torah …... and for his willingness
to utter the most derogatory words of rebuke about persons and
institutions he doesn't cotton to. At this point in time, when there
are supposed to be “elections” for the positions of Chief Rabbis,
both Ashkenazic and Sephardic, this F.S.C.R. (taking time out from
deciding which of his own two sons he should support for his former
position: the one who is under police investigation or the other one)
vilified an Ashkenazic rabbi, the candidate of choice of another
faction. Some of the F.S.C.R's mind-numbed followers then physically
attacked the second rabbi – in a shul on Shabbat. Nice. But, for
reasons I cannot fathom, shul on Shabbat seems to be an opportune
place for followers of certain rabbis to rough up other rabbis. It
does happen, even though it's not a regular occurrence.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The icing on
the cake, though, are the doings at the Kotel. Many years ago, a
small group of women began showing up there every Rosh Hodesh (the
first day of the Jewish month) raising their voices in prayer, some
of them wearing, for reasons I really and truly cannot quite fathom,
a tallit and, for a few, tefillin – paraphernalia usually
associated with the male of the species. Having as I do a relatively
high tolerance for eccentric behavior, I would have just ignored
them, let them do their thing, and go on their merry way. No big
whoop; the heavens would not have split; the world would not have
come to an end. Not so some of the “locals.” They thought the
best course of action was to yell at the women, spit at them, and
throw things in their direction. The police thought the best course
of action was to begin arresting them (the women not the “locals”).
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">At that
point, the issue stopped being one of what is appropriate conduct and
became an issue of “Civil Rights.” More and more members of the
distaff side began to join in. Women who under normal circumstances
would never have been caught dead at the Kotel started showing up to
support the Women of the Wall. The battle began to escalate. Local
rabbis encouraged and even brought in yeshivah bochers to oppose the
women. Some of these budding talmudic scholars began hurling
pre-used diapers at the women; after all the Kotel is a holy place
and we can't permit women desecrating it by singing out loud.
Finally, a judge decided that nothing WOW were doing warranted their
being arrested and tossed in jail, and that the police should
maintain order. As the sign in Musar Avicha says, “please put your
nappies in the can.”
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Not to be
outdone, the rabbis decided to bus in schoolgirls to prevent WOW from
getting into the women's section at the Kotel. Most recently, the
police did prevent WOW from entering because the crowd was so large,
wall to wall people. You might have thought that with all these folks
at the Kotel, the Mashiach had finally arrived, that there really
would be the world's biggest celebration on the 9<sup>th</sup> of Av
– but sorry, no, not this year. But look at the bright side: So
the Levites will not be singing in the Beit Hamikdash; at least WOW
won't be singing either.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Lest you
get the wrong impression, every year, every day, every minute, we
find here in The Land the most amazing acts of kindness, good deeds
by the bushel, Torah learning to beat the band, </i><i>all by the
finest people living anywhere on the planet</i><i>. Just the kind of
</i><i>activity</i><i> that you might hope and even expect would
bring the Redemption. But let's say you were going for a job
interview and you had on your best clothes. Just as you were about
to meet the boss, who would decide whether or not to hire you, you
realized you had egg salad on your tie (or a coffee stain in the
front of your blouse). It's not like having a hole in your sock that
nobody would notice! You might want to do something about how you
looked in front of your prospective employer. All the more so,
regarding near-rioting at the Kotel or rabbinic dust-ups on Shabbat:
these are not the kind of references we want on our resume to show
we're ready for the Final Redemption.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">For every
action, there is an equal and opposite reaction – that's basic
physics. It's also basic human nature. So what happens when the
“defenders of the wall” show up <i>en masse</i>, and the police
look the other way? Certain “supporters of WOW,” mostly liberal
American groups, the ones who usually just kibbitz from afar about
everything that we're doing wrong, are threatening retaliation, up to
and including a financial boycott. They're even talking about
airlifting in their own protesters, Jews coming to The Land just to
show up once a month at the Kotel. They are not planning to live
here or stay here; in fact they rarely get here – certainly not
when there is any real trouble and the tourist economy is in the
tank. So why are they considering coming now? Don't we have enough
rings in the circus at the Kotel as it is?</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But at least
these liberal groups don't go around this time of year kvetching
about <i>sinat chinam</i>. <i>Tikkun</i> <i>olam</i>, maybe, at
least in the way liberals see it, but the enmity between Kamsa and
Bar Kamsa as described in the Talmud is not standard fare in the
sermons in their temples or the talks at their J.C.C.'s – the way
it is in our shuls. <i>Sinat chinam</i>, unreasonable, “baseless”
hatred of one another: that's what we talk about. It's out there
somewhere, lurking in the text of most rabbi's pre-Tisha B'Av
sermons. It's in the air, like the dust in a <i>hamsin</i>. We know
it used to happen: we know when, where, and how. We know we're
supposed to avoid it like the plague. Then Tisha B'Av is over and
done with, and nothing has changed. Even during the “Nine Days,”
nothing seems to change. They're still fighting a turf battle over
the Kotel the same way as the Priests in Temple times fought to get
up the ramp so they could be the first to get inside to do whatever
they needed to. They still have their knives unsheathed over who
will be the Chief Rabbis – as if that position meant anything to
most Israelis. And there are only a precious few people of stature
willing to stand up and say <i>“Enough of this farce. What's the
point of all this palaver if we are ignoring </i><i>the mess that's</i><i>
staring us in the face – like the well-traveled
elephant-in-the-room?”</i></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">If anyone
was in shul recently and paid attention to the haftarah from the
beginning of Isaiah (I admit I wasn't one of those dedicated souls),
it does say something to the effect that G-d was somewhat
less-than-impressed with the sacrifices being brought to the Temple.
What I want you to do most of all, He says, is behave yourselves.
Don't pray to me if your hands are full of blood. (Or other waste
material?)</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Derech
eretz</i> (loosely translated as appropriate behavior) comes before
Torah learning. I'm going to take that to heart and follow that by
the book. If you can't behave civilly to other Jews (let's not even
consider <u>other</u>
people), then I don't care how good your daily Talmud shiur is or how
many books you have written on some exquisitely esoteric point of
Jewish law; as far as I'm concerned you can stuff it royally.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We need to
do one thing. Exactly one thing. Learn how to live together with all
our differences. We need to figure that out before the folks still
hiding in Shomrei Galus begin showing up <i>en masse</i> and are
horrified by what they see. That is one tough assignment. We'd
better be up to it.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">(“Shloime
Schwartz, it's me again from Shomrei Galus. I know I've called you
every year since 1986, but erev Tisha B'Av........ Just in case”?)</span></i></div>
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Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-51189640549135972202013-06-13T20:19:00.001+03:002013-06-13T20:19:39.809+03:00Not Eilat More To Say
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">NOT
EILAT MORE TO SAY</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>That
would be a perfect job for Natania</i>.
Sometimes, when couples have been married as long as Barbara and I
have, they, in effect, have the uncanny ability to read each other's
mind. It was Sunday morning, and Tina and David were on their way
back to Tel Aviv, to the humdrum world of commerce, leaving the two
of us on our own to wind up our min-vacation in Eilat.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We
started the morning by heading off to Dolphin Reef, a little bit of
Paradise on the outskirts of the town. This is not the kind of
commercial venture, the combination of zoo and circus that is so
popular in The States. At Dolphin Reef, nobody, human or aquatic
mammal, is there just to entertain you. Nobody does any tricks;
nobody jumps into the air in unison. There are no trainers or
trainees. It's just where eight or ten dolphins happen to live, and
a select number of human staff are there to interact with them and
give them part of their daily requirement of fish (the rest they have
to hunt for on their own). It's an interesting selection process: a
human candidate arrives and has to gain the good will of one or more
dolphins. If the dolphins approve, you get to stay; if not, you are
free to return to the humdrum world of commerce (or whatever else you
were up to before).</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We
arrived at a propitious time, when the humans go out to their
designated spots with buckets of fish, and the dolphins arrive to
rendezvous with them. As we watched the humans feed their aquatic
friends, all the while scratching the dolphins' heads and stroking
their dorsal fins, that's when Barbara and I articulated
our thought that this would be a perfect job for
Natania – although it would obviously involve a rather long daily
commute. Our daughter has been working part-time at the local vet's
office here in Ma'ale Adumim, and we are constantly being regaled
with tales of her interactions with various animal patients: dogs,
cats, ferrets, miscellaneous rodents, assorted birds, and even a
sheep that was brought in on a blanket. It's taking her (Natania, not
the sheep) a while to get through college, but when she's done, I
have no doubt she will find a way to make use of her training in
biology for something that will interest her the way communing with
dolphins would. (Speaking of whom, our daughter's latest posts can
be read at <span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://mylifeisacosmicjoke.blogspot.co.il/">http://mylifeisacosmicjoke.blogspot.co.il/</a></u></span></span>)</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">While
one part of my brain was mulling our daughter's possible future,
another part of me was in a different zone altogether. I was
rapidly moving around, photographing a happy couple, a young woman
kneeling next to her dolphin buddy, whose head and fins reached out
of the gulf water up to her. As they </span><span style="color: black;">changed
positions</span><span style="color: black;">, so did
I. But all the while, there was someone next to me – at least
in spirit – my </span><span style="color: black;">photography
</span><span style="color: black;">teacher, Lou
Bernstein. I had spent more hours than I can remember </span><span style="color: black;">out
</span><span style="color: black;">with him in
different places in NYC, one of them being the aquarium at Coney
Island, where he kept coming back on and off for over thirty years.
So taking pictures of dolphins was nothing new to me – even though
I was </span><span style="color: black;">several
decades and </span><span style="color: black;">thousands
of miles away from </span><span style="color: black;">when
and </span><span style="color: black;">where I had
learned my craft.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">But
there was something especially fortuitous about my being there at
this time. Through a series of events, which I don’t need to
go into here and now, I have been in touch with Lou’s son, Irwin,
who has taken on the responsibility of keeping his father’s legacy
alive – no small task in a world where everything is TODAY and
anything that vaguely hints at yesterday runs the </span><span style="color: black;">considerable
</span><span style="color: black;">risk of being
passé. I had already written an Appreciation that will shortly
(?) go on his website, </span><span style="color: #1f4bb8;"><u>www.loubernsteinlegacy.com</u></span><span style="color: black;">,
and had begun preparing a detailed biographical article to go into
Wikipedia. So for days on end, I </span><span style="color: black;">had
gone</span><span style="color: black;"> through a
loose-leaf binder (about four inches thick) with information about
Lou’s career that Irwin had sent me, together with “Reflections
on an Aquarium,” a book of Lou’s photographs put together in
conjunction with the Coney Island institution, which I had never seen
before. In addition, I was rummaging through my bookshelves and
boxes of prints to put together all the material by and about Lou
that I had saved over the years, going on-line to acquire several
books that seemed useful, and madly googling </span><span style="color: black;"><i>The
Photo League</i></span><span style="color: black;">
and </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Sid
Grossman</i></span><span style="color: black;">,
where and with whom my teacher studied for many years and whose
influence on him was critical. So, as I stood near the shore of
the sun-drenched Gulf of Eilat, part of me was </span><span style="color: black;">recycling
a life-time's worth of knowledge and memories </span><span style="color: black;">from</span><span style="color: black;">
a world of long ago </span><span style="color: black;">when
an older man took the trouble to teach</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">a
neophyte photographer all he knew about his craft.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Then,
just like that, it was time to go; the bus back to Jerusalem would
depart at 1PM with or without us. We had time to get a decent lunch
at the mall we had visited the night before, pick up our luggage at
the Astral Seaside, and get a cab back to the bus terminal. This
time, we would be going straight up route 90 with the Hills of Moab
and the Dead Sea on our right and the stark landscape of the Negev on
our left. A direct route with not much to see – unless you close
your eyes and imagine the Children of Israel crossing the River
Jordan somewhere along the way to capture The Land so many thousands
of years ago.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">Two
months later, completely out of the blue, we were given the
opportunity to travel to the opposite end of The Land (even though
it's not that big a distance). What happened is this: </span><span style="color: black;">We
got a call from our friends Ian and Thelma, </span><span style="color: black;">inviting
us to join a group of families spending a Shabbat at the Youth Hostel
and Guest House at Shlomi, a town of about 6,00 souls, smack dab next
to the Lebanon border in the Upper West Galilee</span><span style="color: black;">.
It seems that </span><span style="color: black;">Avi
needed </span><span style="color: black;">at
least one more couple </span><span style="color: black;">to
make this venture a go. </span>
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">We
would, of course, get to meet </span><span style="color: black;">Avi,
</span><span style="color: black;">who</span><span style="color: black;">
</span><span style="color: black;">take</span><span style="color: black;">s</span><span style="color: black;">
it upon himself about twice a year to</span><span style="color: black;">
organize a group of people to go someplace for a Shabbat. He takes
care of all the arrangements, and all you have to do is send him the
required amount and show up. There has to be at least a certain
number of couples or families to make the trip economically feasible
</span><span style="color: black;">for
the place the group is staying in </span><span style="color: black;">and
to ensure that there will be a minyan for davening. When our friends
called Barbara, Avi was short one or two families, and the ones who
had agreed to go were asked to canvass their friends to find some
additional recruits. That's how we wound up </span><span style="color: black;">in</span><span style="color: black;">
Ian and Thelma</span><span style="color: black;">'s
car going</span><span style="color: black;">
to meet the others </span><span style="color: black;">first
</span><span style="color: black;">for
a </span><span style="color: black;">two
hour hike through Admit, a park area literally on the border with
Lebanon (the arbitrary line on a map agreed to by two diplomats,
Sykes and Picot, as W.W. I was coming to an end and the Ottoman
Empire was being carved up). Later in the afternoon, we would head
down to the Guest House, where we would all spend Shabbat.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">It
wasn't just that we were up in the top of the Galil, looking at the
Mediterranean instead of the Gulf of Eilat, surrounded by green hills
instead of the sands of the Negev. Or that we were looking into
Lebanon, not Jordan, Saudia Arabia, and Egypt, all across the </span><span style="color: black;">G</span><span style="color: black;">ulf
</span><span style="color: black;">of
Eilat</span><span style="color: black;">.
Everything about this trip seemed different. There was something
comforting about having everything planned for us, having our meals
waiting for us whenever the minyan finished davening – instead of
worrying that there wouldn't be anything left when we got to the
dining room. </span><span style="color: black;">Plus
we would get some decent wine to drink, courtesy of some of our
trip-mates. </span><span style="color: black;">Instead
of relaxing by the pool or strolling leisurely on the promenade, we
would be going on some reasonably serious rambles </span><span style="color: black;">huffing
and puffing </span><span style="color: black;">through
the woods and up and </span><span style="color: black;">down
</span><span style="color: black;">some
some formidable rock </span><span style="color: black;">formations</span><span style="color: black;">.
</span><span style="color: black;">One
good thing, we didn't have to worry about reservations on a bus; we
were getting two guaranteed places in the back seat of Ian's car! So
it was a very different kind of vacation </span><span style="color: black;">–
not better, but different</span><span style="color: black;">.
I only wish we could have gone nearby to Metula – so I could say
that we got to both of Israel's ice skating rinks within </span><span style="color: black;">so
short a</span><span style="color: black;">
span of </span><span style="color: black;">time</span><span style="color: black;">.</span></span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;"> </span>
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In
a better world than this one, while we were gallivanting the length
and breadth of The Land, the hole in our bedroom wall and the trench
in front of our bathroom would have disappeared. In this world
where the sun rises and sets on all of us, both the hole and the
trench stubbornly remained where they were. It would take more
phone calls to get Alon-with-a-smile-and-a-song and his side-kick,
Osama, back to repair the small dripping pipe and tile the bathroom
wall and the floor. We could still use the services of a
competent painter, but I can live with the water stains and the newly
plastered area behind the door in our bedroom.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">While
we’re discussing home repairs, our man Dan, along with his son
Ariel and his Arab worker, Isa, arrived at 7AM on a recent Wednesday
morning to redo our </span><span style="color: black;"><i>merpesot</i></span><span style="color: black;">
(remember the porches we discussed several articles ago, the ones
that were leaking, the ones Barbara was telling our friend Varda that
it would cost us big bucks to fix, so we wouldn’t have the money to
deal with our bathrooms until they sprung a leak – which then
happened, as if on cue?). </span><span style="color: black;">Within
a</span><span style="color: black;">
week or so, this crew (to be brutally honest, Isa did 90% of the
work; Ariel helped shlepp the heavy stuff, and Dan, who had just
undergone surgery on his knee, sat and supervised) had ripped up the
tiles, removed the sand underneath – which was still wet even
though there had not been any rain for a month </span><span style="color: black;">–
</span><span style="color: black;">primed
the foundation, placed a layer of tar over that, added double the
amount of new sand and then another layer of something before laying
and grouting the tiles we had just bought. There’s no way the
slightest trickle of water would even </span><span style="color: black;"><u>think</u></span><span style="color: black;">
of penetrating that barrier. What worries me is the thought that, now
that it’s over and done with, we’re sure to have a drought in
Ma’ale Adumim, so we’ll never know </span><span style="color: black;">for
sure</span><span style="color: black;">……..</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-12887212439037467612013-05-23T13:23:00.000+03:002013-05-23T13:23:04.755+03:00Eilat To Do
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>EILAT
TO DO</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So much to do; so
little time. Truth to tell, there wasn't <u>that</u> much to do the
Fri. afternoon we were in Eilat. But the “little time?” We all
know that, no matter how late Shabbat kicks in, it seems as if
there's precious little time left. Of course, if you're at a hotel,
and you're not doing the cooking, it doesn't seem quite as frenzied.
Once we stocked up on sushi at the Ice Mall for our Shabbat lunch, we
headed back “home” to the Astral Seaside. Tina and David got
ready for some serious pool lounging. (I should correct an earlier
impression that only David was willing to use the pool; Tina did
also.) I, however, had another item on my agenda.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For reasons that I
don't pretend to understand, the Israeli government does not impose
the V.A.T., now at an almost confiscatory 17%, on anything you buy in
Eilat. (Sort of like the 3% sales tax zone in NJ.) Needless to say,
lots of folks come to this little seashore town waving their credit
cards, with high hopes of saving money while they are spending it.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There were a few
computer related items I needed, and, wouldn't you know it, there
were two (not one, but two) KSP stores in Eilat. Long-suffering
readers may remember my thoughts about KSP. They are the folks who
import a lot of computer stuff into The Land, so they can charge less
than the competition. Just don't buy anything from them that they
would have to service if it stopped working (at which point, their
command of the English language also stops working).
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When we arrived at our
hotel the day before, Barbara and I were standing on our little
<i>merpeset, </i>admiring the scenic
view of the hotel parking lot, when I suddenly realized
something. On the gleaming white facade of the big hotel nearest to
us was inscribed in two languages the legend, The Rimonim.
<i>Isn't that where the KSP store is?</i> Sure enough, the store I
needed was around the corner from the hotel about fifty yards from
where we were staying. Good to know, in more ways than one – as
you will soon see.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Needless to say, Friday
afternoon found me heading over there as fast as my rapidly aging
legs would carry me. I've been to the two Jerusalem locations
numerous times, and there are usually two or three customers ahead of
me in the store. So I was not prepared for the pre-Shabbat mob scene
in Eilat. As I said, lots of people waving their credit cards,
essentially overwhelming the sales staff. When it finally was my
turn, I pointed to what I needed (if anybody cares, it was a 2TB WD
external hard drive to use as a backup for BigMac – my 27” iMac,
purchased second hand). <i>Ze hu</i>! That's all; take my credit card
and I'm outa here, saving about 80 shekels on the deal. Plenty of
time left in the afternoon to dip my timid body in the unheated hotel
pool.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Earlier in the morning,
Barbara, my ever-attentive wife, had gone down to the hotel lobby and
picked us up a Shabbat key – an old-fashioned room key to use on
Shabbat instead of the electronic device ordinarily used – and a
sheet of paper announcing the times of services for Shabbat at the
Astral Seaside. OK; let's see what happens. Somewhat skeptical, I
headed down to where the “beit knesset” was on the lower level,
timing my arrival at exactly one minute before the evening davening
was supposed to start. <i>Hmm. Nobody here. Let's wait and see. </i>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The room certainly had
all the accoutrements of a shul: an ark, presumably holding a torah
scroll, a <i>bima</i> on which to place the torah scroll – assuming
it ever emerged from the dark recesses of the <i>aron kodesh</i>,
shelves of prayer books, rows of chairs for the people who weren't
there, even a container for tzedekah, which I noted had one half
shekel coin inside. There was also a musty smell. I had plenty of
time to locate the source of the problem, a slight drip from a water
pipe in front of the room. How long had this minute amount of water
been plopping onto the rug, I would not want to speculate. Possibly
quite a while, given the amount of foot traffic in and out of the
<i>beit knesset</i>. Where was Alon-with-a-smile-and-a-song when we
needed him? Probably back in Ma'ale Adumim, turning people's water
valves on and off.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After about ten minutes
of enforced solitude, my reveries were interrupted by the arrival of
an Israeli woman, dressed for Shabbat. <i>Was there an ezrat nashim,
a women's section?</i> she inquired. <i>A women's section? There's
not even a men's section; there's nobody here. Sit wherever you like;
it's fine by me</i>. I continued perusing my siddur; she did whatever
she was going to do. This went on for a few minutes until a second
guy showed up. As the <i>de facto</i> usher and gabbai, I indicated
that he had his choice of about thirty seats, not counting the
section in which our Israeli woman was sitting – in case he was
fastidious about such matters. Finally, another Anglo arrived with
glad tidings. There is a minyan at – you guessed it – The
Rimonim. Clutching my handy-dandy Koren siddur, I accompanied the
two guys across the parking lot to the bigger hotel. The doorman
told us where to go, and we went down a long corridor, past the
exercise room, down a flight of stairs to a beit knesset. You could
hear the sounds of <i>Mizrachi</i> davening from a distance. Yes!
There were about thirty or forty Sephardim (I'm guessing they came to
Eilat with their families as part of a group). That's more like it.
The little hotel shul was even more crowded than the KSP store! They
had just gotten started; still we were done just in time to get back
to our hotel for dinner.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There would, of course,
be a minyan in The Rimonim the following morning. I was also given
to understand that I could even find an Ashkenazic minyan at another
hotel a little farther away – exact location and commencement time
uncertain. But even if I figured out the details, would there be
enough time – at either minyan – to finish and get back in time
for breakfast? Yes, breakfast on Shabbat does end later than the rest
of the week, but when the food is gone, it's gone. Maybe I should
just daven by myself in our room. It's crazy to have to adjust your
davening time around the hotel meal schedule instead of the other way
around; but we were by ourselves, so there was nothing much we could
do – except not eat.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Shabbat was relaxing,
although hardly newsworthy. There wasn't much to do besides eat,
rest, do the requisite amount of praying, sit by the pool, and take
several walks up and down the promenade, trying to vary our itinerary
slightly each time. One thing I did notice: how many of the shops
were closed over Shabbat. Unless you're serving food, you're not
going to need or get a certificate of kashrut from the rabbinate that
you're <i>shomer Shabbat</i>. There's no economic benefit to doing
so in an area chocked full of tourists to whom Saturday is shopping
day. If your store is closed on Shabbat, it's because it's important
to you. <i>Ze hu</i>.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Shabbat was over, and
now it was our last chance for a family shopping spree. But first,
dinner. The dining room was closed at the Seaside, so the nice folks
at Astral gave us a voucher for a cab to one of their sister hotels,
which we could have walked to. We were quick to notice that this
Astral was a tad classier than the one we were staying in. The food
was about the same.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then it was off in the
opposite direction to another mall, our last opportunity to save 17%
on all the money we could spend. Natania had not been able to come,
so she sent her shopping list along instead. Sometimes you get
lucky. The Gap store in the Mamilla mall in Jerusalem often has
stuff on sale, but only in anorexic sizes. In Eilat, they actually
had jeans for normal shaped people....on sale! So Barbara got a few
pair for our daughter, while we all wandered around the store.
There were lots more places to inspect, but it was a foregone
conclusion that David and I would spend some quality time together at
the iDigital store. That's where Apple products are sold in The
Land. I was able to show him an exact replica of BigMac, ask a few
questions of the store personnel, and pick up something I needed –
saving the 17%. Looking at the prices here and elsewhere, it occurred
to me that if you were planning to drop a bundle on a big ticket item
or a lot of small ticket ones, you would actually save money by
spending the day traveling back and forth to this resort town. I
wonder how many Israelis actually do this?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There was one thing
more we simply had to do. It would have been impolite, even
downright rude, to leave Eilat without having a night out on the
town. David went back to the hotel, and Barbara, Tina, and I headed
off to The Three Monkeys, one of establishments along the promenade
in which you can order a drink or two, enjoy the balmy breezes coming
from the Gulf of Eilat, people-watch to your heart's content, and
feel appropriately decadent. The next morning, the two “youngsters”
would catch an early flight back to Tel Aviv and head back to the
hum-drum world of business. Barbara and I would spend the morning
examining another facet of the aquatic world that makes this little
corner of the gulf so special.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
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</div>
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</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-58238363032217452432013-05-08T11:46:00.004+03:002013-05-08T11:46:58.148+03:00Thanks, Eilat
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>THANKS,
EILAT</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I've always wondered
what it would be like to stay at a “classy” hotel, which I define
as a place where someone takes your luggage when you get there and
brings it up to your room for you, and the accommodations are so
tasteful that you never want to leave. To be fair, you have to be
willing to dip into your cash reserve to afford such luxury. If
you're not (and I'm not called Frugal Fred for nothing), you have to
lower your standards a teensy-weensy bit. One thing about Eilat,
they have a full range of hotels from one-step-up-from-Motel-6 to
some p-r-e-t-t-y extravagant establishments.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Astral Seaside is
“my kind of place,” not the lap of luxury we could easily become
accustomed to, but what we can reasonably expect on our budget. Our
room was large enough to move around in, plus a little balcony –
overlooking the parking lot. By walking to the end of the corridor
from our room, you’d get to the swimming pool, which, it being
off-season, was open until about 4PM. with a life-guard on duty. Not
a stressful job this time of the year. The pool was not heated, and
the next afternoon when we went to use it, only David was tough
enough (or crazy enough) to go for a swim. Having brought my bathing
suit, I was determined at least to get wet, and I achieved my goal –
to wade from one end of the pool to the ladder on the other end,
hastily emerging into the warm, mid-day sun.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But first things first.
Didn't I say it was just about time for dinner when we arrived?
Let's get cracking! If you had any question at all, this is not the
kind of establishment in which you need to “dress” for the
evening meal. Just show up at the dining room in anything more
formal than a bathing suit, and you're in. And so we showed up,
along with everybody else who was staying at the hotel. I guess
everybody got the same deal, half-board, meaning you get breakfast
and dinner included in the tab. So everybody picked out a table and
then sort of weaved his way through the several food tables, creating
an individual, eclectic mix of dishes, hot and cold. It wasn't the
insane over-abundance we experienced a year and a half before on our
cruise to Greece and the chef probably will not be lured away to join
the staff of the David Citadel in Jerusalem, but, all-in-all, the
food was OK. No complaints.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I had wondered: who
hangs out at a hotel like this, as opposed to some of the fancier
places? Tourists? Locals? The kitchen is, of course, kosher. Would
they be getting a religious crowd? So I made it a point to eyeball
the crowd as they came and went and listen to the languages that were
being spoken. Not much English. No Russian, no French. Lots of
<i>Ivrit</i>. Looking around, I had the sense that I was looking at
what has been called “Middle Israel,” the people who don't live
in either Tel Aviv or Jerusalem, who are not really religious but
would not consider themselves <i>hilloni</i> (secular) either; who
are neither part of the Tel Aviv left nor the Gush Etzion right. In
America they might be described as “the silent majority,” but I
have rarely met an Israeli whom I would consider quiet, let alone
“silent.” I was also curious how many of these guys might show up
for a minyan Fri. evening, but that I would find out the next
evening.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Tina and David had
already taken a walk in the afternoon and were more than content to
hang out in their room after dinner. So Barbara and I ventured forth
to take an evening stroll along the promenade, along with a sizable
crowd of like-minded people. There's something about being in a place
where essentially everyone is on vacation. There is, of course,
another Eilat, the place where the “locals” live and work, but
the area by the beach is definitely for the folks in the hotels. At
some point along the way, my “I'm on vacation, might as well start
enjoying myself,” mode must have kicked in. Maybe it's a
subliminal feeling that becomes contagious in a large crowd. We
walked along the promenade with the gulf on one side and a mix of
shops, restaurants, and hotels that, once you cross the overpass over
the lagoon, become increasingly “tony.” One of the restaurants
had a solo saxophone player sitting on an outdoor podium, playing
surprisingly good jazz, the sound of which contributed to a feeling
of total and absolute relaxation. It was a pleasant evening after a
warm day. No stress, no worries – except for the off chance that we
might oversleep and miss breakfast the next morning.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In case you had the
slightest doubt, none of us did that. The four of us had, in essence,
one day to spend sightseeing – or whatever you want to call it –
together, and we were going to make the most of it. By unanimous
vote, we agreed to head off to the Coral World Underwater Observatory
and Aquarium, a ten minute cab ride from our hotel. The main
attraction there is the observatory, about three hundred feet
off-shore, which gives you a wonderful panoramic view of what's
swimming fifteen feet down in the Gulf of Eilat. It's kind of like
being inside an aquarium looking out, except that the fish and
whatever else hangs out down there are not looking in. They're just
doing their thing, swimming back and forth in the little area they've
staked out for themselves. If you've ever spent considerable time in
front of someone's tropical fish tank, just watching some guppies go
from one end of the tank to the other over and over again, you know
the hypnotic effect it can have on you. We must have spent an hour
down there, and by the time we finished looking at the other
exhibits, shark feeding and the like, the morning was over, and it
was on to our next scheduled stop.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If you have been
playing close attention and thinking ahead, you might have
anticipated our dilemma. I mentioned that we had half board at the
hotel, breakfast and dinner included. So what about lunch? Not a
problem on Friday; plenty of places to go and get a bite. But what
about lunch on Shabbat? (Yeah, what about lunch on Shabbat???) Like
most hotels in the area, The Astral Seaside has a solution. They
provide for those who are interested an elaborate Shabbat meal – at
200 shekels per. That seemed a bit steep. The lady from Zion Tours,
sizing up our level of frugality, had a more economical solution. Do
what any self-respecting Israeli would do. Bring a bag with you to
breakfast Shabbat morning and haul away enough vittles for a decent
lunch. (There is a sign saying something to the effect that guests
may may not remove food from the dining area; but of course that only
applies to the <i>other</i> guests....) There were lots of reasons
why that scheme wasn't going to work, not least of which was that the
idea of having rolls and hard-boiled eggs for my Shabbat lunch seemed
excessively Spartan. Vat to doooooo?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You know already that I
would come up with an idea, dazzling in its simplicity and
practicality, to save the day. If one is standing in the middle of
an ocean-full of finny denizens, what's the obvious thing to think
of? That's right: SUSHI!!!!!!!!!! There are several establishments
in Eilat that prepare kosher sushi. Why don't we splurge and spend a
hundred or a hundred and fifty shekels in total and get enough for a
decent lunch for the four of us? We have a refrigerator in each room,
so there'd be no problem in storing it overnight; we can get some
drinks; I brought some grape juice from home; OK, we'll “borrow”
a few rolls from the hotel, and we'll be set. Great idea! So off we
went to Sushi Mushi (or was it Mushi Sushi?), a cab ride away in the
opposite direction.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We were correct in our
assumption that any self-respecting cabbie in town would be able to
get us to any place in the tourist area. <i>Atta machir et haMushi
Sushi</i> (or Sushi Mushi)? Of course he knew where it was. And so
we were off without knowing it to that wonder-of-wonders, Eilat's own
Ice Mall.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Israel has achieved a
sufficient level of affluence that it can start creating things that
are completely zany. For quite a while, there has been an ice skating
rink in Metula, all the way up north. Now all the way down south in
Eilat there is a large rink smack dab in the middle of a mall –
with the stores on several oval shaped levels around it.
(Admittedly, it's not as way out as, say, the Museum of Clean in
Pocatello, Idaho; still, it's high up on my personal outr<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">é</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
scale.)</span> Midday Friday, there were a few people strutting their
stuff on the ice when we came in. Shortly thereafter, the music
started and the folks were treated to a skating exhibition. Most
everybody stopped to watch. I, on the other hand, had my priorities
straight. Sushi! And while our order was being constructed, off to
one of the several other eateries for a bite of lunch. Why watch,
when you can eat!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Shabbat was still hours
and hours away, but I could relax and take a deep breath. If nothing
else, we would have what to eat. Now about that minyan Friday
night........</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-54123232026613874572013-05-02T11:06:00.000+03:002013-05-02T11:06:13.170+03:00On The Road To Eilat
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
ON THE
ROAD TO EILAT</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(<i>Before I forget,
I've been asked to announce that the long-awaited episodes of
Natania's tales of humor and woe can be found at</i>
<span style="color: blue;">http://mylifeisacosmicjoke.blogspot.co.il/</span>.)</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At the end of the last
episode, we had averted a domestic catastrophe. Our apartment here
in Ma'ale Adumim would not be turned into a swimming pool, a car
wash, a mikvah, or a lake. The outfit that our insurance company
engaged to deal with our broken water pipe was set to come back to
replace the floor and wall tiles they had destroyed and fix the
gaping hole in the wall they had dug through. On a good day, they
might even do some painting.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To give them credit,
they were all set to do the fixing they had promised. Except for one
except. Barbara, in putting up a plastic sheet in the bathtub so we
could use the shower, noticed that there was a small drip coming
right before the bathtub faucets. Nothing to be alarmed about; but
there was no point to re-tiling the wall and sealing in this dripping
pipe. Let Alon-with-a-smile-and-a-song take a few minutes (that's
all it would take) to fix the problem first and then get on with it.
Our difficulty was explaining this to the contractor. They kept
calling us up to make an appointment to fix the tiles. And Barbara
kept telling them, <i>No you have to fix the leak first</i>. This
went on for several days, all the while we walked over the trench in
the floor on the way to the bathroom. I looked at it this way: if
we were on an archaeological dig or a safari, we would have been more
than content with our lodgings. At least we didn't have to go out in
the hall or to a neighbor's to go to the loo. And.......Barbara and
I would be going to Eilat in a few days.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The jaunt down to Eilat
was Tina's idea. <i>Why don't we all do something together as a
family? </i>The original idea was
for the five of us, me, Barbara, Tina, David, and Natania, to take a
few days and head off to Eilat. Because Tina and David are working
(someone has to!), they opted for a long weekend, from Thursday to
Sunday morning. OK, but what about Natania? The weekend we decided
on was supposed to coincide with a break in her classes. Sad to say,
she mis-read her schedule and then one of her teachers rescheduled a
final exam; so in the end, she wound up staying home, along with
Cookie and Moby, our two Tonkinese cats.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
only real obstacle to this plan was me. There is often someone in a
family who has to be overly concerned with the family's finances. My
self-assigned task is to assume that any planned trip or excursion is
too expensive and that we can't afford it; or that we should spend
the money on something more mundane, like a coffee table. It is
Barbara's responsibility to convince me otherwise. She is well
schooled in the art of persuasion. Her gambit this time was to
consider this vacation a combination Chanukah, wedding anniversary,
her birthday, and my birthday present. Well, if you put it that
way......</div>
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<br />
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Who
would have known that this would be a perfect time to get away and
leave our worries – our broken wall and torn up floor – behind?
The plan was as follows: Tina and David would take an El Al flight
from the old terminal one at Ben Gurion Airport, arriving in Eilat in
the early afternoon. (Travel time about one hour.) Barbara and I
would take the 10 o'clock bus from the Central Bus Station in
Jerusalem, which would get down there around 3PM.</div>
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<br />
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There
is some information that many people know, but no one thinks to share
with you. For example: we got to the bus station about half an hour
early. Normally for an inter-city Egged bus, you can buy your
tickets when you get on. But we figured <i>we have plenty of
time, we might as well go to the ticket booths and buy them in
advance.</i> So we waited our turn,
and Barbara asked the clerk for two tickets to Eilat on the 10AM bus.
“<i>Ein makom</i>,” was
his reply. No more room on the bus. When, pray tell, would there be
<i>makom</i>? The 5PM bus.
Being the helpful sort, he suggested we travel first to another city,
say Tel Aviv or Beersheba, where there would be <i>makom</i>
on a bus to Eilat. To give you a sense of what was happening, you
need to understand that at this time of the morning there was only
one ticket booth open. You can probably figure out on your own that
there was a long and growing line behind us. And you can assume, if
you know anything about the temperament of the average Israeli, that
some or most of them were quite impatient. Someone – that's us –
was holding up the works. We probably would have been better off
going down to Beersheba, which is on the way. But the helpful clerk
reserved us two seats on a bus leaving Tel Aviv at about 1PM. He
also took the trouble to book us two seats going back to Jerusalem
from Eilat on Sunday in the early afternoon. We had made no friends
by taking so long, but we did have our seats. We scampered off the
line, heading for the bus to Tel Aviv. The thing is that when we
related this incident later on, a number of people seemed to know
that you have to reserve your seats in advance if you're going to
Eilat. Well, next time we'll know too.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now
it could have been a lot worse. We could have wound up getting to
Eilat the next day, Friday – just in time for Shabbat – in which
case there wouldn't have been much point in going. We could have
wound up not getting there at all. As it turned out, we would arrive
Thursday in time for dinner. It just meant a long day traveling for
us and, horror of horrors, having to spend an hour and a half in the
“new” bus station in Tel Aviv – the one we never, ever want go
to, if we have a choice.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Natania
read somewhere recently that the “architect” (I use the term
loosely) who designed this nightmare, this stain on the city's
reputation, had just died, and there's this thing about not speaking
badly about the deceased. I just hope for his sake that his coffin
is more accommodating than the bus station he designed for the rest
of us. At least it must be harder to get lost in. We were able to
find some kosher food there (in the depot, not the coffin), and we
whiled away the hour and a half until departure time. We did find
out when we finally boarded the bus that the seats actually are
reserved, as they are on an airplane. A nice young <i>chayelet</i>
told us we were sitting in hers; ours, we discovered, were farther
back. Everyone scrambled on board, and finally we were off to Eilat.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If
you're going to go by bus, even though it's longer, the route from
Tel Aviv is a lot more scenic. The bus heads south and then zig-zags
its way through the hills down to Beersheba before the road merges
with route 90, the coastal road which goes from Mount Hermon down to
Eilat. (It's sort of like The Garden State Parkway, which goes from
the New York border all the way down to Cape May.) Because of all
the late rain, the ground was a sea of green even south of Beersheba,
the traditional entrance into the Negev, where grass is traditionally
scarcer than a viable peace plan. The other thing I noticed was how
much of this turf the Bedouins were squatting on. Let's just say
that right now that this land-grab is a small elephant in a room.
But the elephant is getting bigger and bigger, and, goodness knows,
the room isn't.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Many
hours, a few stops along the way to pick up more passengers, and one
pit stop later, our bus pulled into the small, unprepossessing depot
in the downtown center of Eilat. I had never been down to this port,
which Ben Gurion had the good sense to capture prior to the ceasefire
in 1948. Barbara had been there with her mother in the early 1970's,
when nothing much was happening there. Things were a lot different
last year when she stayed overnight with a tour group going to Petra
(Jordan is one of the many countries that I don't “do.”) Tina
gets to do a lot of traveling for her job, all over Europe and such,
but there are no medical conferences schedules for Eilat (only auto
races and chamber music festivals), so neither she nor David had been
there either. When they got off their plane, they simply walked to
our hotel, about five or ten minutes away. The bus depot is a little
bit farther away, so we needed a taxi (and there are lots of them in
Eilat!) to get us there.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Why
did we stay at the Astral Seaside, one of a small chain of hotels in
Eilat (they didn't build them; they took over a number of hotels from
different chains, so each one was different). Barbara had stayed at
another Astral on the way to Petra and was duly impressed with the
food. So she was amenable to the suggestion by someone at Zion Tours
(a highly recommended outfit, by the way) that the Seaside would be a
good option, not too pricey and, as its name suggests, right by the
beach. Like most or all of the hotels down in this resort town, the
kitchen was suitably kosher. Tina and David, as I said, had arrived
hours before and were just “chilling,” having taking a stroll
along the beachfront. We, to our great relief, were just in time for
dinner. Our vacation had officially begun, and none too soon.</div>
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Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-9038762229283571862013-04-23T20:05:00.002+03:002013-04-23T20:05:38.838+03:00Raindrops Were Falling on Our Heads
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<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">RAINDROPS
WERE FALLING ON OUR HEADS</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Everyone is familiar
with adages that seem old but are of recent vintage – like “If it
ain't broke, don't fix it.” Another one is “Be careful what you
wish for............” The thing about these truisms is that
sometimes they are all-too-true. Here's a case in point.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Our friend Varda was
spending a Shabbat with us. It wasn't just any old Shabbat; it was
the day before Purim most everywhere (two days before Shushan Purim
in Jerusalem, just down the road). It was midway in the morning. I
had come home from shul and was sitting in our living room with my
buddy Michael, making kiddush with some Jack Daniels, herring, and a
cup of instant coffee – which we do most every Shabbat (and why
not?). Barbara and Varda were upstairs, as was Natania. And Barbara
was regaling Varda with our travails as apartment owners. More
specifically, she was describing the on-going saga of our <i>merpeset</i>.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A <i>merpeset</i>,
which can either be a porch or a balcony, is a standard feature of
many Israel apartments. We in fact have several, but the one under
discussion is the large one off our dining room, the one with the
view you could die for of the hills leading to Jerusalem. This
<i>merpeset</i> is right above a bedroom, not as you would expect,
from the apartment below us, but part of an apartment in the adjacent
building.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The thing is, that
every time we have a decent rainfall here in Ma'ale Adumim, water
from our <i>merpeset</i> leaks into this bedroom. Now that we've
been here awhile, we've learned that this particular problem is quite
common in our building block. We're also convinced that the previous
owners of our apartment knew about it and chose not to fix it. The
first winter we were here, we got an angry phone call from Carmi, the
lady who owns the adjacent apartment and rents it out to a tenant.
<i>When were we going to fix the leak?</i> No doubt, she had heard
that “rich” Americans (in The Land, it is assumed that all
Americans are wealthy) had moved in, and she figured that if she
called us and screamed, she would get further than she had with the
previous guy. Maybe we aren't rich, but we are reasonably
responsible, so when the rainy season was over, we called up our
local handyman and had him come over and do some major re-grouting.
We even had him go down to the apartment in question and patch up the
paint where the water had seeped in.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then we waited and
waited. We wouldn't know until the next rainy season whether what we
had done was going to work. Well, the rains did come the following
winter and not a peep from either the tenant or Carmi.
Yesssssssssss!!!!!! No more worries! So we thought. Months later,
Carmi called and started screaming again. <i>When were we going to
fix the leak?</i> There was one thing we hadn't counted on. Carmi's
tenant couldn't stand her, wouldn't talk to her, or let her in the
apartment. This may sound crazy, but the tenant would rather have
rain drops falling on her head than complain to her about the
problem.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We upped the ante and
called in a roofer who had experience dealing with leaks. He did a
better job of sealing the places where water might seep in. He
changed the drain. Same thing all over again. <i>It's still
leaking. I'm taking you to court. </i>A
few months ago,<i> </i>we got
the name of a guy who specializes in leaks. He came and ran around
with an infra-red camera, taking pictures. Even before he prepared a
written report, he was ready to start ripping up our porch and
re-doing it. Fine, except he wanted an amount that was more than we
bring in each month. There seems to be a special rate for rich
Americans. It's called an arm
and a leg.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Finally,
we got one more recommendation, an American named Dan. He came over
and sized up the situation. He looked at the other guy's report and
said it was spot-on – except for what he was going to charge us.
So Dan was hired and will
be coming in about a month. He will rip up the tile floor and deal
with the problem, laying new
tiles (which we will buying) and
replacing the entire drainage system. He'll also do the same for the
small <i>merpeset</i> off our
bedroom. It won't be cheap, but it won't be highway robbery either.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In
a nutshell, that's what my wife was explaining to Varda. She
lamented that we'd much rather use that money to replace the bathroom
(off our bedroom), the one the geniuses who had the apartment ahead
of us removed (rather than deal with the leaky pipes there), and
maybe redo the main bathroom. But that, she said, would have to wait
– <i>until we had a leak</i>.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
End of conversation.
Then Varda decided to take a quick shower before lunch. You may
remember that Michael and I were relaxing in the living room,
nibbling our herring and sipping our Jack Daniels. So we had
ringside seats to what happened next. We watched in awe and then in
horror as water started coming down through the big fluorescent
fixture in our kitchen, which fortunately was not on over Shabbat. I
don't mean a trickle or a sprinkle. We're talking here about carwash
strength, enough to take a shower and shampoo your hair; in fact, a
flood. Boy, did we have Barbara's leak big-time! We figured out
pretty quickly that a pipe upstairs had burst.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We have three water
valves in a little box of their own in our kitchen. We weren't sure
which one went to where, but we turned them all off. Eventually the
water subsided on its own. Mercifully, we did not need a raven, a
dove, or a rowboat. Just a few buckets to collect as much water as
we could.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fortunately for us, we
were invited out to Ron and Esther's for lunch. They offered us some
great advise. <i>Before you do anything else, call up your insurance
company; let them handle it.</i>
There wasn't much we were going to do over Shabbat as far as calling
anybody. The one thing we were able to do was play with the valves
for the water. We figured out by
trial and error that if we
kept one of them on, we did have water on our lower floor. We
weren't about to mess with anything on the top floor; let
leaky pipes alone. Shabbat would soon
be over; time for the
Megillah reading and frantic calls to our insurance company. Let's
see if their emergency number would
be of any use!</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Did
I mention that on Sunday, Purim day, we were set to host our usual
Purim meal? Well, we were.
Every year, we have the same
crew over: Ron and Esther (and Sara), Michael and Tehilla (and
Yisrael), and another couple (with or without their son and his
girlfriend). We make most of
the meal and our friends provide the rest. As long as we had some
running water in the kitchen, I figured we would be OK. So I called
everyone and said we were on (by this time, apparently everyone we
knew in Ma'ale Adumim was aware of our plight). First thing, though,
Barbara wanted to clean up the kitchen before we started cooking.
That involved lots of mopping, cleaning behind the refrigerator, the
whole ball of wax. Finally, finally, it was time for me to start
cooking;
and then the inevitable happened. No more water. Not a drop. It
turns out that what we had been doing, unbeknownst
to us, was using up the
supply of water stored in our <i>dood shemesh</i>,
the water tank-solar heater that everybody in Israel has. (Now
that I think of it, I don't know which valve controls the water
supply going into the <i>dood shemesh</i>,
but we must have turned that off as well.) Once
the <i>dood</i>
was empty, we were as dry as
a county in the Bible Belt.</div>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
No
water. Hard to cook that way. More phone calls. Ron and Esther
were kind enough to a) loan us the use of their kitchen, b) host the
Purim <i>seudah</i> at their
house, and c) drive over and pick up me and all the food and
everything else I needed to prepare the meal. Not to mention d) let
me take a shower at their place afterwards.
</div>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
By
this time, at least one person out there must be wondering what the
menu was, and usually I would remember what I had prepared. You'll
have to let me slide this one time; I was somewhat distracted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Most
of you, however, are
probably wondering what was happening with our water –
or lack thereof. We were
able to reach our insurance company, and Goldfoos was
as as good as gold. With
more than a little effort on their part, they
arranged for a plumber to show up at our door on Monday. In walked
Alon, the Israeli plumber, (which prompts
me to begin singing, as if on cue, <i>Alone, alone with a
smile and a</i> <i>song</i>.....
which as you all know was written by Nacio Herb Brown and Arthur
Freed for the Marx Bros movie “A Night at the Opera,” where it
was sung by Kitty Carlyle and Allan Jones – but I digress) with his
Arab assistant, named – I kid you not – Osama.
</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Alon-with-a-smile-and-a-song
is one of those guys who projects a demeanor of complete
self-confidence – <i>never fear, I am here</i>.
As those of us with a little life experience are aware, the fact
that someone appears self-confident does not mean that he knows what
he doing. Our Alon actually is a qualified plumber, but here he was a
tad too sure of himself. The first thing he did when he came in was
turn our water valves back on and then go
upstairs to see what the problem was.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Would
you be surprised in the least if I told you that within a few minutes
we had a repeat of Niagara Falls in our kitchen? But
this time, we had a witness – Osama. Alon had sent him down to get
something-or-other from the truck, and the young Arab walked past our
kitchen as the water began to flow. I imagine that the look of awe
and horror on his face mirrored the expression on my face several
days before. “<span style="font-size: medium;"><i>ALON..........”</i></span><span style="font-size: small;">
Within seconds, our self-assured plumber was down the stairs to get a
first-hand look as water gushed through our light fixture. Within
seconds, those water valves were back to an off position.</span></div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I
stayed downstairs to keep out of the way; but not so far that I
couldn't hear the racket upstairs. Alon-with-a-smile-and-a-song was
conducting a two-phase assault to reach the offending pipe. The
first phase involved breaking through the wall that separates our
bedroom from the pipes behind our bathtub. That wall, like all the
walls inside and outside, </span><span style="font-size: small;">is
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>tromi</i></span><span style="font-size: small;">,
pre-poured concrete – not the easiest thing to demolish. Nor the
quietest. The second phase involved tearing up a row of tiles in our
bedroom and hallway in front of the bathroom. The result: a gaping
hole in our wall and a trench a few feet long on the floor. However,
they did find the offending pipe and do the necessary surgery. Water
would again flow – through the proper channels this time – in the
Casden household. Keep the bathtub wall dry for twenty-four hours.
Alon and Osama would return within a few days to mend the damage they
had created in their search and rescue mission.</span></div>
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</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Anyone
who knows Israel realizes that it wouldn't be that simple........</span></div>
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Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-77459150541517504092013-01-31T22:10:00.001+02:002013-01-31T22:10:39.593+02:00The Gondoliers #3
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<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">AWESOME
TALENTS AND VULGAR FRACTIONS</span></div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As I have mentioned
more than once, when rehearsals begin for a new <i>Encore!</i>
Production (may there be many more!), those of us in the chorus
always start out by learning our parts without the soloists. We get
a lot done that way, but we are often left wondering for weeks or
months who the principal performers are going to be. Even knowing
their names doesn't always help if we haven't a clue who they are.
</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are roles for –
count 'em – nine principal soloists in <i>The Gondoliers</i>,
taking the work out of the talent range of most theatrical companies.
Three of the performers in our production were veterans of the
company, including Aviella, she of the enchanting voice, the sunny
disposition, and Romeo. The other six? We would get to meet them
one by one, although rumors of their ability might proceed their
actual sighting. For example, one of the women in the chorus
mentioned a tiny soprano with an extraordinary voice who had appeared
at their latest rehearsal. Ah, she must be taking the part of
Cassilda; that's the only other soprano part besides Gianetta, and
Aviella is doing that. Sure enough, on cue, Maria showed up several
weeks later, probably about one-third the size of some legendary
Wagnerian sopranos of the past but with a voice out of proportion to
her petite stature.</div>
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</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I remember vividly the
day when a number of us male choristers showed up for rehearsal a few
minutes early, in time to hear Rafi singing one of the tenor solos
and for our jaws to drop in unison. I waited patiently until
set-painting on Friday to interrogate Robert Binder, as he sat at his
sewing machine, preparing someone's costume. Who's that guy, and
where did you find him? Turns out he found Rob. The son of a chazan
in Leeds, this remarkably gifted young man had made aliyah on his
own, recently finished the army, and was singing on the streets of
Tel Aviv. He had called RB and asked for an audition. I asked Rob
exactly how many bars Rafi had to sing before they tackled him, gave
him a score and rehearsal schedule, and told him he was hired. My
guess would be between four and six notes.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Jay, with his
stentorian bass-baritone, absolutely perfect as the Grand Inquisitor,
was found via RB's extensive network of friends and talent scouts. He
is a conductor, a voice teacher, a composer, a writer about things
operatic, and when he has nothing else to do, treks in Northeast
Albania. (I couldn't and wouldn't make that up.) By way of contrast,
Michael, who works in the legal profession by day and had previously
led a band that played at simchas, never before appeared on stage.
How did Rob know in advance that, as the comic Duke of Plaza-Toro, he
would bring down the house as he trod ever so lightly through <i>I am
a courtier, grave and serious</i>? How does a swallow know anything
about Capistrano?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Because of Encore!'s
growing reputation for the best in English-speaking theater, it
became possible to pluck talent from JAMD (Jerusalem Academy for
Music and Dance). Hence the appearances of Hanan (as Luiz, the
drummer boy who winds up as king), who aspires to be be the chief
hazan of the IDF, the aforementioned Maria, and Maya, the other
principal <i>contadine</i> opposite Aviella.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
All of these
wonderfully gifted soloists, including returnees Daniel and Claire,
would be introduced in my imaginary screenplay (the one I “created”
in the previous article), probably as they made their appearances one
by one at rehearsals. If one were to make a real live documentary of
an <i>Encore!</i> production, a good way to do it would be to select
one number from the show and film it, from the first rehearsal with
the chorus fumbling through, then mastering the music and movements
that are essential to any G&S performance, later rehearsing with
the orchestra, up to an actual performance, with everyone is costume
and stage makeup. Such a film might give a glimpse of what those of
us in the cast already were aware, that <i>Encore!</i> rehearsals are
themselves the best show in town, but that's another story.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But in my make-believe
scenario, the performance would be filmed from the vantage point of
the chorus, from the back of the stage when we were performing or
from the wings when we were waiting to go on. Unlike <i>My Fair
Lady</i>, when we were rarely on-stage and were often busy changing
our costumes, here we got to see a lot of theatrical magic as well as
a remarkable level of consistency each of the six (alas, only six)
performances. Which brings me to a series of questions I had as I
watched and participated in the production. How did I, with my
legitimate yet modest talent, get to be on stage with such extremely
gifted performers? Was I only dreaming, or had I arrived in musical
heaven? Ultimately, I was asking myself how was it possible for this
production to be so close to perfection, given its provenance in
“community theater?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This last question got
somewhat revised last week, several weeks after the sets for the
<i>Encore!</i> production were struck for the last time. I was able
to find a competing version of <i>The Gondoliers</i> that I could
download (and wouldn't disappear like other versions on Youtube), one
of a series of G&S performances that were produced for British
television. My revised question goes something like: how is it
possible for a theater company in Israel (of all places!) with a very
limited budget to do a better job with something so quintessentially
British than an English TV production? They have a lot more money to
spend. They should have a bigger and better talent base. They ought
to have an almost proprietary sense of what to do and how to do it.
So why is the British version so mired in mediocrity as opposed to
the scintillating performance that 1800 patrons – give or take –
got to witness at the Hirsch Theatre in downtown Jerusalem?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Some of it I simply
can't figure out. The performers that RB assembled are at least as
talented – and sometimes clearly superior to their British
counterparts. That shouldn't be, but it's true. Six of the nine
main roles are for characters in their twenties, and in the Hirsch
Theatre production they actually were that young. (Hint to British
production crews, whoever and wherever you are: if you're
photographing the future Queen of Barataria, who “at twenty-one is
excelled by none,” i.e., the most beautiful young lady in the land,
and your performer is in fact closer to thirty-five, nor is she as
attractive and ingenue-ish as our tiny Maria – then reconsider all
those close-ups of your bored-looking prima donna.) For the life of
me, I can't imagine why our rivals could not find in the British
theater world a bass-baritone who could actually sing the role of the
Grand Inquisitor – instead of reciting it <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">à</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
la</span> Professor Higgins – or come up with a comic actor
energetic enough to bring a bit of brio to the role of the Duke of
Plaza-Toro.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But there's something
else. The world of G&S is not only topsy-turvy, but in constant
motion as well. If you're going to go onstage in one of their roles,
be prepared for some high-stepping and cavorting. We're not doing
Madame Butterfly here! You can't just stand there like a statue and
trust your vocal pyrotechnics will carry the day. Not a chance.
Also, if you're given a line or two to recite that's supposed to be
funny, don't declaim it as if it were one of Cicero's orations
against Cataline (O tempora, O mores). Finally, for the director,
feeling free to ignore or edit the script is not, generally speaking,
not a good idea – unless, that is, you have a better theatrical
mind than William Schwenck Gilbert.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There were a few things
in the British production that got me to start yelling choice
expressions at my computer screen (as I'm working on my new pre-owned
iMac with a 27” monitor, that's a lot of yelling). For example,
it's time for the two gondoliers, Marco and Giuseppe, to choose their
brides from among the twenty-four <i>contadines</i>. Being
chivalrous, the two of them declare, “As all are young and fair,
And amiable besides, We really do not care A pref'rence to declare, A
bias to declare would be indelicate...” They will let themselves
be blindfolded and “...let impartial Fate Select for us a mate!”
Of course, a fix is in, and they're not <i>really</i> blindfolded, or
at least they don't stay blindfolded. Surprise, surprise, they will
wind up with Tessa and Gianetta, just the very girls they wanted.
Everyone on stage can spot the deception. The women are singing,
“You can spy, sir! Shut your eye, sir!” And the guys are singing,
“You can see, sir! Don't tell me, sir!” With that amount of
prompting, everyone in the audience at the Hirsch Theatre, even the
legendary Mrs. Cohen in the twelfth row, who doesn't see or hear too
good, soon figures out what is going on. But in the British
production, Marco and Giuseppe must have missed their cue; they're
standing stock still, with their blindfolds firmly in place, posing
for their portraits in the National Gallery. A big Bronx cheer for
that one.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
During the course of
the first act, the Grand Inquisitor reveals that one of the two
gondoliers – but he's not sure which one – is actually the heir
to the throne of Barataria. Until they figure out which one it is,
the two of them must rule jointly as the king. As Act I comes to an
end, the two of them, along with all the other gondoliers, are
setting out for that island kingdom. <i>“Away we go to an island
fair, that lies in a Southern sea: We know not where, and we don't
much care.......”</i> At the Hirsch Theatre, a long, white ladder
is brought out and placed on the stage. The men, in effect, climb
into it; the ladder is lifted and transformed into a boat. Then they
march off stage, setting out to sea (“.......away, awayyyyyyy!”);
the <i>contadines</i>, left behind, sorrowfully wave good-bye to
them. It takes a minute, but the audience – except for Mrs. Cohen
in the twelfth row who by this time has woken up and is on her way to
the Ladies' – figures out what just happened. At every performance,
the audience burst into applause, exactly what you want to have
happen at the end of an act. In the film version, the two men sidle
into a boat that you can't really see. The other gondoliers silently
drift away one by one. (<i>Wait a minute, guys! You're going the
wrong way; </i><i>you gotta get in the boat. Y</i><i>ou're supposed
to be going to Barataria along with Marco and Giuseppe. They're going
to need you in the second act. If you don't believe me, ask Gilbert.
He'll tell you.</i>) The last thing the audience sees before the
curtain descends is a shot of one poor shlub, the one who, whenever
the gondoliers are on stage, is shown at a table in the caf<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">é</span>
working his knife and fork; he's now finishing his plate of pasta.
That'll send the audience out to the lobby abuzz with excitement!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are many other
examples, but I think I've made my point. As Abba Eban said about
our Arab neighbors, the directors of this British version of <i>The
Gondoliers</i> never missed an opportunity to miss an opportunity.
Every time there's a bit of comic dialogue, these guys either cut it
completely or found a way to make it not funny. Every time there's a
place to do something distinctive, these folks looked the other way.
Every <i>Encore!</i> performance, I was in my place at the back of
the stage (where I would be anyway in my imaginary
screenplay),watching as Maya/Tessa would vehemently twist
Daniel/Giuseppe's ear as she reminded him not to forget “You've
married me.” Or in Act II, when the women finally arrive in
Barataria, as she would take a flying leap into his arms from
half-way across the stage. Or rebuke him with heartfelt indignation
that “one cannot marry a vulgar fraction” (this after the
discovery that three women, Tessa, Gianetta, and Casilda, are married
to two men – hence two thirds of a husband per wife). That's what
theater is about, a little excitement.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Maybe I should
re-refine my question. Is it possible that Messrs. Binder and Salter
are the only ones left alive capable of putting on a Gilbert and
Sullivan production – with a little style, a little panache, a
soup<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">ç</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">on
of gusto? Will Jerusalem become the G&S capital of the world?
</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Only time will tell.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">As
for “time,” it became time when our six performances were over
and done with. Just in time for three more performances of </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>My
Fair Lady</i></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">, one of them
in Givatayim, where our daughter Tina and her charming husband,
David, live. As wonderful a show as that is, it was still
anti-climactic after the once-in-a-lifetime production of </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>The
Gondoliers</i></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">. </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">It
would be wonderful if </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Encore!</i></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
could top that one, but I don't see how. Their next venture will be
the musical version of the children's story, </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>The
Secret Garden</i></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">, for
which my services will not be required. I have other things to do
and say, but not about a production that I may not get to see.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-88795482490800411242013-01-22T18:23:00.000+02:002013-01-22T18:23:58.390+02:00The Gondoliers #2
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>ROMEO
MEETS THE PRODIGAL SON</b></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We – the
men's chorus, that is – had just finished our song and dance and
were heading off stage, leaving behind several of the principal
singers to finish the number. I turned and remarked to Jerry, one of
the other guys in the chorus, “It doesn't get any better than
this,” a sentiment to which he readily agreed. We in the chorus
were performing as flawlessly as we could, the level of talent of the
principals on stage was beyond anyone's wildest expectations, the
music sounded more infectious every time we heard it, everything
about the production was first-rate, and the audience – a full
house on that Saturday night – was justifiably enthusiastic. So we
weren't just engaging in idle chatter. This may have been the best
production of <i>The Gondoliers</i> anywhere on the planet in half a
century.</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I often try
to imagine how things that happen in front of my eyes would look if
they were in a movie. If I were going to consider my experience with
this production and then create an imaginary version of it for the
silver screen – or someone's laptop – I would start with this
very conversation with Jerry, and then flash all the way back to an
early rehearsal, beginning with a close-up shot of a pair of hands
clutching some small sheets of paper. It would, in fact, be the
self-same Jerry holding his crib sheets. Jerry has an excellent
voice, but he'd be the first to tell you that cannot read music. So
what he does when he gets his copy of the score is to copy out our
parts onto palm-sized pieces of paper, which over the course of
several weeks he commits to memory. Some of you may have noticed that
if you remember the words of a song, it's easier to remember the
melody; and, likewise, if you know how the tune goes, it's usually
easier to think of the words. But what can you do if the baritone
part for our entrance on stage in act I goes something like this?
</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
<i>Solo by Antonio: For the merriest fellows are we......</i></div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
<i>Us: Tra la, tra la, tra la, tra la la la la la, Tra la la
la.......</i></div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
<i>Antonio: That ply on the emerald sea........</i></div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
<i>Us: Tra la, tra la, tra la, tra la la la la, Tra la la la......</i></div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
<i>Antonio: With loving and laughing, And quipping and quaffing We're
happy as happy can be....</i></div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
<i>Us: Tra la.....</i></div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
<i>Antonio: With loving and laughing, And quipping and quaffing,
We're happy as happy can be......</i></div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
<i>Us: Tra la la la la la la la, Tra la la la, Tra la la la, Tra la
la la la la la la,Tra la, tra la, la la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la,
la la, la la, la la, la la, la la, la la, la la, la la, la la la la
la la la la la la la la la la, Tra la!</i></div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
How would
having the “words” written on crib sheets or stone tablets, for
that matter, be of any use to anyone? That's the first thing I
thought of when we started rehearsing this opening number: Now what
is Jerry going to do with that? Somehow he managed. He even did his
mini-solo, <i>But what of us, who one and all adore you? Have pity on
our passion, we implore you!</i> with suitable aplomb. I always say,
when there's a will, there's a way.</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are two
other vignettes that I would certainly want to insert somewhere,
somehow into my virtual screenplay. The first took place as I was
sitting one evening on the Light Rail on my way to rehearsal. (When
the entire chorus was rehearsing together, I would get a ride from
and to Ma'ale Adumim with Helen, another cast member, and her
husband, who functioned as chauffeur. When only the men were
scheduled, I was on my own to shlepp back and forth.) I was sitting,
minding my own business, perusing my copy of the score. The train
pulled into the station near the Damascus Gate, and I was aware that
a group of tourists got on. One of them, a guy about fifty, sat down
next to me. Seeing me and my score, he asked in English – in an
accent unmistakably German – if I was a conductor. No, I replied,
I sing in the chorus of a musical production. What part do you sing?
I'm a baritone. To which, he replied, I'm a tenor. What are you
performing? Gilbert and Sullivan's The Gondoliers. Sullivan? he
inquired. He wrote <i>The Prodigal Son</i>. I sang in that, he
asserted proudly. I was the prodigal son. Whereupon he whipped out
his smartphone and asked if he could take a picture of the cover of
my score to show to the folks back home. He had just enough time to
do so, producing an askew copy, before I had to get off at the stop
by King George St.</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I guess we
were even. He had not the slightest notion of who W.S. Gilbert was,
and I had never heard of <i>The Prodigal Son</i>. Yes Sir Arthur
Sullivan had a life apart from his famous collaborator and had
written a whole bunch of stuff that is less than well known today,
for example, the song, <i>The Lost Chord</i>, and <i>Ivanhoe</i>, the
opera he finally got to write. But <i>The Prodigal Son</i>??? I
made some discrete inquiries at the rehearsal. It was not part of
Paul Salter's repertoire; Moshe, the resident expert on every patter
song from our illustrious pair, assured me that no such piece of
music was ever composed. Was the man I had met on the Light Rail
delusional? Was this piece of music a product of his distorted
imagination, a remnant from his own unhappy childhood? In today's
high speed world, anything can be ascertained or verified in a matter
of moments. Just go to that expert on anything and everything,
Wikipedia. It turns out that Sullivan did in fact write the oratorio
in question in 1869, a number of years before he encountered the
topsy-turvy world of William Schwenk Gilbert. According to our
on-line encyclopedia, “T<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">he
piece continued in the standard choral repertory until </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">World
War One.” (That's the war my late Uncle George fought in.) There
have been a couple of recordings in the last twenty years, but if
you're waiting for a revival </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">of
th</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">is</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
piece </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">at
your favorite local concert hall, I suggest you bring along a few
books to read. Maybe a sandwich or two. A pillow wouldn't be a bad
idea, </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">either</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So perhaps
there have been a handful of performances of this sadly (?!)
neglected work in my lifetime. What would be the chancess of meeting
somebody – anybody – who could say that he had performed the
leading role? And then, what would be the odds of meeting that
person on the Light Rail in Jerusalem in the three or four minutes it
takes to get from the Damascus Gate to the center of town? If the
world got any smaller, you could fit it into that box I'm always
trying to be out of.</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And then
there's Romeo. Not the lead tenor role in the opera that Sullivan
didn't write, but the small “rescue dog” that hangs out with our
star soprano, Aviella. Because of this little canine's great
appreciation for all things G&S, he got to attend a number of our
rehearsals. I should note that our Romeo is not one of these white
dust-mops that get carried around all over the place. Our Romeo,
must have had a terrier wannabe as a recent ancestor. He is perfectly
capable of of self-propulsion and usually arrived at our rehearsal
space a minute or so before his co-star, signaling her imminent
arrival, something that always brings joy to the hearts of those of
us assembled.
</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Why is his
presence, let alone his existence, of any interest to the general
public, cano-philes or not? The fact is, our little mixed breed is a
star-in-the-making. True, he is somewhat limited vocally, but he can
trod the boards with the best of them, especially when he senses
encouragement from those humans around. You can only imagine his
enthusiasm when he senses that it's his turn to go on. There's the
scene at the end of act one when the two gondoliers, Marco and
Giuseppe, are about to embark on a journey to Barataria, leaving
their two new brides, Tessa and Gianetta, behind. The two women see
the need to admonish their husbands to behave themselves when they
are separated. Both of them, first the soprano and then the mezzo,
get to sing, ...<i>And O my darling, O </i><i><b>my pet</b></i><i>,
Whatever else you may forget</i>...... No one had the heart to tell
little Romeo that they weren't referring to him.</div>
<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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</div>
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</div>
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<div class="western" lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-42521262954283620722013-01-10T13:39:00.002+02:002013-01-10T13:39:28.778+02:00The Gondoliers #1
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>BY
WAY OF AN INTRODUCTION</b></span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s
never easy putting on a musical production, but for </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Encore!,</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
one of the hardest parts of the process is deciding </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">just
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">what
show to put on -- which task ultimately falls to Robert Binder, the
artistic director, and the </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>maestro</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">,
Paul Salter. Choosing an American musical comedy </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">to
put on each spring</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
is especially problematic. First of all, both of these gentlemen
need to have some affection for the work in question. I’m told
that Paul, for example, is less than enthused about anything with
Cole Porter’s name affixed to it, and RB shares my aversion to </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The
Sound of Music</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">.
There’s also the issue of suitability. For obvious reasons, our
company would have a hard time doing </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Showboat</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">;
and something like </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Cabaret</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
might also prove problematic, for different reasons. That’s just
for starters. Will we get enough of an audience, especially when a
lot of people won’t go to see </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">either</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
anything they’re not familiar with or have seen too often, which
narrows </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">down
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">the
field considerably. Then there are all sorts of other matters you
might not expect. Has any other company here in The Land done the
work in question in the last few years? </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Encore!</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
has competition -- not in terms of quality -- and there are others
out there working the same standard repertoire, even mounting their
productions to be in direct competition with ours. Finally, can we
even get the rights to do the show here in The Land? Sometimes not.
As I said, it’s no picnic in the grass deciding what to do.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Happily,
it’s a lot easier with Gilbert and Sullivan. There are no longer
any copyright issues, so we can do whatever we want, whenever we
want, without worrying about </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">being
politically correct or age appropriate </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">or
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">if
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">anybody
else </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">has</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
“the rights” to </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">put
on the</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
particular show we want to do. The best part is that there is no
competition. We’ve had the field all to ourselves for years now.
The last time anybody besides Binder-Salter did any G&S here in
The Land was somewhere around 1995, and the last time </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The
Gondoliers</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
got performed was about ten years before that.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
plain truth is that </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The
Gondoliers</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
is not </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">exactly
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">a
household name </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">in
most parts of the civilized world</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">;
in fact, when word got out that last spring that this would be
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Encore!</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">'s
next production, I had never heard even one song from the score.
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Part
of “my job” is to do a little publicity </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">for
the company</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">,
and I thought it might be useful to put together a little </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">promotional
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">piece
entitled, “Introducing </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The
Gondoliers</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">,”
which could be inserted into the program</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">me</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
for </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>My
Fair Lady</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">.
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well,
I thought to myself, I'd better get cracking. Start </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">surfing
the web </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">for
information</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">;
find a recording or a video of somebody </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">performing
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">it
and give a listen. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Even
though the work is not often performed, there were enough versions –
excerpts and the whole score – available on Youtube and the Naxos
catalog </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">to
get a good idea of what I had been missing in the first seventy years
of my life on this planet. Gadzooks, what a lot of great music!
After reading a few article, I even figured out what the story line
was supposed to be – no mean feat, even for someone like me,
growing up with the Marx Brothers.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">With
the tune of the </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Cachuca,
Fandango, Bolero</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
to inspire me, I put together the following little piece, </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">slightly
re-edited from what</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
appeared on page twenty-one of the programme </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">(I
know it should be spelled “program,” but sometimes you gotta go
with the flow)</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">.
</span></span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.44in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">There
comes a time when a creative team, no matter how productive, can no
longer work together. Each one feels his work is undervalued; each
one has a different idea of where the two of them should be heading.
That about sums up the situation for our heroes, Sir Arthur Sullivan
and W.S. Gilbert, in 1889. Sullivan was eager to abandon the comic
opera format that had made the two of them so successful, wanting
instead to write a grand opera based on Scott's classic, </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Ivanhoe</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">.
Gilbert wanted no part of such a project, sensing that his lyrics
would be “swamped” by the music. He could not understand
Sullivan's intimations that the composer had submerged his talents
over the years to showcase the lyricist's rhymed verses.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.44in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.44in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fortunately,
a compromise was achieved. Sullivan agreed to write his grand opera
without Gilbert, and the two of them would collaborate on a comic
opera – assuming that they could mutually agree on a subject.
Venice, and life therein, somehow appealed to both of them, and the
two of them began work on The Gondoliers, which premiered on Dec. 7,
1889. Even though the team collaborated on two additional works,
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Utopia
Ltd</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">.
In 1893 (“a modest success”) and </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The
Grand Duke</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
in 1896 (a complete failure), </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The
Gondoliers</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
was, in effect, their curtain call.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.47in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">And what a finale it was! It was
as if they were heeding Alfred P. Doolittle's advice to “Pull out
the stopper, let's have a whopper...” Gilbert must have opened up
his goody-bag of topsy turvy notions and pulled out every last unused
(or slightly used) idea. This is what he came up with for a plot (as
best as anyone can describe the story line of anything by G&S):</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.47in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.99in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Marco and Giuseppe are two young,
handsome Venetian gondoliers, except that one of them is actually the
heir to the island kingdom of Barataria, stolen away in infancy by
the Grand Inquisitor himself, who gave the infant to an inebriated
gondolier to raise along with his own son. Of course, only one
person still alive knows which one is which; and whichever one really
is the heir to the throne was actually married in infancy to the
equally young Cassilda, daughter of the Duke of Plaza-Toro. As you
would expect, none of these young people was made aware of this
complication until after both men have taken brides from among the
local maidens, and Cassilda has fallen in love with her father's
attendant, Luiz (whose mother, Inez, it just happens is the woman who
nursed the infant prince and is the only one alive who can identify
which gondolier is the rightful heir). Add to this mix the Duke of
Plaza-Toro himself, who arrives in Venice, along with the duchess,
his daughter, and his attendant, to place the unsuspecting Cassilda
upon the throne of Barataria and incidentally repair his rather
threadbare finances.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.99in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.99in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Since no one knows which
Gondolier is the rightful heir to the now vacant throne, the Grand
Inquisitor decides that both of them should return to Barataria and
rule jointly, but without the distraction of their new brides. Both
men are firm republicans (with a small “r”) and are determined to
treat everyone equally, a situation which affords Gilbert ample time
to satirize the British class system and, of course, the monarchy.
(“When <i>everyone</i> is somebody, then no one's <i>anybody</i>.”)
By the end of Act II, the rather awkward situation of three women
married to two men is sorted out in typical Gilbertian fashion, thus
allowing the young people to bring down the curtain properly matched
with their hearts' desires, so that the entire company can reprise
the enchanting <i>Cachuca, Fandango, Bolero</i>.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.99in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.01in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">It may have been the exotic
Mediterranean setting for the work, the fact that the composer
finally had a a libretto to work with in which he was truly
interested, or just the feeling of exhilaration that he would soon be
free from all things Gilbertian, but Sullivan was in rare form. Talk
about a truly inspired score, as light-hearted, as fun filled as
Gibert's libretto was zany! Melody after melody flowed from his pen,
enough music to engage the talents of nine principal singers, each on
a (presumably) equal, republican footing.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.44in; text-indent: 0.43in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">One can only wonder if the
audience leaving the stellar world premiere at the Savoy Theatre that
December evening in 1889 had any idea that the string of magical
theatrical pieces that G&S had created over a span of almost two
decades had come to an end, as all things must. Would those ecstatic
theater-goers have been so happy? However, our audiences need not
worry. Encore! has a substantial repertoire of G&S and other
musicals to present in the coming years and, with your continued
attendance and anticipated financial support – and G-d's help –
may the music keep on playing!</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.44in; text-indent: 0.43in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I
have no idea if this little promotional piece got anybody else's
juices flowing, but it sure got me revved up, ready to start
rehearsing. But that's for next time.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.44in; text-indent: 0.43in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.01in; text-indent: 0.43in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: -0.02in;">
<br />
</div>
Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-36107915477660758002012-11-08T11:56:00.002+02:002012-11-08T11:56:33.301+02:00When the Imperfect Plan Met the Perfect Storm<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seemed at the time to be the best of all possible plans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Barbara was going back to The States last
week for her mother’s unveiling. (An aside: Why is it referred to as “her
mother’s unveiling?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gwen Cole was not
going to be ‘unveiled.’) As she (my wife, not her mother) would be gone for a
week, why shouldn’t both Natania and I skip out of town – at least for
Shabbat?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We, in fact, had received an
invitation to join our good friends the Glazers in their new spacious
accommodations in Elazar, a community of about 500 families in Gush Etzion,
south of Jerusalem; and, if nothing else, I was curious to check out their new
digs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus, as both Natania and I are
busy Friday mornings – she is working for the local vet and I am involved in
set-painting for the forthcoming <i>Encore!</i> production of <i>The Gondoliers</i>
– it would be just as easy to throw a few things into a suitcase as it would be
to throw a chicken or two into the oven at the last minute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From the timing of this literary effort, anyone could deduce
that Barbara didn’t get to go anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Actually, she did get to go from Tina and David’s apartment in Givataim
to Ben Gurion airport, where she was told the equivalent of, “fuhhgedabowdit.”
She would have been able to complete the first leg of her journey, from here to
London’s Heathrow airport, but no farther. There seemed to be some kind of a
problem on the other side of The Pond and the airports were shut down. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I received a phone call at 7:30 Tuesday
morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Guess who’s on her way back to
Ma’ale Adumim?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A plan is a plan; an invitation is an invitation – at least
as far as I’m concerned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So e-mails went
out to both June and Jeff advising that their guest list would be increased by
one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I expected, no problem. On
Thursday, Natania decided to spend Shabbat with a dear friend in
Jerusalem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guest list back to two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No problem. (It turned out to be providential
that Natania stayed with her friend, as she wound up taking the friend to an
emergency treatment center at 2AM Shabbat morning.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Barbara wound up spending the entire week on the phone, in
order to reschedule her flights and all her arrangements to meet people for the
following week, so that she would be flying out of here on the American
election today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ‘unveiling’ was
being rescheduled for that Thursday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(The rabbi would be available then; needless to say, Barbara’s mom would
be too.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After having packed and
unpacked, Barbara was not highly motivated to fill another suitcase with stuff
for Shabbat, but, like a trooper, she did it anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took the bottle of wine with me; she
carried her home-made desserts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent Friday
morning “set-painting,” although I am often asked to do tackle assignments that
would be too boring for anybody else – in this case, gluing pieces of canvas
together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As pre-arranged, the two of us met up at the Central Bus
Station about 1:30, so that we would have time to have lunch before we got on
the bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our first order of business was
trying to locate a place to sit in the food court, which at that time on a
Friday was like finding a parking spot at a shopping mall in New Jersey the day
after Thanksgiving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, it was awhile
before I sidled up to the counter at Holy Bagel to place our order.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now there are those who intimate that my level of functional
Hebrew leaves something to be desired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The fact is, for something <u>really</u> <u>important</u> like ordering
a meal, I can do just fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Two bagels
with ‘tuna light with celery’ with lettuce, tomato, and cucumbers on both, and
olives on one – but definitely not the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And two ice cafés.” No problem for me in <i>Ivrit</i>. But I was at Holy
Bagel, where I was the only customer even making the effort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The collection of kids ahead of me assumed –
quite correctly – that their American will be understood. Who else but
Americans goes to Holy Bagel?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stack
of bagels, originally placed neatly in separate bins by type, was vanishing in
front of my eyes faster than a new model iPhone on Day 1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again, it’s Friday afternoon at the Central
Bus Station!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Barbara didn’t get her
‘everything’ bagel, but she did get something before there was nothing
left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ten minutes later and Holy Bagel,
along with many of the other establishments, was closing up shop.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was time to go up to the third floor and get on what
passes for a line to board the #160 bus, heading down through the Gush to
Hebron.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you know when to press the
button, the bus will stop along the way to let you off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We, of course, had only a vague idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Press the button as soon as you get to Neve
Daniel.” But the #160 doesn’t stop <u>in</u> Neve Daniel, so you’d better keep
your eyes peeled to the road signs directing the traveler to Efrat, Hebron,
Be’er Sheva, and even Beit Shemesh – every place in in The Land except where we
needed to get off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We did somehow manage to get off at the right place, at the
stop by the entrance to Elazar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
walked through the security gate, made a left, walked part of the way, and met
June, who took us to their house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew
that they had moved from their small apartment in a great location in Jerusalem
to much larger quarters, which they are sharing with their son,
daughter-in-law, and grandchildren. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
you don’t necessarily consider just how big something is until you get to see
it with your own eyes. When the community of Elazar was founded as a moshav in
1975, the first few houses put up were tiny stucco cubes, three or four rooms,
all exactly alike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And over the years,
each owner added this here and that there – sort of like Levittown on Long
Island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The house that June and Jeff are renting is
one of those original structures – with a little tinkering along the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their kitchen is now as large as ours – if
you throw our living room and dining room. The one bathroom has been replaced
with three and a half. The two bedrooms have become seven, with a few extra
rooms for good measure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You get the
idea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a reason why Elazar is called by some “The Beverly
Hills of the Gush.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The houses are
larger and the streets cleaner than in most places; there are no stray cats
foraging for non-existent garbage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
is a startling homogeneity of the residents, all of whom seem to be part of the
National Religious crowd, something typical of many of the communities in the
Gush Etzion bloc, which one can either find refreshing or disturbing, depending
on your outlook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Shabbat rolls in
over the hills, there is absolute and total quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(You know the old expression, so thick you
can cut it with a knife.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Elazar is far
enough away from the highway that there’s no sound of an occasional car speeding
by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where we were there are no cell
phones going off, no flickering of a TV screen in anybody’s house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All you can hear is the murmur of people
talking as they walk to a neighbor’s house or to shul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(During the day it’s just the opposite: the
place is filled with kids, who are rarely quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jeff says it’s like being at camp.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of what you hear will be Ivrit, but there
will be a lot of English, perhaps because where June and Jeff are located is
the heart of the Anglos neighborhood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t imagine it would surprise you to learn that a lot of
the Anglos present have connections to Northern New Jersey or Long Island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so on this perfect Shabbat, weather-wise,
the temperature just right, not a cloud in the sky anywhere in Gush Etzion, the
conversation invariably reverted to friends and family living in The Exile who
were being seriously inconvenienced or, worse, wiped out completely by this
interloper named Sandy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fellow in
shul who read the Torah Shabbat morning told us that his company, a jewelry
concern on Long Island, lost two million dollars in inventory and their whole
holiday season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needless to say, their
insurance companies will find every possible excuse to limit the compensation
they offer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What else would you expect?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there was something bizarre about this
situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here we were in a community
guarded ‘round the clock, many of whose residents walk around with pistols – or
M-16’s if they are soldiers, a place we reached in an armored bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were in a place most American Jews would
consider almost as dangerous as Sderot, worse than certain inner-city
neighborhoods back where they live; yet there we were Shabbat morning at a
Kiddush, without a care in the world, nibbling our way through a platter of
fish, tossing back a few shots of Single Malt, yet worrying about the
well-being of our brethren back in The Exile, where everyone knows it’s
perfectly safe. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most weeks, the Ashkenzi shul has its own Kiddush, which
they set up, for want of any other place to have it, on the little street
outside the premises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This week was
something different. In honor of a number of occasions, one of the congregants,
in fact a retired rabbi from Chicago, was doing the honors at his house, and so
all manner of people walked the few blocks there – nothing in Elazar is more
than a few blocks from anything else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Probably close to a hundred people showed up at one point or another,
and all of us fit comfortably in his yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A number of us noticed the same thing, with the obvious question:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why did the table with all the desserts on it
have a mehitzah in the middle? Oh, of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s a ping-pong table!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The same rabbi would be speaking at the shul later in the
afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just enough time after lunch
and the requisite nap to take a little stroll around town before heading back
to hear the rabbi speak. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I especially
wanted to take a gander at the other shuls in town – there being a total of
four, including the new one, which is being used even though it’s still being
built.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The original plan was to have one
large, well-appointed shul for the entire community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had a vote: should they daven Ashkenaz,
Nusach Sefard, or real Sefard?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(If you
don’t know what I’m talking about, don’t worry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s not crucial to your life.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The winner was Nusach Sefard, and for many years, this really impressive
synagogue was the only game in town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
few years ago, the authentic Sefardim decided they wanted to have their own
place to daven, so they created their own beit knesset, not as large as the main
one, but nothing to sneeze at.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s
good for the goose is good for the gander.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If the Sefardim could do it, why not the guys who want to daven Nusach
Ashkenaz?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The town wasn’t too keen on
finding a space for another shul, and the town rabbinate was opposed to the
idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But to their eternal credit, the
guys stuck to their guns, and now if, like me, you want to daven Ashkenaz,
you’re in luck. Even though it’s the least imposing of the three, the guys
still managed to furnish it with the standard Kibbutz Lavi benches (these are
the kind with comfortable, upholstered seats, similar to what you’d expect in a
theater, and with <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a little shelf in
front to put your stuff – made to order at Kibbutz Lavi, here in The Land). I
couldn’t but help feel a little jealous; the mismatched chairs we have at Musar
Avicha look like they were borrowed from a homeless shelter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess if there’s no will, there’s no way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We even had time to get over to the new shul, which, as I
said, is being used even though it’s far from finished. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do they really need a fourth place to daven as
there are only 500 families in the community?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There is actually a new neighborhood, mostly finished and lived in, but
with a few homes still being built.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
at least ten minutes – maybe fifteen, tops – from there to the center of town
where the other shuls are clustered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who
wants to walk that far?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’re getting the impression as you’re reading along
that Elazar is no more than a few hops, skips, and jumps in any direction,
you’re on the right track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is one
grocery store in town, and the mail is delivered; but if you’re in need of a
postage stamp or you want a slice of pizza, or you have to do some serious
grocery shopping, then you’d better get in your car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The problem is, June and Jeff don’t own one;
their kids do, but most of the time, that’s not much help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The good thing is, that they’re in The Gush,
where hitchhiking will get you most anywhere you need to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Six mornings a week, Jeff assumes his
position at the side of the road just inside the guard station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has never failed to get to his
destination, the learning group he goes to in Efrat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he has always made it back to Elazar
without a search party going out to rescue him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If we had any doubts about how easy it is to get around by sticking out
two fingers (that’s what you do in The Land instead of waving your thumb), they
were dispelled when we left the Yishuv after Shabbat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>June and Jeff walked us down to the bus stop
across the highway where we would get the #160 back to Jerusalem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except that before the bus could arrive,
several cars stopped without our even asking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One guy was going right by the bus station, so we hopped in, and voilà,
we were on our way. Traffic ground to a halt a ways down the road; I looked up
and said to myself, “Oh, we’re at a toll booth.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I remembered where we were. “That’s not
a toll booth, that’s a checkpoint.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Remember, we’re in The Land – in The Gush – and we all know what it’s
like here.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
POSTSCRIPT: Barbara did arrive safely in Baltimore, where
she will be joined by a few friends and family members at the gravesite of her
mother, of blessed memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She (again,
my wife, not her mother) left here with these words from Natania, “Don’t come
back until you’ve actually gone somewhere.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Good advice.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-64064073891440123712012-09-13T15:18:00.002+03:002012-09-13T15:18:52.533+03:00Ani Nishba'a.........<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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How is it that certain images seem to stick in your mind,
even the fleeting expressions that you’ve seen on people’s faces? I suspect
that Barbara and I will always remember the looks of shock, bewilderment, and
utter exhaustion that tipped us off that Bryna Lee and A.J. were literally
right off the Nefesh B’Nefesh flight and had no idea which end was up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had gone into a local store here in Ma’ale
Adumim, one that sells low-end housewares, for something or other,
who-remembers-what.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were the two of
them, with their mouths open – not knowing what they needed, and even if they
did, what it would be called in the local lingo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were able to help them out, and then the
four of us headed off to the main mall for a bite to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was about three years ago, and the rest,
as they say, is history.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Bryna Lee and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A.J. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>have one son, whose name is Sam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a while, he was back in The States,
having a good time, hanging out with his friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He finally returned to The Land, helped the
family select a new dog, located some female companionship, and worked at the
Holy Bagel in the food court at the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem, all the
while waiting for the moment to arrive. Sooner or later, the I.D.F. would get
around to calling him in, although the time kept getting put off. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, the word came; Sam was given a date –
and not with the girl of his dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Despite the fact that it happens in so many families here in
The Land, taking several years out of one’s life, subjected to military discipline,
is a big event for any young person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
least the families who have been living their lives here know what to
expect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time the children finish
high school, they understand what their options will be; they have an older
sibling, a relative, a friend of the family who has been there, done that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But here are A.J. and Bryna Lee, who with a
little effort can read the label on a package of soup mix, and Sam, who is
skilled at piling lettuce and tomato on a bagel and other related skills – none
of which is of much use in planning a military career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So now, Sam was coming home with something
for his parents to sign (which of course they can’t read), giving their consent
for him to join <i>kravi</i>, a combat unit – in his case, the tank corp.</div>
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Talk about mixed emotions!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On the one hand (as some of us pointed out), “Hey, you’re the ones who
wanted to make Aliyah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was important
to <u>you</u>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now your son wants to
defend The Land you brought him to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That’s important to <u>him</u>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How can you say no?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t
want to be a Jobnik, hanging around in an office for three years, doing
diddlysquat.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the other hand, Sam is
their only child and…………… (You know the rest).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the end they signed, perhaps with hands trembling and hearts
throbbing.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So off Sam went several weeks ago to the same induction
center on Rashi St. that Natania had gone to some four years before, and now it
was time for his official swearing in <i>tekes.</i> Bryna Lee sent around an
e-mail inviting us (no pressure!) to join them at the ceremony on the Thursday
afternoon at Latrun – or more specifically, at <i>Yad Lashiryon</i>, the Armored
Corps Memorial Site and Museum (on which site occurred a rather important
series of battles during the War of Independence in 1948).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, they didn’t just invite us; lots
of other friends wound up driving or taking a bus to the junction and walking
from there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Barbara had signed up for
some courses at Nishmat, an institute for women in Jerusalem, so Natania and I were
the designated representatives for the family, and we set out for Latrun to
help celebrate Sam’s big moment and possibly re-live some of our daughter’s own
experiences.</div>
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<br /></div>
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When you’re in the IDF, you get to have two ceremonies: one,
like this one, when you’re sworn in and one when you’ve finished basic training
several months later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Natania’s swearing-in ceremony was held at a
base near Ginosar, by the top of Lake Kinneret, very hard to get to by bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the time, Barbara was doing a volunteer
stint nearby, so she was able to attend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Both of us were at the second ceremony at Natania’s training base (only
three bus rides away), so I had some idea what to expect at Latrun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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All of these ceremonies have a lot in common: soldiers
marching, then being given orders to stand at attention and at ease over and
over again – as if it were a big deal to do so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Lots of speeches; military sounding music; the works.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were hundreds of people assembled that
afternoon, the usual assortment of family and friends, sitting in the big
outdoor theater (with concrete seats) trying to ignore the heat of the
day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few announcements were made,
meaning it was time to start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small
number of recruits marched onto the stage, then some more, until the entire <i>pluga</i>
(whatever that is in English), several hundred men, had lined up in formation
on the upper level of the stage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This,
no doubt, was someone’s idea of adding drama to the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then a smaller group of men appeared on the
lower level, no doubt, the <i>mefkadim</i>, the guys whose job it will be to
yell at the recruits for the next three months – even when the recruits are
several years older than they are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nest
to appear where the “<i>mem-mem’s,</i>” who are one step up from the <i>mefkadim</i>
(they’re certified big shots, so they don’t have to do as much yelling). Assorted
and sundry other higher-ups also arrived, but I have no idea who they
were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nobody gave us a program.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Looking from afar at these several hundred raw recruits, I
remembered a thought that had crossed my mind any number of times in the last
few years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would be walking through
our town or riding a bus into Jerusalem, and I would come across some young
kids – they could be eight or fourteen – acting like total jerks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would have to remind myself that, in a few
years, each of these young pseudo-delinquents would be wearing a khaki uniform
and would be making a nation proud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How
many of their mothers were sitting on these stone slabs, thinking, “Six weeks
ago he was driving me crazy; now look at him.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Something amazing happens, as if several hundred caterpillars had suddenly
become the butterflies they were always meant to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then, <i>“Ani nishba’a.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ani nishba’a.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ani nishba’a</i>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I swear to
defend my country…….) Hundreds of voices responding together, each time louder
and with more conviction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a short speech by one of the <i>mem-mem</i>’s, himself
an <i>oleh</i> from Canada, in which he discussed the entry into The Land in
the time of Joshua, each of the new recruits was then given both an M-16 (although,
in truth, they had already been using these weapons from day one of training)
and a <i>Tanach</i>, the entirety of the Jewish Bible (unless he was a Muslim
or a Christian, in which case he would be given a Koran or a “New Testament”). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now you can say that handing each recruit some
version of a holy text was a matter of routine, with no real meaning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I couldn’t help contrasting what I was
seeing in front of me to the insanity I had watched on YouTube that same
morning, (Talk about going from the sublime to the ridiculous) a short clip
from the previous night’s Democratic convention – that infamous debacle in
which a party official was trying to get the assembled faithful to a) suspend
the convention rules, and b) revise the party platform (which everyone knows
nobody would ever want to read) to return the word “God” to the document and
reaffirm that Jerusalem is the capital of Israel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To be fair, I assume that the booing and
attendant ruckus after the “vote” was due as much to the absurdity of the
situation as anything else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe the
delegates had just plain forgotten to mention the Creator who had endowed them
“with certain unalienable rights?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Perhaps the President and his staff had not noticed the change in the
position of Jerusalem that was in the original document?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could it be that we are as stupid as certain
people think we are?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The <i>tekes</i> wound to an end with the ceremonial
every-one-throws-his-<i>cumta</i>-in-the-air and somehow finds it again out of
all the others – no mean feat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
hardest part of the day’s activities was ahead of us: getting back to
Jerusalem, standing at a road-side stop along with a milling throng of people,
waiting for a bus to arrive that had room for some of us and was allowing
anybody to board.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in the days that
have passed since that <i>tekes</i>, I keep thinking about the sight and sound
of those several hundred young men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>“Ani
nishba’a.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ani nishba’a.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ani nishba’a!</i>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do these young men have any idea how alone
they are within the world community?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How
few people would care if they forfeited their lives defending our Land?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or if we all forfeited our lives by remaining
here? Let us pray that these raw recruits meant what they said and will serve
their nation with honor and distinction – Sam included.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And may the day soon come when the booing
will stop once and for all and our enemies will be silent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-4528622373310802182012-09-09T15:51:00.000+03:002012-09-09T15:51:15.670+03:00The Russian Lady and the Bus Driver<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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It’s not the case that I <u>have</u> to go to the
chiropractor on a Thursday, but it gives me a perfect opportunity to walk up
Agrippas St. from the Maccabi office to the shuk on the day when my mind is
focused on what to prepare for Shabbat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
was the situation two weeks ago, which one addition. Our daughter Natania has a
particular fondness for free lunches – in fact, I don’t think she’s ever met
one she didn’t like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hebrew University
is on recess until after The <i>Hagim</i>, but that morning she was at the gym
on the Givat Ram campus, which is close enough to Jaffa St. to facilitate a
luncheon date with her daddy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So that
was the plan: we would meet me for lunch and she would help me shlep everything
back to Ma’le Adumim – although neither of us could have imagined what would
happen on the way home.</div>
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This particular trip to our chiropractor was itself
particularly memorable; he and I identified and named a previously unconsidered
medical problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I explained to Dr. B.
that I was once again having a problem with my left shoulder (the rotary or
rotator cuff).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He asked me if I ever go
swimming?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About as often as our
Tonkinese cats, Moby and Cookie – even though there are indoor and outdoor pools
about ten minutes from our apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
inquired if my shoulder hurt when I go up to <i>duchen</i> (recite the priestly
blessing which, because of our great joy at being in The Land, the cohanim
[that’s me] recite every morning [assuming one is in shul], not just on the <i>Hagim</i>)?
Yes, my shoulder hurts then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I
often need my right hand to help lower my left arm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must be suffering from Cohanic Shoulder Syndrome
– somewhat akin to Tennis Elbow or Carpal Tunnel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Consider that for thousands of years, distant
relatives of mine have been getting up before a crowd and going, “Yeverechecha……,”
and nobody has noticed the connection between raising your hands in that
strange Star-Trek-like gesture and the ensuing pain in the shoulder – until
now!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here I have spent my life writing
and photographing, and my lasting claim to fame will be this chance medical
discovery?!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The discoverer of this
strange malady never made it past Bio I in college….”)</div>
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Flush with excitement about my impending fame, I headed off
up the hill to meet Natania at the Indian restaurant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About a year and a half ago, I had read about
this place and spent about an hour wandering around the shuk until I found it,
on a little street near the “Iraqi shuk,” one of the neighborhoods in the
larger Mahane Yehuda.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The food is simple
and quite good – assuming you’re partial to lentils and curry – and we’ve been
back on several occasions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first
time we went, the only thing ‘happening’ on that street was a shop that sold
Ethiopian specialties (whatever they might be; I’ve never ventured
inside).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today, the street has come
alive, probably because the shuk is being revived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You walk down the hill, and there is also a
health food restaurant, a French bistro called Chez Mimi, a Georgian dairy
restaurant (the country not the state), and a pub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should stress that none of these places are
as big as your living room, but, like people, great things start in little
packages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, as it say in the haftarah
we just read, “The smallest shall increase a thousandfold, and the least into a
mighty nation” (Artscroll translation). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Come to think of it, Rami Levy, the owner of
the eponymous chain of markets, started with one stall in the shuk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I’m not making this up. </div>
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The Indian food is as good as ever; the restaurant décor has
been improved; and they even have real live menus now instead of scribbling the
choices of the day on the wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alas, the
service was, shall we say, lackadaisical, and we chose to go elsewhere for our
mid-day jolt of caffeine (for me, some of the thick mixture they call Ice Café,
obtainable at the ice cream store in the crowded, closed part of the market).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, with glad hearts and bellies full, off
we went to complete our shopping.</div>
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(<i>Actually, I had started the ball rolling even before I
stepped foot in the Maccabi clinic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stop
one was to get some loose tea from a store on Jaffa where most people go to buy
freshly ground coffee beans – except that I get my coffee from Debbie, a gourmand
who lives five minutes away from us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
doesn’t just grind her own beans; she gets kilos at a time and roasts the coffee
to order.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I needed some tea and
there I was at the shuk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stop two was for
a loaf of super-delicious bread from Russell’s, a boutique bakery right next to
the best little cafe in Jerusalem, which, as a famous catcher once said, no one
goes to anymore because they’re too crowded.</i>)</div>
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We retraced our steps back to the Iraqi shuk for some
serious produce inspection: tomatoes and cucumbers from one stand, peppers of
every color from another stand, celery, mushrooms, and scallions here, green
beans there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are several things to
note about this section of the market. The prices are just a little lower here
than in some of the other sections; it gets a zero on the upscale scale (each
of these stalls has been there from day one); and it’s a great refutation of
the Lunatic Left’s cries of “apartheid” in The Land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only do Arabs work there – as they do all
over the shuk – but there are Arab-owned stands side by side with others owned
by Jews – and people buy from all of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If you want the best green beans in town, I’ll take you to the Arab kid
who sells them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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It’s amazing how fast one’s cloth shopping bags fill
up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time we have purchased grapes
and other seasonal fruit in the “open shuk” (the watermelon is a real bargain,
but who wants to carry one back to our neck of the woods?), there’s not an inch
of space in either cloth bag or my backpack, not even enough for a sprig of
parsley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time to head home. Take the
light rail one stop back and get on the 174 bus early enough to get our choice of
seats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now comes the funnest part of
my day.</div>
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The bus ride back to Ma’ale Adumim was uneventful, until
we got to the stop right by our big shopping mall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There a woman got one with six kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now no one gets on a bus by herself with six
kids unless she’s on the way to or from the funny farm – if you get my
drift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You might be assuming that she
was a fertile Hareidi type, but, in fact, she was a middle-aged Russian
lady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They clearly weren’t all her
children; maybe none of them were – although all of them were blonde and shared
a common genetic pre-disposition. They were all about the same age, and she was
undoubtedly in the day-care business. The kids all scrambled to find seats, and
the woman stayed in the front to deal with the driver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t hear the conversation very well,
but I quickly figured out what was going on from its length and the way the two
of them were talking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This Russian lady
was negotiating with the driver over how much she had to pay! </div>
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“How much for each child?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Four
shekels.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I’ll give you three.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Four shekels.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I
have six children with me; I want a discount.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Twenty
five shekels for all of us, not one agora more.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Four shekels for each of you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We’re
only going a few more stops…….”</div>
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No one else in the bus paid the slightest attention to this
little scene – as if it happened every day. We had now gone the five stops from
the center of town to where we have to get off, right around the corner from
our building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were still going at
it, and I have no idea what finally happened – except that we were in The Land,
that surreal place where Russian ladies get to haggle with drivers over the cost
of a child’s seat on a bus!</div>
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Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-5497374596827773352012-08-15T14:23:00.000+03:002012-08-15T14:23:35.207+03:00My Fair Lady Part 5
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<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ENCORE………ENCORE………</span></b></div>
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The <i>Encore!</i> Production of <i>My Fair Lady</i>, which
we worked soooo hard to put on and were soooo nervous about, up to the last
minute, was a rousing success; the seven scheduled performances were sold-out
well in advance and enthusiastically received. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many people said it was the best thing the
company ever did; certainly everyone in the cast loved every minute of it and had
the time of their life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One would always
like to think that one’s individual contribution played a part – small or large
– in the collective success. However, my role was, to be brutally honest,
miniscule, and they certainly could have done without me – although I wouldn’t
have wanted them to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What I found
surprising, however, was that the less I had to do, the more fatigued I became.
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We were only going to do seven performances, none of them
“out of town,” i.e., in Ra’anana, Zichron Yaakov, or the like. No long bus
rides; no getting back to Jerusalem at 1AM. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So why did I feel so pooped midway through the
run?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps it was because the most
difficult thing I had to do was keep track of my costume pieces (even harder
than learning <i>Every duke, and earl, and peer is here….</i>).</div>
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Careful readers of these articles may remember that I
earlier wrote something to the effect that <i>My Fair Lady</i> was a
masterpiece in spite of itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of
the problems with the piece is that it fails to make effective use of the
ensemble. (Sir Arthur Sullivan is quoted as praising his collaborator,
"Until Gilbert took the matter in hand choruses were dummy concerns, and
were practically nothing more than a part of the stage setting. It was in
'Thespis' that Gilbert began to carry out his expressed determination to get
the chorus to play its proper part in the performance. At this moment it seems
difficult to realise that the idea of the chorus being anything more than a
sort of stage audience was, at that time, a tremendous novelty.") In any
piece by G&S – or Rodgers and Hammerstein, for that matter – being in the
chorus means waiting in the wings for your time to go out and take over the
stage; you know that whatever musical business you have is relevant, exciting,
and almost always advances the story line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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The justly acclaimed Ascot scene in <i>My Fair Lady</i> is
about the only time when the entire ensemble has something important to do;
otherwise, we’re pretty much wallpaper, pretending to do something while the
main characters carry on their business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(There are, of course, a few scenes in which a smaller group of
performers – servants or a bunch of guys hanging around – get involved in the
action; but that mercifully did not include me.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In addition, because of serious time constraints
during the rehearsal period, there was virtually no choreographed movement for
the men, except for Ascot; with nothing for us to learn, we were free to bop
about the stage, trying to look as “professional” as we could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a result, while my sense of enjoyment in being
in the cast was high, my sense of personal accomplishment was low.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe that accounts for the draggy feeling I
felt waiting in the wings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Either that,
or I’m just getting old.</div>
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Either way, I felt a need to decompress, to “chill out,” once
our final scheduled Thurs. eve. performance was over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Normally, I look forward to the cast party a
few days after the production is over; it may be the best part of the
show!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I was just too weary to attend;
plus I would have had to cancel the Rambam shiur that usually meets at our
apartment on a Sunday eve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, it
was over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have the entire summer
to rest up and get ready for auditions for G&S’s <i>Gondoliers</i>.…..No it
wasn’t over!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not by a longshot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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When Robert Binder booked our performances in the Hirsch
Theatre back in January, he had to decide how many performances to
schedule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just then, his crystal ball
was in the repair shop being reformatted, so he had to make a snap decision
using only his best judgment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He went
the conservative route and chose seven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He could have gone for more, but he was fearful of a half-empty
theater.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had he a glimmer of how successful
the production would be, of course he would have scheduled more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was it too late to add a few more
performances?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would the hall be
available?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would the cast be around or
off to who-knows-where?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was talk on-and-off
about adding more performances, but nothing seemed to materialize.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, seemingly out of the blue, we got the
word: two more shows on July 5. All the leads and most of the supporting cast
were around and available. We were good to go.</div>
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Not so simple as all that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the conclusion of the seventh performance, everyone had handed in the
borrowed components of their costumes, tossed them into large boxes: men’s
shirts here, caps here, women’s aprons here. They would be cleaned, stored,
and, if borrowed, returned to their rightful owners. The process of assigning
appropriate and properly fitting (more or less!) costumes usually went on over
a period of weeks and even months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now
we would have two or three days to figure out which of the men’s dress pants –
all looking reasonably alike, but of widely divergent sizes – had been ours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately, many of the pieces still had the
names of the wearer inside; but it took me almost an hour to retrieve my
swallow tail coat, black pants with a stripe, formal white shirt with
cufflinks, two pairs of gloves, two different top hats, the other black jacket,
a bow tie and a cravat, two formal vests, a pair of spats, a threadbare jacket
with mismatched vest, and a grey cap several sizes too small. Plus, there were
the few items of my own sitting in my closet (those I could find; just remember
not to close the door with a cat inside). The props I would need would be made
available as we needed them: an umbrella, a pair of fake opera glasses, a
handkerchief, and a walking stick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All
of this for the few minutes I scamper about the stage!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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A somewhat bigger project would be repacking all the scenery
and props, getting them to the theater, and setting everything up (this part of
the project I leave to the younger and the stronger). Then the lighting and
sound crews would have to reconfigure everything all over again for the two
performances that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, sometime
after 11PM, the swallow tail coat, black pants with a stripe, formal white
shirt with cufflinks, two pairs of gloves, two different top hats, the other
black jacket, a bow tie and a cravat, two formal vests, a pair of spats, a
threadbare jacket with mismatched vest, and a grey cap several sizes too small
would be again tossed into boxes, along with everyone else’s costumes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The set would again be struck: the music
stands disassembled, all the electrical wiring wrapped up, the backdrops lowered
and folded neatly, the scenery moved over to the loading dock to go back to
storage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life in the Theater is not as fun-filled
as it seems!</div>
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Something wonderful happened with this production.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Usually it has taken months for the filming
of a live performance to be turned into a DVD, and the one for HMS Pinafore
simply didn’t work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this time, the DVD
version was ready almost immediately, and I was able to get a copy right
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sauntered over to our DVD player,
which is connected to the old TV we use to watch downloaded movies, and gingerly
inserted the disc. So that’s what it looked like from the front of the stage, not
from the back of the chorus! And that’s what was going on while we were all schmoozing
backstage!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both Jonathan Gillis
(Higgins) and Miri Fraenkel (Eliza) were even better than I remembered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You could even see me from time to time – if you
looked carefully enough.</div>
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But you know what was really great?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We could sit on the couch in whatever we
happened to be wearing, or not wearing, and enjoy the show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t have to worry that I had with me the
swallow tail coat, black pants with a stripe, formal white shirt with
cufflinks, two pairs of gloves, two different top hats, the other black jacket,
a bow tie and a cravat, two formal vests, a pair of spats, a threadbare jacket
with mismatched vest, and a grey cap several sizes too small.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t have to worry that I was wearing the
right combination with the right props and whether I would make it on stage at
the right time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s great to be on
stage; but it’s nice once in a while to sit back and just enjoy what
collectively you have accomplished. Still, I wonder what the costumes for <i>Gondoliers</i>
will look like?</div>
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Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-62544191762159690032012-08-07T20:22:00.002+03:002012-08-07T20:22:21.483+03:00My Fair Lady Part 4<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">IN ‘ARTFORD WITHOUT ME ‘AT</span></b></div>
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<i>I apologize for the long delay in finishing this series
on My Fair Lady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was halfway done with
part 4 when my computer, with its seemingly impregnable Linux system, crashed;
so that The Rain in Spain went gushing down the drain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the brighter side, my e-mail inbox was
suddenly inundated with editing jobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Paid work!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hold
everything!!!!!!!!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that I’ve sent
out my last invoice, I can try to pick up where I left off.</i></div>
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So where was I?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
were tantalizing close to opening night, and it didn’t seem possible that we
would be able to pull it off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I later
learned that I was not alone; others shared my apprehension – although no one
wanted to blurt out, “No way, we’re ready.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But, ready or not, on Tuesday, May 29, we would have to collectively,
“Get me to the Hirsch on time.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every
one of the purplish upholstered seats in the Hirsch Theatre would be filled
opening night with someone expecting a first-rate show. The Thursday before, we
would leave the cozy confines of our rehearsal space and venture over to
Melabev, a facility for frail seniors, for our next to last rehearsal, in which
everyone was supposed to be in full costume.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We would for the first time have enough room to move about, even if it
wasn’t a real stage, and even though we wouldn’t have available any of our wonderful
scenery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What we would have, for the
first time since the first week or so of rehearsals, was Alfred P. Doolittle, having
just arrived that morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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In a “more perfect” world, some of our principal performers
would be major stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the world we
presently inhabit, we get to have the services of one Bezalel (Chip) Mannekin,
as fine a comic actor as you‘ll find anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He could play Doolittle at any time (except Shabbat), on any stage, with
any company; he’s that good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So the
question wasn’t whether he would be ready, but would the actors who would be
onstage with him be able to mesh their performances with his – with less than a
week to go?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Normally, we would have another rehearsal the Sunday before
we open, but this year Shavuot came out on that day; so no rehearsal that
evening (remember, only one day of ‘yuntif’ in The Land).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now we were really down to the wire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Monday night, our one and only dress
rehearsal, on stage with the scenery in place and all the props ready to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had that one night to figure out where we
were supposed to be on stage and how and when we were to get on and off. Take,
for example, the scene at Ascot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
simply wasn’t enough room on stage for all of us in the ensemble to perform the
wonderful gavotte that Lerner composed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So somebody, probably Gila, suggested that some of us – a dozen or so –
be situated on the sides, in the ‘box seats’ at the race track. In our
rehearsal space, ‘on the side’ meant being squished in the corner, but still
only an arm’s length away from the rest of the cast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was only that Monday did we find out that
our real place would be standing in the aisles in the theater.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would get there by walking through the
men’s dressing area, out into the lobby, and back through the corridor on the
other side of the theater.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When it was
our time to ‘go on,’ one of us would open the door to the front of the theater,
from where we would walk up the few steps to our places. The curtain would rise,
and everyone in the audience would be watching the stage, mesmerized by
Roxane’s backdrop, Rob Binder’s costumes, and, of course, Rachel’s hats. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost nobody would see those of us standing
on the sides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they could hear us<i>.
“Any second now, they’ll begin to run. Hark a bell is ringing, they are
springing for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look, they have
begun…..”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our opening night audience is invariably a friendly crowd,
made up of families and friends of the cast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They never get an A+, 100% performance; there are always too many kinks
to iron out. But still, it’s pretty good. (No, it’s better than that; it is, in
fact, the best show in town. It’s just not as good as it’s going to get.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We in the men’s chorus go back to our
dressing area after each number we are in and ‘confess our sins.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each of us is the first to mention our
mistakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all get a good laugh out
what we did wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then we set about
correcting our <i>faux pas</i>, so that we don’t do it again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect that’s part of the secret of our
success.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By opening night, there is very
little that Rob, Paul, and Arlene can do to make things better; they’ve been
working with us for months, and there is very little left for them to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now it’s up to the cast (and the orchestra);
we’re the ones who have to do it – or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It just so happens that everyone is determined to get it right, to
correct even the tiniest miscue.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the second night, something magical invariably begins to happen,
for real – just as it does every night in the script we’re performing, when after
day and weeks of getting it wrong, out of nowhere, Eliza Doolittle gets it
right. Suddenly, <i>‘Artford, ‘Ereford,</i>’ and ‘<i>Ampshire</i>, are renamed <i>Hartford,
Hereford, and Hampshire</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like
that!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With us, the lines the actors have
been dropping in rehearsals are now being articulated cleanly and on time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lumbering elephants in the dance routines
are replaced by a brigade of nimble feet. Everyone in the cast remembers where
they are supposed to be and what they are supposed to be doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We go
from “No way, we’re ready,” to “What did you expect,” virtually overnight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(OK. It takes a few performances to really
get it down.) Everything falls into place, and the result is magical. The
audience is astounded, flabbergasted, “blown away” by the performance they have
paid 100NIS to see. It happens with every production, and that’s part of the
fun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The crazy thing is that we who are in the show never really
get a chance to see it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are usually
in our dressing areas frantically changing costumes so we will be ready in
time, or just kibitzing. We just have to remember when it’s time for us to go
on – which means we have to know what the scenes are immediately before ours. We
get to hear those bits of dialogue or musical introductions so often, we pretty
much know them in our sleep,.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
speaking of sleep, I did have an anxiety dream about the show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This production, more than any other, I had a
lot of pieces of costumes and the frequent need to change them. I was in a
constant state of worry that I would lose something: a glove, a spat, even the
imitation bowtie I wore for the twenty seconds I was on stage during the
opening number. Is it any wonder that I would have a dream that I couldn’t find
one of my hats and therefore couldn’t go on stage?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately for me, I had this dream two
weeks after the final curtain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagine
being in ‘Artford without me ‘at’!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-11769598980225219042012-06-24T19:23:00.003+03:002012-06-24T19:23:36.708+03:00My Fair Lady Part 3<style type="text/css">
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<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>RACHEL
TAKES THE CAKE</b></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Two weeks to go until
opening night of<i> My Fair Lady </i>and so much to do. Or.......
you could look at it the other way and say, look how much had been
done already and we still have two weeks to go! The costumes were
ready, for one thing. Almost everyone had been given what to wear,
which is saying a lot, all things considered. Usually, Robert Binder
can open the dozens of boxes of costumes used in previous productions
scattered around our rehearsal space and pull out enough uniforms,
ladies' aprons and bonnets, even apparel for several generations of
baronets, to suit everyone on stage.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My Fair Lady, however,
presents its own sartorial challenges. For example, as the curtain
goes up on scene 1, your humble writer is seen for all of twenty
seconds leaving the Opera House and racing across the stage holding
an umbrella to escape the rain. What would the well-dressed English
gentleman of the period wear to the theater of an evening? White tie
and tails, of course (think Fred Astaire in Top Hat)! In other words,
a black swallow-tail coat and matching trousers with a shiny stripe
down the side, a formal dress shirt, a bow tie, a vest, and gloves
-- all white of course. The <i>piece de resistance </i>was the top
hat, which had started out in life a vivid blue in the ballet in
Carousel, and which had been spray-painted black for its <span style="color: black;">new
lease on life</span><span style="color: maroon;">. </span><span style="color: black;">The
Covent Garden scenes, in which I portray a common workman, wasn't so
difficult: an old pair of gray cotton pants and a nondescript shirt
of the same color from my own closet, with an ill-fitting jacket and
vest, plus a gray cap several sizes too small -- all from the </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Encore!</i></span><span style="color: black;">
stash.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But the attire for
Ascot. That's a whole new kettle of fish! The men were to wear a
short black formal jacket with dark pants (I had the latter that with
a little taking out at the waist just about fit me), a white dress
shirt (the same one I wore in the first scene), vests that RB sewed
together from scraps of material, a cravat that velcro'ed in the
back, "spats," gray gloves, and........a real derby hat.
We walked about with fake opera glasses (that Sandy fashioned out of
the cardboard from paper towel rolls) and walking sticks that had
been diverted from their original usage as broom handles. Much of
what we were wearing had been borrowed from individuals and other
theater groups (Try finding formal attire in The Land!!!). But the
Ascot outfits for the women, that was a whole 'nother ball of wax.
Given the multitude of shapes and sizes of our distaff members, there
was nothing for RB to do but to design and sew them himself --
faithfully recreating the original Cecil Beaton costumes, which are
justly celebrated. Then there was the final touch, the Ascot hats.
Not the little things that women go to shul in. We're talking here
about <i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">grand chapeaus to
dazzle and delight at Ascot opening day. Where could </span><i>Encore!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
find such a collection? Who anywhere could replicate the fantastic
creations worn in the film version? Rachel to the rescue! Rachel
Miskin, a mainstay of the troupe, one of those supremely affable
people who make the world a joy to live in, goes about life baking
things. Not rugalach or baguettes mind you, but cakes. Not just
ordinary, run-of-the-mill cakes that any bakery can turn out for
Shabbat or your little darling's eighth birthday, but one-of-a-kind
creations for those once in a lifetime occasions at which you break
out that special bottle of something you've been saving for ten
years. If she can bake the cake to end all cakes, would Rachel be
able to create a series of of equally opulent hats to catch the
attention of every duke, and earl, and peer who might be there? Her
creations did in fact take the cake, dazzling the audience, providing
the final touch to a show-stopping scene, the proverbial "icing
on the cake," that would leave the audience agasp.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">With
two weeks to go, the scenery was also done. Roxane had started work
on the big backdrop of London well before auditions were even held.
With her trusty crew of volunteers, the Ascot backdrop, the interior
of Prof. Higgin's study with its </span><i>trompe l'oeil</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
bookcases, the street where Eliza lives and Freddie waits for her,
the tavern from which Alfred P. Doolittle is first unceremoniously
evicted and then welcomed back with open arms, all of these came into
existence as if by magic and on time. We thought we could wash our
paint brushes for good. But no! At the last minute, there were
props that had to be dealt with: those broom handles which needed to
be transmogrified into walking sticks, ordinary food cartons which
for a brief moment would be passed from chorus member to chorus
member as flower baskets in Covent Gardens. And so, the last Friday
before Shavuot, we had to reassemble one more time and carefully
smear more paint. Whew! Done at last.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">But
what about the show itself? The lines that had not yet been learned,
the cues that were still being missed, the vocalizing which was still
spotty in places, the choreography that had not been learned.
(Arlene, realizing her time constraints, made no effort to create her
usual magic for the male choristers, leaving us on our own to move
about in time to the music.) PLUS.....Alfred P. Doolittle was still
at the University of Maryland, teaching his classes in philosophy.
How would he ever get to the pub, let alone the church on time? We
all knew, from past experience, that everything would somehow come
together; we just didn't know how.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-42840251466853179022012-06-19T22:13:00.001+03:002012-06-19T22:13:52.466+03:00My Fair Lady Part 2<style type="text/css">
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<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>FEB
29......AND ALL IS WELL?</b></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We weren't <i>quite</i>
ready to go live, and we had about two weeks before opening night on
May 29. The miracle was that we were <span style="font-style: normal;">even
remotely</span> ready. It wasn't as if we hadn't started rehearsing
for <i>My Fair</i> <i>Lady</i> early enough (Jan. 25), but there were
just soooooo many interruptions. Even the set painting on Friday
morning, which usually goes like clock-work, was slowed down by a
freak snowstorm and the running of a marathon through the heart of
Jerusalem (I hate to be more curmudgeonly than I normally am, but
enough is enough!) that kept a lot of people from getting to Talpiot
-- or anywhere else for that matter..
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The rehearsal schedule
for the chorus takes into account that everyone won't always be
available; in fact it's safe to say that there's never a rehearsal
when everybody who is supposed to be there actually shows up. We
just keep plugging on with the forces we have, and ultimately
everyone figures out what they are supposed to be doing. At some
point, we are told where we are supposed to on stage, and we begin
integrating our parts with the soloists; and somehow it all comes
together and we're ready.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are always
interruptions, but it occurred to me that the the spring productions
are more problematic than the ones in the fall because of all the
holidays. Yes, there certainly are all the <i>Yom Tovim</i> in Sept.
and October, but they come at the <u>beginning</u> of our rehearsal
schedule. Purim (regular and <i>Shushan</i>), all of Pesach,
Shavuot, plus the additional days that are important here in The
Land: Independence Day, Holocaust Remembrance Day, even <i>Yom
Yerushalayim</i>, come smack dab in the middle, as we are trying to
maintain our momentum and remember what we learned the week before.
Plus this year we had to celebrate Feb. 29.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
No doubt, you are
waiting for me explain what that's all about. So here goes: When
the last troupe of performers was assembled to put on <i>HMS
Pinafore</i>, it was mentioned that we would be also performing
Gilbert and Sullivan's <i>Trial By Jury </i><span style="font-style: normal;">at
some future date</span>, (we were even sent Paul Salter's recording
of our parts) but it wasn't clear where or when. As we got closer
and closer to performing <i>Pinafore</i>, there was less and less
talk of the second show. As I determined later, Robert Binder had
expected to perform <i>TBJ</i> as part of some arts festival in
Jerusalem in the spring of 2012. Whatever happened to put the kibosh
on that I don't know, but our esteemed artistic director had to do
something -- if for no other reason than he had been rehearsing a
number of principals (I can't imagine when he found the time), and he
owed them some kind of performance.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I keep referring to the
production of cool summertime beverages from yellow citrus fruit.
There had to be a performance of <i>Trial By Jury</i>. Wait a
minute; it's 2012, which means that February has twenty-nine days.
Feb. 29: that's the anniversary of the founding of the Jerusalem
Gilbert and Sullivan Society by none other than one R. Binder. And
why that special date? February 29 is the "birthday" of
Frederic, the pirate apprentice in <i>Pirates of Penzance</i>. So
invite members of the Jerusalem G&S society and assorted other
worthies to our rehearsal space for a concert reading of <i>TBJ</i>
and selections from <i>Pirates</i>. There, that was easy, wasn't it?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So on Monday, Feb. 27
at our rehearsal facilities (already getting crowded with scenery). I
along with everyone else who showed up was given a copy of the vocal
score for <i>TBJ</i>.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.93in;">
<i>Hark,
the hour of ten is sounding; Hearts with anxious fears are bounding.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.93in;">
<i>Hall
of Justice crowds surrounding, Breathing hope and fear.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.93in;">
<i>For
today in this arena, Summoned by a stern subpoena,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.93in;">
<i>Edwin,
sued by Angelina, Shortly will appear.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.05in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.05in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">As
you might guess, the piece is about a court action</span><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">brought
by a young woman whose affections</span><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">have
been trifled with by the defendant.</span><i> TBJ </i><span style="font-style: normal;">is
short work, maybe forty minutes in length, the first major
collaboration by the team, produced in 1875.</span><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">
Some people consider it a cantata (for all you Bach fans) for there's
a lot of music, very little staging, and no spoken dialogue. Most
of the music isn't that difficult, except as it gets towards the end
and more and more people are singing different words and different
music at the same time until the judge, in total exasperation, tells
one and all to </span><i>"Put your briefs upon the shelf, I will
marry her</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> (Angelina) </span><i>myself</i><span style="font-style: normal;">."</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.05in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.05in;">
You understand that I had two days to learn the music! OK, we didn't
have to <u>memorize</u> it; we would be singing with the score in
front of us. And the male chorus, as the jury, wouldn't be doing any
little dance steps. But still, two days for something I had <u>never</u>
seen or heard before --when I was still trying to get the music of My
Fair Lady straight in my head.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.05in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.05in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
have a great distaste for making a fool of myself, and so I spent a
considerable amount of time on Tues. and Wed. listening to Paul
Salter's recording of the baritone part and singing with the score in
front of me until I could do a credible job of most of it -- which I
and everyone else did, ignoring the last several numbers with six or
seven part harmony that would require a lot more work. Then it was
time for the excerpts from </span><i>Pirates</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
Hand out copies of the lyrics to several of the songs. Most of the
guys had been in the cast when </span><i>Encore!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
performed it several years ago and remembered:</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.05in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.02in;">
<i>When
the foeman bares his steel,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.02in;">
<i>Tarantara,
tarantara,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.02in;">
<i>We
uncomfortable feel,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.02in;">
<i>Tarantara.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.02in;">
<i>And
we find the wisest thing,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.02in;">
<i>tarantara,
tarantara,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.02in;">
<i>Is
to slap our chests and sing,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.02in;">
<i>tarantara............</i></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.05in;">
as a collection of baritones, the predecessors to Mack Sennett's
Keystone Kops enter, prance around, and finally, finally exit.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.06in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.03in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I,
to my eternal dismay and sorrow, had not been in the company that had
performed </span><i>Pirates</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
several years ago; hence, I had never sung this music before either.
However...... I can slap my chest and sing along with the best of
them, and so I joined in. "</span><i>Tarantara, tarantara,
tarantara, tarantara</i><span style="font-style: normal;">........"
No one seemed to be the wiser that I was winging it. A good time was
had by all, and we could resume rehearsing </span><i>My Fair Lady</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
which we would be performing in front of a larger, paying audience
three months from the last </span><i>tarantara, tarantara</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></div>Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-54396193669132387142012-06-12T16:04:00.002+03:002012-06-12T16:04:22.047+03:00My Fair Lady Part 1<style type="text/css">
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<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>THE
RETURN OF THE CHIEF CUTTER</b></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was standing on the
catwalk of the "AACI building" that evening in January,
waiting for the <i>My Fair Lady</i> auditions to start, looking
around to see who had showed up, when I had the following flashback:</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It was the first day of
school at P.S. 80 in The Bronx, and I was , let's say, back in the
fifth grade. There were exactly three classes per grade and they
were not tracked, meaning that we were not assigned based on upon how
we did on any of the standardized test they unfailingly gave us but
on some random selection. So we never knew until that first
morning of school who would be in our class. There were always a lot
of kids I knew, and I hoped that some of my friends would be among
them; but there would always be, from the 100 or more children in
the grade, some kids I had never. met before. So everyone would be
furtively looking around the room checking out everybody else....</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At any of the previous
<i>Encore!</i>auditions I had been to, we all were waiting outside
for our turn, some calmly sitting and chatting, some, like me, pacing
back and forth, going over our audition piece one more time. This
time, because it was so exquisitely cold out, and because our current
digs are a little larger, everyone got to wait inside. There were
chairs lined up in the part of the room near the entrance and there
were screens set up so that whoever was auditioning would have a
measure of privacy. This way, you could get to hear your
comrades-in-song as they tried to warble their way into the hearts
and minds of the selection committee, Robert Binder (artistic
director and guiding force behind all things <i>Encore!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">),
Paul Salter (musical director and maestro </span><i>par excellence</i><span style="font-style: normal;">),
and Arlene Chertoff (choreographer and business manager). Some of
what would happen was predictable: veteran </span><i>Encore!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
talent who would almost certainly be invited back; some was
gratifying: I could get to hear men and women who had been in the
chorus with me take a solo and demonstrate how really talented they
are. There were elements of drama and pathos: an elderly woman whose
voice had aged faster than she had, young girls waiting to be
"discovered," and a few women with real talent, all of whom
would not get the leading role.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I,
myself, have no illusions of grandeur; all I was doing was trying to
secure my spot in the ensemble (as well as offer my services writing
publicity, painting sets, selling tickets, and the like). One of the
things I like about these auditions is I can go through my goody-bag
of old time favorites and pull out a number that no one but me is
likely to know. For example, this ballad, culled from a Dec. 11,
1919 Victor recording by the great Irish tenor John McCormack, which
goes:</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<i>I
know my lips have never met your lips in sweet caress,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<i>Your
hand has never touched my hand in thrilling tenderness;</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<i>You've
never spoke of love to me, and still somehow I know,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<i>For
love has made me wondrous wise, your eyes have told me so.....</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<i>I
saw your eyes, your wonderful eyes,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<i>With
love-light and tenderness beaming,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<i>They
thrilled me through, they filled me too,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<i>With
wonderful dreams I am dreaming.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<i>No
need to speak, no more shall I seek,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<i>For
my eyes have taught me their meaning,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<i>And
love has come, at last I know,</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<i>Your
eyes have told me so..........</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">(Gus
Kahn, </span><span style="font-size: small;">Egbert Van Alstyne, and Walter Blaufuss)</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.95in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Well,
that's how they pitched woo in days of yore. None of this, "You
ain't nothin' but a hound dog," or even more </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;">trendy
manifestations.</span></span><span style="font-style: normal;"> Not
surprisingly,, most of the guys auditioning went with more
conventional pieces, like "On the Street Where You Live."
No imagination!!!! After I finished my audition piece, Paul gave
me the score for the beginning of the Ascot number (</span><i>Every
Duke and Earl and Peer is here, everyone who should be here is
here...</i><span style="font-style: normal;">) and asked me to sing it
with his accompaniment. I realized later why: he was uncomfortable
with the vocal arrangement as written and was wondering if the talent
(?) on hand could handle it, or would he need to re-write the part to
make it a tad more singable. He re-wrote the part.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My
Fair Lady is one of the most beloved musicals ever written --
probably among the five most popular. My guess is that it is the most
idiosyncratic, by which I mean that it doesn't follow most of the
conventions that have been around since the time of our heroes,
Gilbert and Sullivan. There are really only four principal vocal
roles; there is relatively little for the whole chorus to do; instead
of the usual rousing finale with the entire cast on stage, the ending
is, shall we say, tentative, with Eliza returning to Henry Higgins,
just in time to help him locate the slippers which he always seems
to misplace. (In Shaw's original, Pygmalion, Eliza does marry
Freddie Eynsford-Hill and the two of them live unhappily ever after
-- but that ending wouldn't work in a musical.) You might consider
the musical version a masterpiece in spite of itself.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Anyway,
when rehearsals started, I noted a few new faces among the men and a
whole lot among the women, a number who are comfortably middle-aged
and several under twenty. More names to remember. The routine, of
course, was the same as always: hand out the relevant parts of the
score and start working, one number at a time, trying to remember our
parts -- even harder than remembering the names of the forty plus
people in the chorus.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To
the casual onlooker, it would have seemed that we were just starting
work on the production, but to those of us in the know, it was
evident that that was not the case. Well before, Robert Binder had
developed his concept of how the work should be staged, Roxane
Goodkin-Levy has prepared her drawings and scale models, and Ronnie
Burns had started the actual construction of the sets. As the weeks
went by, our rehearsal space would get smaller and smaller -- or more
accurately more and more crowded with scenery, furniture, costumes,
and props -- until there was almost no room to breathe, let alone
maneuver in those situations when were supposed to be moving about
the stage.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now,
when you are surrounded by a growing phalanx of scenery, there's
only one thing to do: paint it. Whether you're starting with new
wood or reconfiguring pieces used in the last five productions, the
first thing you have to do is start with a coat of primer. That's
where I come in. Having been made redundant from my previous position
of "chief cutter," i.e., the guy who would wield a box
cutter and carve out all the pieces from cardboard boxes, I needed
something to occupy my time and make use of my negligible skills. A
whole new position was created especially for me: "chief
whitewasher." Before Roxanne or the handful of volunteers with
real talent could actually tackle the incredibly intricate designs, I
could be given a wide brush and a can of white (once in a while,
black or brown) paint and turned loose on some unoffending piece of
wood. It's nice to feel needed.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">It
turned out that my retirement from my previous position was only
temporary. Roxane, when she's not working round the clock on </span><i>Encore!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
sets, teaches art to senior citizens and school children. One of the
schools in which she works was putting on a little play, and, of
course (!) Roxane was expected to design the simple set, which
included a small building made of (what else?) cardboard. Roxane
explained the situation to Rob, who immediately thought of the
obvious solution. "Why don't you ask the chief cutter?" I
wasn't really concerned that my cutting skills would get rusty; but
how could I say no to Roxane? So there we were one evening in
February, lugging cardboard through a quiet street in French Hill
(the neighborhood near the Mount Scopus campus of Hebrew U. and
Hadassah Hospital). You tell me whether this situation could have
happened anywhere else outside The Land. We had to fight our way
into the building, even though the people in charge had approved the
project because the custodian (in his white shirt) decided that our
being there would disturb his schedule and equilibrium. Nonetheless,
a (deliberately) rickety structure was assembled, which Roxanne would
return to decorate, and the school's little dramatic interlude went
off splendidly shortly before Pesach -- at least that's what I was
told. My fame as chief cutter precedes me! Isn't that a comfort?</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2395949460091922275.post-24831843316578353892012-06-08T14:00:00.004+03:002012-06-08T14:00:53.886+03:00Starting Off on the Right Foot and Then Spraining It<style type="text/css">
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<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>No, faithful reader,
I have not deserted you. From before Pesach, I was engaged in several
very convoluted editing jobs that have taxed my strength and spirit.
Now I am done and have received my compensation via PayPal -- more
than enough to cover the cost of a new iPad. (Every over-age boy is
entitled to a new toy once in a while!) And so we will pick up as if
there had been no interruption. I will be interspersing this series
about this one week in our life with another on the Encore!
production of My Fair Lady in which I have a small part in the chorus
-- another venture which took up more of my time than I'd like to
think about. </i>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If only everything in
life that started out chock-full of promise would end on such a high
note. But, alas, everything is not always that simple. Let us
consider our recent Pesach as a prime example of how one can be
blind-sided while traveling along life's little journey when
everything seems to be <i>kol b'seder</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
or in the vernacular, groovin' right along. So let's start at the
beginning when everything was hunky-dory. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Generally speaking, we
all have our little routines and rituals for Pesach: how and what we
clean or don't clean, where and when to shop and what to buy, and the
biggie: who's coming to the seder(s).</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are certain
routines which we have developed in the five Pesachs we have been
here in The Land, although, in truth, some of our activities have
become so simplified that they hardly merit being called routines.
We just walk into our local supermarket anytime before the holiday
starts and buy whatever we need -- they're not going to run out of
anything! If I need to have any utensils kashered for Pesach, two
days before, I just walk over to a shul five minutes away, where the
yeshivah bochers have set up operations with tubs of boiling water
and blow torches. When I want to burn my hametz the morning before
the holiday, I just walk downstairs. There's always somebody with a
good blaze going next to the trash dumpsters, and I just throw my
stuff on top. As we did in The States, we have separate cabinets for
our Pesach utensils in our new kitchen. Close the regular cabinets (a
little duct tape for good measure, open the Pesach ones, and we're
good to go.)</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We have a standing
invitation to join our friends Ron and Esther at their ONE seder
(time off for good behavior!). We supply the shmurah matzoh (we have
settled on two kilograms as being more than enough); we bring some
wine, they have some wine; they supply everything else, including
Ron's running commentary (I stress "running" rather than
"plodding"), allowing us to be on our way home up the hill
before the clock strikes 12. (One fellow at shul told me that they
had set a family record, finishing at 3:15, the earliest they had
ever ended. Egads!) Plus Ron and I are in full agreement that when
it says a "<i>kzayit</i>," as a measure of how much matzoh
and other stuff you're supposed to eat, an olive is an olive is an
olive -- to paraphrase Gertrude Stein, who knew her roses, if not
much about things Jewish -- not the equivalent of an ostrich egg! We
(Ron and I, not Gertrude) are also of the opinion that "maror"
(bitter herbs) does not mean horseradish, which is neither bitter nor
an herb. A number of the green things that actually do qualify are
indigenous to The Land, for example, the original kind of lettuce,
much more pungent than the romaine now sold commercially. (One of
our local Anglo rabbis told us that he picks the wild lettuce growing
in his garden.) So no need to gorge ourselves on matzoh or destroy
our taste buds for no good reason.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
One established custom
here in The Land is to get out and go somewhere during the
intermediate days of Pesach and Sukkot -- and I don't mean to Great
Adventures. Here anywhere you go is a great adventure of sorts. We
always try to go on a <i>tiyul</i> or two, and this year we found two
<i>tiyulim</i> of interest, both sponsored by the Association of
Americans and Canadians in Israel (AACI), which would involve some
but not a lot of bus traveling on our part. We started with "Springs
in Spring," which began in Kfar Etzion, one of the many small
communities near Efrat in Gush Etzion (that's the area south of
Jerusalem). There's a regular Egged bus which runs every hour or so
which took us to the one bus stop in this kibbutz community. We
quickly realized that there was another couple who had gotten off the
bus with us, obviously going on the same tour as we were. We were
about half an hour early and so what was there to do but introduce
ourselves and begin playing everyone's favorite game, Jewish
Geography. It would not have been that surprising to find that they
would know somebody or even several people that we do, provided that
these several people have something in common. But this couple knew
our friends Steve and Ettie, who moved from Albany, NY to Ma'ale
Adumim some fifteen or twenty years ago AND also our hiking buddy
Danny, a life-long Teaneck resident-- good folks who have absolutely
no connection to one another. Try that one out yourself. Pick two
people you know at random from different places and different times
in your life and then go about finding a third person who knows both
of them. See how long it takes you!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Speaking of Danny, he
would have enjoyed this jaunt through the hills of Gush Etzion,
although he's used to much longer treks. Our guide was quite
knowledgeable, but he had made one serious mistake, not indicating in
the publicity the degree of difficulty of this venture. Most of the
AACI walks are virtually strolls down the lane, but this one involved
scrambling down a steep path, treading gingerly from stone to stone.
A lot of the folks on this trip, most them seriously middle-aged,
were not in proper footwear. It took almost twenty minutes for one
guy in flip-flops to get down the fifty yards to the bottom. My
problem was a little different. Just as we were about to start the
<i>tiyul</i>, I twisted my ankle (ouch!). I've done similar things
in the past and just walked it off. But I've never had to hike it
off. I had no choice but to keep walking, although I was out of
commission for two days thereafter. Still it was a fine walk in
glorious spring weather. That was, in fact, the whole point of
"Spring and Springs", to go gallivanting through the Gush
during that short span of time when the hills and valleys are all in
bloom; and to locate the various <i>mayanot</i> that flow hither and
yon throughout the area.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What I liked about this
tour was its singular combination of nature and local history. We
began right near the rag-tag collection of stores in Kfar Etzion at
the site of an ancient olive oil press whose stone foundation is
still visible. There are many such remains of homes and religious or
commercial enterprises scattered throughout The Land. Still, respect
must be paid to each and everyone of them; each ancient community in
which they are found is part of our collective patrimony, evidence
that we were once there and a reason for us to return. After stopping
briefly at a spring which had been turned into a local watering-hole
-- a good place for youngsters to take a quick dip and families to
enjoy a Chol Hamoed picnic -- we wound up in the neighboring
community of Bat Ayin, which houses a varied collection of Bratslav
Hassidim and is probably the only place I can think of where you can
find a <u>car</u> spray-painted with the ubiquitous "Na Nach
Nachma Nachman meUman." (which means something like '<i>Please
rest in peace Nachman from Uman' --</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
although I'm convinced that this elusive figure would have been a
lot happier if they were to take what's left of his remains out of
the Ukraine and knocked off the grafitti which has spread throughout
The Land like kudzu</span>). Along the way, we passed a middle-aged
Bratzlaver (the same guy who owned the car) in his white shirt,
watering his horse. That's Bat Ayin!
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In keeping with the
theme of our excursion, we finished with a stop at the remains of a
mikvah that was in use two millenia ago. We had almost made a
complete circle, and the walk back to our starting point in Kfar
Etzion was about fifteen minutes. Our bus going back was scheduled
to arrive for an additional half an hour, plenty of time to poke our
noses into the legendary Naot shoe outlet, one of the several stores
nestled inside Kfar Etzion. There are some outlet stores in The
Land, but, just like in The States, you have to know where they are.
Naot makes a good selection of women's sandals -- not cheap -- and
the outlet store has them and a lot more footwear for men and women
at a better price than you'd get on Jaffa St. back in Jerusalem.
Should I or shouldn't I mention that Barbara ("I hate shopping")
gave in and purchased a pair of sandals?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Two days later, having
sufficiently rested my sore ankle by forgoing a concert I had planned
to attend that evening in Jerusalem and forgoing a trip to Tel Aviv
with Barbara and Natania the next day to see married daughter Tina
and husband David, we were set for the second excursion, one in the
middle of Jerusalem. The planned route was to start at the parking
lot next to the Mormon University and snake our way down and around
until we reached the City of David, south of The Old City. Now I
sort of, sort of, knew where the Mormon campus is -- near the Hebrew
U. campus on Mount Scopus. But sometimes 'sort of'' won't do --
especially if you're walking, and 'sort of' is in actuality two miles
away. Why not call up the lady leading the tour? She'll know
exactly where to go, won't she? Note to self for future reference:
if you're considering going on a tour ,and the guide can't give you
exact directions to where they're starting, reconsider your plans.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If we had listened to
her, we would have wound up in the middle of a nearby Arab
neighborhood -- not part of the itinerary. Instead, we figured out on
our own where to go -- sort of -- and wound up at the top of the
hill where we needed to be, looking down at the Emek Tzurim National
Park. Just in time to wait twenty minutes for some stragglers coming
by car, who had gotten lost ten miles away. More than enough time for
me to look around down below, I could see the sifting site, the same
place where I had gone sifting with Myron and Esther a number of
years before.<span style="color: maroon;"> </span> The Muslim authorities
who were given control of the Temple Mount had built a large
underground mosque, in the process digging up I-don't-know how many
tons of earth from that holy place and dumping it unceremoniously in
the nearby Kidron Valley. So, using our usual ability to turn lemons
into a palatable drink, the Israeli archaeological authorities moved
the whole kit and caboodle to the site where it is now and set to
work sifting through this rubble, in the process finding valuable
artifacts that had remained buried since at least the destruction of
the Second Temple</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Our little group began
by walking down the hill towards the sifting site. What I remember
to be a fairly small operation has over the years been expanded
tremendously. As it was during the school vacation, the place was
packed with Jewish youth, all sifting with the same intensity as a
rabbi looking for bugs in lettuce. They weren't the only youngsters
in the area. We could hear and then see a group of local girls in
their school uniforms chanting in Arabic. Better that I don't know
what they were saying! I should also add another bit of local color:
just as we were about to head on, a flock of goats marched down the
hill and headed of to parts unknown!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now I'll give our guide credit. She had
written that we would be going through parts of Jerusalem that we
normally wouldn't go through -- and she was right. We began hiking
through the park area, which now has a walking trail -- thanks to the
new Jerusalem mayor -- up to a look-out point paid for by a wealthy
Mormon, on and around, until we came to an area filled with churches
and monasteries and scads of Christian tourists -- it also being the
Easter season. Our guide took a group into one of the churches to
see I-don't-know-what -- as I politely remained outside. We then
continued, walking along the road on the east side of The Old City,
passing more well-appointed churches built in the last hundred years
and large grave sites of wealthy Jews who were alive when the Second
Temple was still standing. The final stop on the tour was supposed
to be at the City of David, directly south of The Dung Gate. By this
time, Natania (who was with us for this trip) and I had overdosed on
guide-ese and in desperate need of caffeine and other sustaining
nourishment, headed off into The Old City, where Barbara would meet
us later.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I've had a number of discussions with
our friend Jeff, who has taken the tour guide course and has had the
opportunity of watching the finest English-speaking guides in The
Land, about what makes a good tour guide. What distinguishes the best
from the rest? Some of it is personality and good-old-fashioned
people skills -- those you can't teach. Some of it, though, is the
willingness to tell a story, or, to put it a different way, to stay
on message -- something a person can learn to do. Why are you
telling me about this; what's the point? If you're on a tour, and
the guide is just passing on a random collection of information, at
some point you start tuning out. Likewise if the guide is intent on
passing along every last tidbit of information he has ever learned
about a particular point of interest. MEGO! (My eyes glazeth over.)
To be fair, I should say that I am not the best listener on any tour;
at some point, I usually wander away from the group in search of
something to photograph. But I can usually tell if I'm missing
anything important the guide is saying or if I'm simply wandering
away to avoid the incessant drone.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Anyway, we did get to see parts of
Jerusalem we had never been to before; and if I had to start over on
my own and retrace my steps, I'm not so sure I could do it. So even
if I didn't learn a lot about what I saw, it was worth the effort.
No one can say we didn't do our part in Walking The Land! However,
there was still plenty of time to do other things, which I did, and I
will share with you in the next episode.</div>Fred Casdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06094910322446653398noreply@blogger.com0