A Vacation With a Difference?

We wanted to take a few days off.

“Where do you want to go?” my husband asked me. “Prague? Paris? Barcelona?”

“No, and no, and no,” I answered. Why go tour an exotic,  foreign city and dine in fine restaurants when you could detox? I knew I wanted a life-changing experience and I was sure this was it. 

For many years, I attempted detox at home and failed hopelessly. Now was the time. I felt it inside. Our friends, meanwhile, were toying with the idea of joining us, but then decided on a five-star, breathtakingly elegant, gourmet resort. I stoically booked us in at a health farm called  Mitzpe Alumot and on Sunday, with trepidation, we drove up to the kibbutz.

Day 1

We checked in and were met by a young guy zipping around in a golf cart. I notice he had a tall glass of green juice sitting in the front seat. No Coke or can of Sprite. My first sign that yes, I must be in Oz. He savored a long sip, smiled blissfully and asked us to throw our bags in the back. We jumped in beside him and he whisked us to our room.

The sweeping view of the Kinneret, the Golan Heights and the fertile farms below was so staggering I felt breathless. Our room was at the very edge of the slope, where verdant green meets large boulders and untamed land. There was nothing below but incredible panorama.; and silence except for birds that swooped and flittered amongst the flowers. I felt serene already.

Our neighbors next door.

Time for our indoctrination. We went to the reception area where a group of people were milling, their eyes shifting nervously. We all looked uptight, uncomfortable, unsure.  A tad restless. We were given a tour of the place, told a few rules including a plea not to use our cell phones. We settled down for a chat with the group leader, Izohar. Young and dynamic, he was wearing a large knit kippa and had a black beard. He was not the type I was expecting to see here. I imagined one of those JewBhus with long Rastafarian locks and tie-dye pants. Yet I was so moved to hear Izohar so beautifully weave health and cleansing with spirituality and Torah. He introduced the concept by quoting Rambam and ended his talk with a poignant teaching by Rav Ashlag.

Dinner time! Before we ate, we had to all join hands and form a circle, while hearing beautiful teachings. We sat down at one long table, still feeling very uncomfortable. Most people sat starting at their plates and ate in silence. Two dehydrated falafel balls stood at attention on our plate, robed in green tehina and accompanied by salad. On the buffet was a huge salad bar with bowls of sprouts, plates of chopped vegetables, grated vegetables and spiraled vegetables. Like kindergarten paints, three jars of sauces waited for us at the end; one glow-in-the-dark green, one pumpkin orange and one sunny yellow. Oil free, a bit watery but tasty.

We sat in silence and we crunched. It took time to eat all of these vegetables. And in case of hunger, we took more, then munched until we were tired of munching. We could not drink during meals for 20 minutes after, something I found very challenging.

We then had a lecture on internal cleansing, a very squeamish subject, and something to think about another time.

Back in our room, our tummies a little exasperated with us, we opened our phones only to see our friends’ lavish five-star hotel dinner staring at us on Whats App. We studied the photo very carefully, looking at each item on the cornucopian buffet table, especially eying the trays of kebabs and mountains of rice. We blinked hard in silence.

Read more: Day 2, Day 3, Day 4 

What’s in a parking ticket?

If you are ever in the city of Tsfat and you get one of those official looking papers tucked under your windshield wiper, run!  Sell your car and go live off the grid, because that’s probably easier than figuring out how to pay a parking ticket.

Having received my fair share of parking tickets in Israel, I do have experience with this.  Take, for example, Tel Aviv. I begrudgingly paid my ticket right away using a convenient phone service.  To help facilitate any issues, there’s a website in English with a Tel Aviv parking violation page. 

In Ra’anana, where they love to take one’s money, it’s the same. But beware of bringing a car anywhere near Ra’anana, as menacing pkachim will stealthily hunt you down. Those “Men in Black” with their dark shades sneak around on their silent electric motorbikes handing out tickets even before you pull the keys from the ignition.

A Tsfat parking ticket is, well, artistic in an abstract sense. Look at the ticket upside down, sideways, front and back; you will see words, but gather no concrete information. There is no place on the ticket that tells you how to pay it. You may make out something about the Doar, the place Israelis line up all day long and perform the most bizarre, un-post office related activities imaginable. Lining up to pay bills seems like a very backward activity for such a high-tech country, but that itself may be another blog entry and I’ve already had enough post-office related breakdown (see Burnt Quinoa and A Stamp).

I could not handle visiting the post office and spied a phone number way up in the corner of the ticket. This was a start; it was Monday at 1:00 p.m., regular office hours. The phone rang and rang. No one answered and there was no message. 

I then emailed a friend who knows everything and everyone in Tsfat. She has no car so has never had the opportunity to pay a parking ticket, but she dug up a phone number for a company in charge of parking tickets.

I called and explained the problem. They gave me another number and I called. The woman who answered the phone said this was the right place, but I needed to talk to Dina.

“She’s sitting shiva so call back in two days,” she said and hung up.

Where else in the world would you call an office and get such an answer? Outside  of Israel, a clerk would say, “She’s away from the office. Please call back in two days.”

This is a sweet reminder that Israel is an informal place and a tiny country where people talk to strangers like they are family, be it with kind, gruff or rude words. It reminded me of the time I was stopped at a red light and the driver in the car beside me signaled to me to pull down the window. I did and he asked me how much I paid for my car. When I told him, he screamed back, “Hah! You paid too much,” and took off.

We're on holiday...and we live here

There’s something about beaches that brings out the holiday spirit.  As we were in need of a break last Sunday, we jumped on our mountain bikes and headed west towards the sea.

There’s also an element of excitement living in a tourist destination and when we feel like getting away from it all, we simply leave our town with no major investment and no jet lag.

And when we combine beaches and touring with our mountain bikes, we end up with sixty-five fascinating, beautiful kilometers, a lot of adventure, tired calves and a mild sunburn.

Our first view of the sea was in Herzeliya Pituach, where we followed a dirt road that hugged the cliffs above the sparkling Mediterranean. Sunday in Israel is a work day, so the beaches were empty save for some surfers gliding atop the white caps.

We rode past Sde Dov airport, where prop planes practically scraped our helmets before touching down. Old men sat patiently watching their bobbing lines. I swerved away, terrified of being the next hooked halibut, as a fisherman eagerly reeled in his rod,.  The days of solitary fishermen are numbered as I heard this area is slated to be Tel Aviv’s new Riviera with luxury Cannes-style hotels, galleries, restaurants and performance halls in the plans.   

The Namal, once an old port with warehouses, is already a sophisticated shopping area with sleek restaurants and upmarket shops and a wooden boardwalk that undulates like the sea. Large waves crashed onto the walkway, spraying me with a salty mist. People quietly lounged outside on café couches sipping their morning coffees.

Continuing south into downtown Tel Aviv, the energy picked up. Crowds of tourists spilled out of hotels and onto the beaches. A small sign posted on a large wooden fence announces that it was “Yom Nashim,” women’s day at the separate beach.  There is a place for all in this city as at the neighboring beach, dogs chased Frisbees into the surf on their very own “Doggy Beach” while a yogi perfected a downward dog stretch atop the warm sand.

We pedaled down the boardwalk onto a specially designed bike line that rode alongside the cars. As traffic signals with a red and green flashing bicycle cautioned us to stop for pedestrians, I envisioned entire cities with dedicated bike lanes. In fact, these bicycle lanes were so popular, I had to ‘check my blind spots’ before changing lanes or pulling out.

The path carried us south past beach and parkland with rolling grassy hills. Soon we were in Old Jaffa with its cobbled roads and art galleries tucked behind stone archways. We parked our bikes beside Arab men leaning over a serious game of shesh pesh and sipping strong coffee.

After a filling meal at the Tripolitarian Doctor Shakshouka restaurant, we were invigorated. The restaurant was packed with close to 100 tourists, part of a federation group from the U.S., a reminder that we live in a hot tourist spot. And as we retrieved our bikes, we ran into another large group: sari-clad Indians getting the Jaffi lowdown in Punjabi.

Leaving trendy Jaffa behind, we cycled downhill to the old port and a transitional part of town where centuries clashed; roosters cock-a-doodle-dooed from ramshackle gardens outside old tin-roofed homes (it was a scorching afternoon so their internal clocks were certainly off), while gleaming mansions with uninterrupted sea views clung to a bougainvillea-clad hillside. The gowns in the bridal stores notified us that we were in the Arab part of Jaffa. Yet a few ‘pedals’ away were the beaches of Bat Yam. Arabic turned to Russian in a single breath, while shesh pesh transmigrated into very serious games of chess.

We parked our bikes and went for a swim in a protected inlet. Here the water was warm and we swam along a man-made reef to popular Russian tunes on the local radio station. I was forced to trade in my Tolstoy association of Russia with snowstorms and fur hats for sunny beaches and bikinis.

As the sun started a lazy descent and school children flocked to the beach holding their parents’ hands, we knew it was late and time to head back. We had biked 30 km and had to return via the same route. Picking up speed, we flew northward, catching a more Israeli crowd hitting the beaches; young guys clacking madkot balls, diving across the sand to return a tricky shot; and teens arrived on bicycles, surf boards tucked under their arms, eager to catch the afternoon waves.

The muezzin called and we stopped, transfixed. It was four o’clock. We were in Jaffa and as the sounds wailed from the mosque, we watched a group of children playing in the park, swinging on the monkey bars, flying down slides and shrieking as they played hide-and-seek. They were speaking Arabic; they were Israeli citizens, they were free to play and practice their religion and have fun and imagine in their own language. They were free to have higher education and be part of an advanced medical system that treats everyone equally—and they were living a life that many children in this world are denied.

The sun glistened atop a shiny sea behind these happy children, the sky was still a deep blue, and as we felt the breeze on our arms, we too felt free. And thankful. 

There’s just something about beaches that brings out the holiday spirit.  

A Game of Dwarf and Giant

My daughter is done school for the year.

“It’s only mid-May,” a rational, observant person may remark.

 “She must be a university student? Or graduating from grade 12 with just exams to write? ” a Western-educated person would assume.

No. She is twelve years old and is only in grade six. Welcome to the Israeli school system.

She has now been at home for one week and the school administration hasn’t noticed. Or maybe they don’t care. The homeroom teacher is so obsessed with choreographing the end-of-the-year play, she too is unaware.

The math teacher? She hasn’t done the calculations to realize that the school year does not officially end until June 30, which, mathematically-speaking, leaves a solid six more weeks to teach. 

The history teacher? The state of Israel is only 65 years old so there is not so much on the curriculum anyway. 

The Hebrew teacher? Well, she never really got studies back in motion after the three-week Pesach vacation. And since there were a few other holidays sprinkled in (Yom HaZikaron, Ha’Atzma’ut and Shavuot), the school routine fell apart, along with our diets after bingeing on cheesecake.

Our Israeli children have not really learned anything in school since Purim (and if you want to stick that date on a calendar, hamentaschens flew off the shelves early March.)

So how does anyone get a real education around here? It seems as if school kids spend time on parades, preparing gifts for gamad v’anak (dwarf and giant, don’t ask) and dancing, not on physics, trigonometry and essay writing. World geography? It falls apart after they introduce the major continents. Given the political turmoil in this part of the world, the educators must rationalize that the global map could shift at any moment.

We shake our heads. At first it was despair, then aggravation. Now, we are accepting; my daughter sleeps in, bakes, rides her bike and reads. She may even start Spanish lessons. And all of these activities are more useful than sitting around watching a bunch of girls jump and twirl and spin over and over again.

Yet, look at how many Israelis win the Nobel Prize, make scientific discoveries and medical breakthroughs. There must be a sort of  higher education around here, somewhere, sometime, somehow.  This is yet another open miracle about living in Israel. 

Triathlon Blues

Rap. Rap. Rap.

It is my 14-year-old son waking me. “What time is it?” I ask him groggily.

“It’s 4:30. We have to leave soon.”

Friday morning and it’s even too early for the birds to sing. Bleary-eyed, I shuffle to make a coffee.

My son is dressed and has his gear ready for his first triathlon; bathing suit, towel, goggles, bike helmet and running shoes. We swing his bike atop the car and race towards Netanya. The sky is a pinky-orange swirl as we arrive at the beach, gleefully pulling into the best seaside parking spot ever.

As soon as my son arrives with his bike, I see the officials scramble around him, shaking their heads and pointing to their clipboards. No. He is absolutely, certainly, 100% not allowed to use his mountain bike in this race. Regulations.

“Drafting is allowed in this race and your bike is dangerous,” they explain.

“Didn’t you read the application? It is written on every page.”

Hmm. I let my son sign up for this race on his own. I guess 14 year olds don’t read small print. And certainly Anglo moms like me don’t read forms in Hebrew. Looks like he is disqualified before he even starts.  His face drops, his lips tremble. He came here to win.

A small Russian woman with a clipboard takes his hand and walks over to some bikers, asking if someone will lend him a bike. The mini sprint for the young athletes starts earlier than the adult race so maybe, just maybe, someone will take pity on this poor, unequipped boy.

The clock is ticking and the junior race is about to start. No bike. The athletes here look like they’re from another planet. They are all muscled and sleek and are wearing skin-tight garb. Their bikes are as trim as the riders. In my mind, I know this competitive bunch would rather give away their spouse than part with their bikes. They too are here to win. I bite my lips and look around.

They are all writing on each others’ arms and legs with thick black indelible markers: left and right forearms and calves are inscribed with a number, type of race, sex and age. In such skin-tight gear, confusing male and female is next to impossible, but, hey, those are the regulations-- and they too must have been written on every page of the application. Mothers are plaiting their daughter’s hair into perfect French braids. This, I understand, is no fashion statement as it is the best way to keep long hair tightly back for the swim, bike ride and run.

Finally, an older man in his sixties generously offers his bike. Shaya leaves his gear at the transition station (this is a new word for me and is triathlon talk) and heads to the beach. A few minutes later I see my son running back to me and my heart sinks again.

"What now?"

"My goggles!" he sobs.

I hand him his goggles and he heads to the sea. He must swim straight out to a row of buoys and back again. Huge waves crash against the shore. I see the other junior sprint triathletes are already way out to sea but my fearless son will not be disillusioned. He runs into the water and crashes into the waves, his small arms trying to surge past the foaming crest. He rides the waves and is pushed back. I spot his black swimming cap bobbing in the waves as he slowly makes his way out.

The others are on their way back at breakneck speed, flying out of the water like lemmings and running up the ramp to the transition station. I have never seen a more determined group of 14 and 15-year old kids in my life.

I watch Shaya’s little cap slowly make its way to the buoy and then back. My heart is in my throat. A crowd gathers. The adults are now getting ready to jump in and start their race. Little Shaya fights the waves with determination and finally gets out of the water. He is not last. He is dead last. But he will not give up. Yet. He is told where to go next and runs to the bike. He has never been on a fancy road bike and doesn’t even know how to work the gears. But he pedals on.

Meanwhile, his competitors race and draft as their fancy biking shoes crunch down the pedals, their eyes slits behind fancy blades, their mouths pursed, their teeth grit into a mantra of  “Win, harder, faster, win.” The mini athletes’ parents stand on the curbside screaming, “Chazak, chazak.”

They dismount in perfect triathlete fashion, pulling their feet out of their stirrups and shoes ahead of time and running their bikes back to the transition station. Shaya still rides round and round, now being joined by the super-competitive adults who pedal so fast and ride so close together, I feel queasy just watching.

He eventually finishes the bike ride and is directed to the run. We stand by the side and clap and cheer. Despite his late start and challenges, he perseveres. With tears in my eyes, I run the last few meters with him, proud that he has stuck it out and excited by this big accomplishment. And he is not dead last. Four others come in after him, his consolation prize for a lousy late start.

The day is still young and as we get ready to leave, we soon realize our parking spot is so good, it is part of the race, tied into the course with police ribbon.

“You are stuck here for the duration of the race. Maybe another four hours,” an official with a clipboard says.” No parking zones are probably also written up somewhere in the regulations.

We are stuck here in triathlon land to check out the tight suits with special bike padding, to ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over rippled muscles and feel like big fat slobs beside these super achievers who swam 1500 meters in crashing waves, sped 40 kilometers on a bike and ran 10 kilometers. 

We entertain ourselves by reading the athletes’ ages scribbled on their calves as they cross the finish line but feel sobered when we see that one super athlete is 74 years old, a few others are in their sixties and many are above fifty. Shaya is fortunate to get an early start in what seems to be a big part of Israeli culture.