An alte-kaker Seder

"How is this night different from all other nights?" It's the first of the famous Four Questions, the centerpiece of the Passover Seder traditionally recited by the youngest child present. Having received a permanent get-out-of-jail-free card when my oldest nephew, Shai, had matured enough to replace me in performing the task, I couldn't help but feel a little anxious about this year's invitation to a Seder with friends of my parents in Jerusalem, far away from my extended family, especially the youngest generation. "Just the alte-kakers this year," my mom repeatedly warned me. Please, please, I thought, don't make me perform. Imagine my delight when, upon entering Micky and Nili's Mevaseret home, we were greeted by their somewhat gangly sixteen-year-old son and thirteen-going-on-thirty daughter whose shimmery lipgloss framed a smile full of metal. Phew! Braces! A clear sign I'm off the hook!

After touring Micky and Nili's recent kitchen renovation, which included an incredible meat smoker and a taboon (a clay oven, used for baking Arab-style bread and other delicious things), I knew we were in for a treat... although I must admit I felt a pang of disappointment when it dawned on me that no fluffy pitas would be emerging from the taboon tonight!

Our friend Jonathan was the master of ceremonies and did an incredible job. I always thought what made the Seder enjoyable was all the munchkins singing songs and tearing the house apart in search of the coveted Afikoman. But the alte-kaker version turned out to be a lovely change. We discussed some of the theological and philosophical questions behind the story that we are compelled to recite year after year. For example, if Moses was the hero of the exodus tale, why does he escape mention in the Haggadah? One explanation, we learned from our guide, is that the book was compiled during the Mishnaic or Talmudic period (3rd-6th century CE), when Christianity was gaining in prominence and popularity, and the rabbinic authors feared that a great hero like Moses might be transformed into a Christ figure. Good luck getting a point like that across at a Seder packed with children spilling grape juice and dipping sticky fingers in the charoset!

Both Livny brothers, Jonathan and Micky, divorced and remarried a number of years ago, effectively trading in the original Polish wife for the younger Sephardic model. For the rest of us yekkes (German Jews), it was nice to hear explanations of Moroccan and Iraqi Passover traditions. More importantly, though, it also meant we got to supplement the standard gefilte fish with turmeric and paprika-spiced fish, and the bland Manishevitz-soaked charoset was replaced with a Yemmenite concoction redolent of ginger, cloves and cardamon.

Having cruised past midnight, the minimum hour marking the end of the Seder, we sang a verse or two of Chad Gadya, nibbled on chocolate and listened to Jonathan and Micky recount a few inappropriate tales about extramarital affairs ... in the presence of the protagonist, I might add. Good thing the protagonist happens to be their own mother, who, at 94, is sharp as a whip but can barely hear a word. Yet another reason to appreciate the alte-kaker Seder.

At one point, the attention turned to me. How am I liking living in Israel? What keeps me busy? What do I want to do next? And then, of course, How old are you? "Twenty-eight," I replied, now feeling content to be one of the few young people at the table, one of the few who can't claim multiple marriages, divorces or affairs. For some people, it turns out, twenty-eight is no spring chicken. Just imagine my surprise when the bubbly thirteen year old piped up: "Wow, but you look good!"

Tango lessons, life lessons

It's probably the most overused cliche, but I never thought about it carefully until it entered my life in a literal way: It takes two to tango.

People jest that it's classic misogyny. "El tango es macho." Just take a look at the proud, purposeful gait of the milonguero. He not only leads his partner, he controls her completely. She shifts her weight when he does, swivels when he lets her, steps when he gives her the chance. But in fact there's much more give-and-take. The tango could be a metaphor for any relationship. So often disagreements arise when we refuse to listen to one another, whether out of pride, stubbornness or simply the instinct of self-defense. I came to the tango stiff, exuding that false-pride that stems from insecurity, but soon discovered that the moment I stiffen, straighten up and pull away is the moment I have stopped "listening" to the person across from me. As one teacher put it, "It's as though you've plugged your ears."

So...

Let go, let go, let go. In Hebrew it all makes sense. Release = שחרור = liberation

I try. I lean forward slightly, finding that subtle angle of inclination that draws the ball of my foot into the floor and my upper body toward my partner. I am grounded, independent, but also aspiring toward the other person. I am embraced yet unrestrained. Now I can hear what he is telling me. And if I do all this and he still doesn't get the response he was looking for? Well, chances are he hasn't been clear enough in his message. He was too meek, or too aggressive. Or maybe he refused to give me the time and space I need to express myself? When he guides me confidently yet gently it all becomes clear ... and I will try to respond with equal clarity and grace. As on the dance floor, so in life: we can always work on communication.

Yoga teachers tell you to turn your gaze inward. "Don't look around you," they say. "It's not about anyone else! Focus on your own breath. Listen to your body." I used to relate to all of that ... but now, less so. Maybe it's because I spend so much of my time holed up researching and writing, maybe it's because there are days that I don't hear much more than the sound of my own breath. Whatever the reason, I'm starting to think that meditation doesn't need to be so inward, and that finding peace is not necessarily about retreating from the outside world into yourself. After all, don't we have to live in the world?

There's another reason that all of this speaks to me. One of my biggest fears about moving to Israel was that my personality would get lost in translation. Sure, most people speak English, so I've always got a fallback when I feel tongue-tied. Stubborn wench that I am, though, I never wanted to rely on the linguistic crutch. On the other hand, I was worried. I thought, How will I win over new friends? How will they discover my humor?! My knowledge?! How will I IMPRESS them?!?! In Hebrew, I'm a little quieter than I am in English. I have to focus a bit more to keep up. But I'm starting to realize that quiet carries a great advantage. When I feel strained or uncertain, I just lean in. I listen. Funnily enough, I get the feeling it actually makes me more easily heard.

Purim, 80s style

The last time I celebrated Purim in Israel I must have been four-years-old. I showed up to my nursery school in Jerusalem, "Gan Rachel" it was called, in all my regal majesty as a glittered-up Queen Esther. To tell you the truth, the costume wasn't much of a departure from my usual attire...let's just say I was a child with a penchant for accessories (my mother once quipped that I was the only toddler who insisted on going to to daycare dressed like a hooker!).

This Purim was a blast from the past for more than one reason. Not only did I indulge in the costume tradition but I also hit up a 1980s theme party. Being a true child of the 80s, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia when I heard those first few familiar beats of the theme song from Flashdance. I recall performing a poignant interpretation of the song, choreographed by Reisa Schwartzman, at the Vancouver Jewish Community Center Spring Dance Show in 1987. If only I had kept the costume!

Anat and I tried to stay focused during our costume hunt, but, as usual, ended up getting distracted by baked goods (chocolate hamentashen...to die for!). As a result, we wound up with the following: a poorly hand-sewn tutu (ultimately worn by my friend Maya), a sheath of poorly cut black lace precariously held up by a patent-leather belt, neon fishnet gloves, a plethora of plastic dollar-store jewelry, and, of course, the requisite side ponytail (this, too, was nostalgic; the one hairdo my mother knew how to achieve—which in turn ruined many a class-photo—was a little something known as "the pompom"). We started to get a little desperate when we realized that we had loads of accessories but not actual clothes, which is why I ultimately caved and dropped 50 shekels on a hot pink leotard with a picture of a lion on it. The fact that several people had purchased this leotard for Purim had the saleswoman dumbfounded: "I don't get it. It's so beautiful! You'll wear it later, right?" I nodded, not wanting to offend her or challenge her sense of style. I think we wound up looking fairly 80s in the end, but I can't say our costumes deserved to win any contests. Anat blames being pregnant. What's my excuse?

The true winner, in my book, was Yochai's incarnation of Krishna. Blue face paint, kathakali dance moves and all. It's well-known that Israelis have a special bond with India (the Hebrew mural I found in Varanasi is obvious proof), but Yochai really brought it home. After the 80s party, we piled into a taxi with the Hindu god (puh-lease, deities don't ride the bus!) and rolled down to Jaffa, which on Purim becomes a kind of miniaturized version of the Castro on Halloween. Maya and Jesse, my guests and former residents of San Francisco, must have felt right at home. The pubs overflowed into the streets, music was blaring, and firemen, flappers, matadors and men in unconvincing drag danced into the wee hours. That's right people, Purim's not just for kids.