THE MONRONOVITZ DOCTRINE, OR BETTER KEEP WALKIN’

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.  There I was, part of the decidedly secular, left-liberal culture that was The City College of New York some fifty years ago.  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?  A little history about the Cuban Missile Crisis for those (most!) of you who weren’t around at the time.

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.  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.  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  – aimed directly at the coast of Florida – which, as we all know, is only ninety miles away – and all points north and west.  Oh, the uproar.  James Monroe was undoubtedly turning over in his grave.

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.  That’ll larn ‘em!  Unfortunately, Nikita Khrushchev, the Soviet leader, was at best an indifferent student.  He must have been playing hooky or shooting spitballs when the teacher was discussing the Monroe Doctrine.  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.  What’s the big deal?

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.  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.  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.

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.  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?

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.  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.   A deal was brokered under the aegis of the United Nations (one of the few times that agency actually did something useful).  The Soviet fleet turned around and went home.  The nuclear missiles were removed from Cuban soil.  The U.S. committed itself never to invade Cuba.  It also removed its nuclear weapons from Italy and Turkey.

Whew!  We wouldn’t all be blown to smithereens after all.  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.

I can certainly understand why someone of a younger generation might have difficulty understanding what all the ruckus was about.  No missiles were ever fired from Cuba.  No one – neither the Cubans nor the Russians – was threatening to fire them.  No one was planning to use them.  It was all “just in case.” Simply put, “You got missiles; we got missiles.”  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.  Each side was then free to subvert and undermine the other in less dramatic ways.  That’s why it was called “The Cold War.”

It was just that pesky Monroe Doctrine (actually written, I understand, by John Q. Adams), which stated in part: “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.” In the less formal language of today’s world, it would be something like, “You’re in our turf now.  Better keep walkin.’”

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.  (The Doctrine respected the British claim to Canada.) But the point was made, and it stuck.  And there came a time when the Americans were more than able to enforce it, by land, by air, and by sea.  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….)

Perhaps what we need here in The Land is a Monronovitz Doctrine.  That’s right, a Monronovitz Doctrine, making it clear in diplomatic language that, 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.  “This is our neighborhood, and don’t mess with us here.  The minute you even THINK of starting something, we’ll give it to you good.  So better keep walkin’.”  Maybe we can’t yet make that stick, but it would be a start, something to express how we feel about things.  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’.

A Beeg Deal About Wine

A BEEG DEAL ABOUT WINE

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.

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.….....

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. (Unless Barbara goes by herself to the cheese shop in our local mall, where they offer samples of the good stuff to customers who are both discerning and weak-willed.) 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….

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!

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.

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.

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 there 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.

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, all of 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.

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!

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 a 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.

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 shiputsim (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.)

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. (Ten minutes ago, the guys came down and took upstairs the new bathtub that had been sitting in our living room.)

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.

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.

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!!!????

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.

“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.

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.

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?

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 http://guideforisrael.com/personal-wine-tour):

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.

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 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.

PILPEL COMES AND PILPEL GOES

PILPEL COMES AND PILPEL GOES: A DOG FOR A WEEK

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.
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.


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.


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.


We understood the situation all too well. That's how we acquired Cookie and Moby, our two Tonkinese cats. The original owner needed to return to England for medical treatment that he hoped would arrest his deadly auto-immune condition. (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.


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.


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....


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. One last desperate act of avoidance. 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.


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.


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.


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.


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^th St., where we lived. Cindy needed the exercise and I needed the time to think.....


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. (Cindy want to go DOWN?) 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 raison-d'etre. 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!”


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.


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).


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!


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.


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.


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 “Have I mentioned how much I love this sweetheart?!” 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.

Road Hogs

ROAD HOGS

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. (http://mylifeisacosmicjoke.blogspot.co.il – Aug. 6, 2013)

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.

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.

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 merpeset 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.

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.

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?”

At this point in time, I have ninety-two Facebook friends, who can be divided – unlike Gaul – in five unequal parts: the locals (friends and acquaintances from Ma'ale Adumim), Encore! (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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.”

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.

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, “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.

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.

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 “a glorious day.” “Road hogs,” beware!

A Light We Ain't

A LIGHT WE AIN'T

I'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.

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.

Every year, organizations here put out announcements that go something like this:

Big Tisha B'Av Bash

Fun for the whole family!

Music and Dancing!

Refreshments

And then underneath it says something like: in the event Mashiach has not arrived and Beit HaMikdash rebuilt by then, we will read Eicha and recite Kinot 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. “Hello, Shloime. I'm calling from Congregation Shomrei Galus. We'd like to book your band for erev Tisha B'Av. Just in case.......”)

Starting from right after Tisha B'Av last year, I began paying attention to various events in the Jewish world. What gevaldig 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?

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.

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 represent 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.

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.

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”).

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.”

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^th 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.

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, all by the finest people living anywhere on the planet. Just the kind of activity 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.

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 en masse, 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?

But at least these liberal groups don't go around this time of year kvetching about sinat chinam. Tikkun olam, 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. Sinat chinam, 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 hamsin. 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 “Enough of this farce. What's the point of all this palaver if we are ignoring the mess that's staring us in the face – like the well-traveled elephant-in-the-room?”

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?)

Derech eretz (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 other 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.

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 en masse and are horrified by what they see. That is one tough assignment. We'd better be up to it.

(“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”?)

Not Eilat More To Say

NOT EILAT MORE TO SAY

That would be a perfect job for Natania. 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.

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).

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 http://mylifeisacosmicjoke.blogspot.co.il/)

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 changed positions, so did I.  But all the while, there was someone next to me – at least in spirit – my photography teacher, Lou Bernstein.  I had spent more hours than I can remember out 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 several decades and thousands of miles away from when and where I had learned my craft.

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 considerable risk of being passé.  I had already written an Appreciation that will shortly (?) go on his website, www.loubernsteinlegacy.com, and had begun preparing a detailed biographical article to go into Wikipedia.  So for days on end, I had gone 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 The Photo League and Sid Grossman, 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 recycling a life-time's worth of knowledge and memories from a world of long ago when an older man took the trouble to teach

a neophyte photographer all he knew about his craft.

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.

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: We got a call from our friends Ian and Thelma, 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. It seems that Avi needed at least one more couple to make this venture a go.

We would, of course, get to meet Avi, who takes it upon himself about twice a year to 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 for the place the group is staying in 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 in Ian and Thelma's car going to meet the others first for a 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.

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 Gulf of Eilat. 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. Plus we would get some decent wine to drink, courtesy of some of our trip-mates. Instead of relaxing by the pool or strolling leisurely on the promenade, we would be going on some reasonably serious rambles huffing and puffing through the woods and up and down some some formidable rock formations. 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 – not better, but different. 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 so short a span of time.

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.

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 merpesot (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?).  Within a 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 – 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 think 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 for sure……..