Christmas in the Holy Land...

It is a well-known custom among North American Jews to seek out special little enclaves at Christmas. Those without the rare luck of being invited (as my brother and sister-in-law apparently were) to a "Jews, Losers and Boozers" party resort to the more traditional fallback, Chinese food and a movie, preferably, for those who are really devout, one by Woody Allen. (The latest, starring Larry David, is just out in theaters here, by the way). But a North American Jew in Israel feels obligated to fulfill the opposite task: to find a dash of Christmas cheer in a landscape bereft of goyishe-naches.

The direct train from Tel Aviv to Haifa that I boarded yesterday evening was packed, but not one of my fellow passengers was rushing home for Christmas Eve. Just your average weekend. I was leaning against the back of a seat watching two Ethiopian kids on the floor munching noisily on Bamba, and, on either side of them, exhausted young soldiers with heavy packs filled (I think it's safe to assume) not with stocking stuffers but with dirty laundry to unload on mothers anxiously awaiting their return. One poor kid had konked out so heavily on his gear that he didn't even hear the Ricky Martin ringtone blasting directly into his ear. Another dozed off quietly with Amos Oz's "To Love a Woman" rising and falling rhythmically on his chest. A far cry from the macho image of the Israeli military one finds in the media.

I arrived in Haifa just in time for my mom to serve me a plate of piping hot meatballs and a side of red cabbage (where's the Christmas roast?!) before scurrying out the door to a doctor's appointment. No sipping eggnog by the fireplace, no ring-jing-jingling sleigh bells, no presents under the fragrant tree. Just a little pleasure-reading before retiring early to bed. I must admit, I missed the lights and the kitsch just a teensy-weensy bit.

Today was different. How nice it was to spend a REGULAR lazy Friday here. I had a haircut in the morning, and, on the way home, went with my dad to pick up some nuts in Vadi Nisnas. It seemed quieter than usual. And that's when we realized: Christmas! Of course! This is the Arab Christian part of town. Besides one baklava shop and the spot where we picked up our goods, all the shops and restaurants were shut for the holidays, their unlit windows adorned with mismatched nativity scenes and acrobatic Santa Clauses. At last, the kitsch I'd been longing for! Even the bagel shop was closed. If only someone could explain to me why a place that advertises "bagelakh" (yes, in Yiddish), is owned by Arabs who are spending the day celebrating the birth of baby Jesus.... Well , Jesus may have been born here, but he sure feels a long way away today.

This is one of the first Christmases I've spent not feeling like a minority (and not freezing my ass off!). That's exciting on both counts. But I'm still going to search for Bing Crosby on youtube later. Gotta hear "White Christmas" at least once this time of year. It wouldn't feel right not to.

The miracle of light...er, electricity

In keeping with the theme of Chanukah, this past week involved eight firsts.

#1: It all began with my first power outage. At around 9:00pm on Wednesday, moments before I was to leave my apartment for my second (yes, there were some seconds, too) tango lesson, boof! Lights out! I of course broke the number one rule of Chanukah—i.e. "and we do not have the permission to use them except to look at them"—by lighting every Chanukah candle I could get my hands on...but it made the whole miracle of light business that much more meaningful.

#2: My very first live karaoke performance! No, I didn't perform (there's a fine line between humor and ear-shattering noise). Seriously, people, you have not lived until you have heard M.C. Hammer's "You Can't Touch This" performed in a heavy Israeli accent by a prematurely balding bloke in tapered jeans and a striped polo shirt... the antithesis of Mr. Hammer, and I'm not just talking about the legwear. Breathtaking.

#3: My first hexalingual Shabbat dinner. Yes, hexa as in six. I was invited to light the last candle of Chanukah at the home of Jonathan and Helen, close family friends (and my surrogate Jerusalem parents!). Now, I knew I'd be among interesting company, but I didn't expect the United Nations! Seated around the table were: our hosts, the German cultural attaché to Israel, two French cultural representatives, their spouses, one eight-year-old boy (who alone accounted for three languages: French, English and Arabic -- thank goodness my cab driver had just taught me four different ways so say the word "lion" in Arabic so that I had something to show off to the brainy pipsqueak!), Jonathan's mother, who is 93 years old and may not hear well but is still the paragon of British wit and eloquence, and little old me. Between Helen's French-Hebrew-Italian hybrid and Jonathan's multilingual explanations of the food (an array as international as the guests, with everything from herring salad to salmon sashimi to chicken tikka masala), there were, indeed, six languages represented. Oh, I almost forgot, that dinner was responsible for first #4: Vacheron Mont d'Or cheese. OH. MY. LORD. The Frenchies almost wet their pants, they were so excited.

#5. My first Israeli date. The formula? Tango lesson #2 --> date #1. Won't elaborate just yet, except to say that the tapas restaurant we went to was also responsible for #6, my first Israeli mojito, which was delightful.

#7: My first time putting flowers in an empty pickle can. Nothing earth-shattering, but it put a smile on my face.

And finally, just today, #8: My first academic lecture in Hebrew! I met a lovely Israeli professor at a conference in Berlin in October, and he invited me to give my talk before the Yiddish literature department at Bar Ilan University. I didn't think twice about accepting, having assumed, of course, that he simply wanted me to repeat the lecture I gave in Berlin. The formal invitation that I received per email last week, however, informed me otherwise. As the Thai tourist industry puts it: "Same same...but different." Oy vavoy. Talking about Yiddish poetry in Hebrew was a challenge, for sure, but I did it! I highly doubt I'll be winning any awards for my oratorical skills, but I was proud of myself for standing up to the challenge. My audience was very warm and responsive. They numbered 12, so perhaps it's not a full notch on my academic belt, but a little scratch at least.

plain white cheese...yet so much more

A number of years ago, during one of his first visits to Vancouver, my then fourteen-year-old cousin Uri asked me, artlessly, "How do you say gvina levana in English?" I looked at him, somewhat baffled by his loss for such simple words (after all, Uri had by the age of ten developed an exceptionally sophisticated English vocabulary, thanks to countless successive hours spent watching "The Simpsons"), and offered what I thought to be the simplest and most straightforward of answers: "white cheese." He looked dissatisfied.

Little did I realize then that the term gvina levana defies translation. In Israel, it is a way of life. The average Israeli family goes through five 200-gram containers of it per week (I'm totally making up the statistic, but I don't think I could be far off). I have witnessed children under the age of two polish off an entire container in one sitting (again, I'm exaggerating, but not much). Civil wars have been fought over it (okay, that one's a downright lie). Upon entering any grocery store (makolet), convenient store (tsorkhania) or supermarket (wait for the translation...super) one is bound to encounter a vast array of seemingly identical cylindrical tubs filled with it.

Now, I say seemingly identical because, in fact, this vast array presents many tricky choices. First of all: white cheese or cottage cheese (allow me to teach you another sophisticated Hebrew word: kotej)? (I'll spare you the confusion and leave labane and cream cheese out of the picture, let alone feta and Bulgarian cheese from cow or goat, in blocks, strips or cubes...it's exhausting, really.) There's the question of brand: Tnuva or Strauss? Now we come to the matter of milk fat: 9%, 5%, 3% or 1/2%?

I thought I had selected my pick: tnuva brand, white cheese, 5% milkfat. How naive. I soon realized that the matter is infinitely more complicated. Yesterday, I opened the lid of a new package, peeled off the plastic protective layer, spread it on a piece of bread, and -- ack! -- saw flecks of green! What is that?! MOLD?! I picked up the piece of plastic I had just torn off -- oh no! Printed in small letters below the brand name were the words I had so recklessly overlooked: "with OLIVES"! Yes, my friends, that's right, the white cheese industry has expanded to produce FLAVORED cheeses. I must be more careful next time.

NOTE: I forgot to mention gvina levana's equally sly and slippery stepsister: gvina tsehuba (yellow cheese). But that's a whole other adventure in the making.

A shtikl o' Yiddish

Who says Yiddish is dead in Israel?! I got up bright and early on Thursday to catch a bus to Jerusalem for a conference celebrating "A Century of Yiddish," the centennial anniversary of the Czernowitz Conference. From August 30 to September 3, 1908, a bunch of brenendike Yiddishists (including H.D. Nomberg, Haim Zhitlovsky, Sholem Asch, and I.L Peretz, the big machers appearing from left to right) got together in the cultural capital of the former Austrian Bukovina to proclaim Yiddish "a national language of the Jews." This year's centennial was only 15 months behind... not bad for Jewish time! Lectures were offered in Yiddish and in Hebrew, with frequent funny fusion moments during the Q&A, which was really just a function of the seniority of the more vocal audience members. (I think it's safe to assume that most of them have been lingering in a kind of linguistic limbo for the past 80+ years.) Topics ranged from Soviet Yiddish travel literature of the interwar period to Elie Wiesel's unknown career in Yiddish journalism to the history of Yiddish lexicography to teaching Yiddish to children in the 21st century. In short, a gantse megile!

There were two highlights. First, an incredible monologue by Aaron Zeitlin spoken in a kind of mongrelized Yiddish-English hybrid by a Jewish-American immigrant who speaks English now "vegn di kinder, ya know?" Hard to summarize here, but it was quite moving. The other highlight was suddenly, from across the room, hearing a familiar voice ask a question in flawless Yiddish with a heavy Canadian accent -- it was my former Yiddish teacher, Sheva Zucker! I hopped over and was greeted with a hearty "Sholem aleichem!" and a big hug. At lunchtime, while patiently listening to (and occasionally correcting) my very rusty Yiddish, Sheva accompanied me to the cafeteria, where we battled the shtupenish of senior citizens in "line" (if you can call it that) for chicken soup, meatballs and other delicacies from the OldCountry. My Canadian politeness was hard to maintain in the face of a bunch of squat Jewish men with hearing aids shoving in front of me for seconds. But hey, I love the alte kakers just the same.

Now my eyes keep darting for remnants/revivals of mame-loshn in the holy land... and guess what? There's one right on my corner. An ice cream store called zisele (sweety). I'll have to try it out. I wonder whether they've got any special flavors from der alter heym. To invoke my sister-in-law's late bubbe: scoop of whitefish, anyone?

It's just so Russian!

Tonight I scored two free tickets to the "premiera" of Chekhov's "Hadod Vanya" (need I translate?). Let's just say it pays to have cultured parents who leave town periodically. I invited my friend, Reut, who was particularly helpful in pointing out all the "semi-celebs" having their photos snapped in the lobby of the theater. I wouldn't have lifted my eyes from all the fabulously eccentric footwear in our midst had Reut not nudged me periodically to point out members of Knesset, anchormen and anorexic escorts. We had dinner at the theater restaurant, where I managed to embarrass myself by intruding on a conversation with one such "big macher." Spotting my parents' friend a few yards from our table, I shot up and tapped her on the shoulder, only to realize she was having a serious discussion with Dalia Rabin, daughter of the late Yitzhak Rabin and member of Knesset. She was nice enough to introduce me, but I felt a little sheepish at having bounded in as I did.

So... Chekhov in Hebrew. All that dialogue about boredom and mediocrity didn't really seem to jibe with the Israeli character. I think the comment of the gentleman to my left, which he uttered five minutes into Act I in a not-so-hushed manner to his wife, summed things up well: "It's just so RUSSIAN, all this TALKING!" Somehow Chekhov can both move you and bore you to tears. But it was a great treat to see two of my favorite Israeli actors on stage: Vanya was played by Sasson Gabai (terrific!!), whom you might now from the recent film "The Band's Visit" (in which he plays the conductor of the Egyptian police band, in flawless Arabic!), and the doctor was played by Lior Ashkenazi, whom I loved in "Walk on Water" and "A Late Marriage." So you see? You don't need Hollywood for celebrity-sightings!

Turkey in Turkey

The joke is juvenile, I know, but who hasn't wanted to eat turkey in Turkey? Well, I lived the dream this Thanksgiving thanks to an amazing weeklong sojourn in Istanbul with my college buddies, James, Jesse and Maya. James, having lived in Istanbul for nearly three years now, served as as our better-than-native guide (even looks the part, right?). The trip just happened to coincide with Thanksgiving, which we celebrated in the home of a charming expat and in the company of a very international crowd. James' roommate Kirk performed the extraordinary feat of preparing a turkey in a toaster oven (having dismembered and brined it in advance, he managed to cook the whole thing in three separate batches). I pitched in with my first ever rectangular apple pie!

But the main course and dessert weren't the only unusual elements of this year's festivities. Never before have I attended a Thanksgiving dinner that came to an end with a group of North American female expats dancing with mustached Turkish men to Madonna's "Like a Prayer." I think I can safely call that both a first and a last.

Istanbul has been described ad infinitum as a unique blend of Europe and the Middle East and an amalgam of secular and sacred influences. I don't want to reiterate what's already been said,

but I must say the picture seems fairly accurate. Despite having all the trappings of a typical European metropolis, the continual citywide chanting of the Muezzin is a continuous reminder that Turkey is indeed a Muslim land.

With James as our fearless leader, we ate our share of kebabs,

smoked our share of nargilah, played our share of backgammon, bought our share of pottery and still found time to conquer the old city walls and an ancient fort or two (not to mention the daily conquest of 100+ steps leading up to James' flat...as you can see from Jesse's expression, the view from the terrace made the trek worthwhile). The only adventure I could have done without was the night I spent at Jesse's side in a public hospital thanks to a sudden onslaught of kidney stones. With the help of our new friend and trusty translator, Farouk, we were able to appreciate how very colorful a Turkish hospital can be (one translation went as follows: "Doctor, I'm in pain! My ten-year-old child did my stitches!"). By the following morning—thank Allah—the stones had passed and Jesse was back to guzzling arak and gobbling baklava with the rest of us.

My last morning was certainly the most, uh, eye-opening (to say the least!). It began with a 7:00am outing to the Hamam, which turned out to be opening only at 8:00am that day because of Kurban Bayram (the annual sacrificial holiday). Still half-asleep, we bided our time in a neighboring park situated between two mosques, and, while nibbling on börek and sipping sweet tea, watched the mosque-goers scurry in the direction of the call to prayer. Back at the baths I nervously took leave of my male companions but was lucky to have the women's bath entirely to myself. I stretched out on the hot marble slab and shut my eyes for a few minutes, only to be awoken by a heavy, big-busted woman wearing nothing but black lace underwear and carrying a pumice. Not exactly a calming sight! But it was fantastic. Soaped, scrubbed, soaked and sloughed and I emerged a new woman. On our way back home, and about twenty minutes prior to my departure, the purity of the morning was rudely disrupted by the sight (and smell) of ritual slaughter. In honor of the holiday, a dozen cows were packed into a kind of garage/warehouse, where they were sacrificed and carved up to be divided among families and the poor. Thankfully we missed the actual slaughter, but the butchery was conducted in plain view. How's that for a dramatic farewell to Istanbul?! Needless to say, I needed to recover from the sensory overload with a nap on my flight back to Tel Aviv. I returned home with two beautiful ceramic bowls, a few boxes of Turkish delight and memories to last a lifetime.

SIDE NOTE: Evidently the Turks have come up with a naturopathic alternative to the swine flu vaccine. Forget an apple a day, just try a glass of pomegranate juice!

The White City

Last week was my entree into Tel Aviv University life. I sat in on three classes, two on Yiddish literature (more in line with my research) and one—just for kicks—on the poetry of Tel Aviv. The lecturer, a wiry chap with long gray hair talked very excitedly about the poets of the Second Aliyah, who were committed to the ideals of tilling the soil and being one with the land. Unsurprisingly, they viewed Tel Aviv as cold, barren, anonymous—in a word, the antithesis of the Zionist dream. In an excerpt we read by David Shimoni, one sentence stood out:

מה לי פה ומי לי פה בקרית המלט ההומה

"What is for me and who is for me in this bustling cement settlement?"

Unlike Shimoni, I have found so much spirit in "The White City." But then again, Tel Aviv wasn't known as such when Shimoni penned those lines in the late 1920s. The more recent nomenclature refers to some 4000 Bauhaus or International Style buildings built in the 1930s by German-Jewish architects who immigrated after the rise of the Nazis (my apartment building included). Tel Aviv is row upon row of smooth lines, flat roofs, curved balconies and white plaster... unmistakably urban yet surprisingly serene.

I have lived in the White City for less than a week but have already pounded much of its pavement, and although I admit it bears little resemblance to the forests and fields that poets like Shimoni, Rachel and Uri Zvi Greenberg admired and extolled, I have found tranquility here.

Another thing stood out during the Shimoni discussion. Apparently, he was one of the most important poets of his day, but is barely read today...or as the lecturer quipped, "He's read neither here nor there...I don't even know where 'THERE' is, but if he isn't read HERE, you can bet he isn't read THERE!" How lucky I am to be in an environment where random Israeli poets—though perhaps infrequently read—never fade into obscurity.

Speaking of "random" and "obscure," those are the perfect descriptors for the tour I co-conducted Thursday evening for my friend James, who is visiting this week from Istanbul (we met in school in California but now find it more convenient to rendezvous on the other side of the globe!). Actually, I was just along for the ride (after all, I barely know Tel Aviv myself!). It began in the north Tel Aviv home of James' friend Yochai, who cooked a terrific dinner ("Yemmenite schnitzel" — what could be a better introduction to the sephardi-ashkenazi nexus?!) and then trotted us out to his favorite night spots, including a bar that serves nothing but champagne and salami and a cafe with mouthwatering, chocolate-infused, ice cream-laden waffles. We were heading north along the beach at about 1:00am when Yochai made a sudden b-line for what looked to me like a crummy roadside eatery. It turned out to be an Ethiopian restaurant that has live traditional music after 11:00pm. Our ivory-white faces were warmly welcomed by the regulars, one of whom kept coming over to us to say, "tehenu, tehenu!" (enjoy, enjoy!). By 1:45 we were up from our seats dancing with him. The Ethiopians have this amazing style of dance that involves nothing but shoulders. The one wearing a yarmulke was particularly skilled... though I should also give a shout out to the guy next to him because he bought me a rose. Sweet. James was amazed, and I'm not surprised. When you picture a country full of Jews, you don't usually imagine them with black faces, long legs and shimmying shoulders! One thing's for sure: "The White City" refers to the architecture alone. So what's next?! A 24-hour Yemmenite karaoke bar? In Tel Aviv, anything's possible!

Balebostes

"Baleboste" is a Yiddish word formed from the Hebrew words "baal" (master) and "bayit" (house), with a slavic ending and Yiddish pronunciation that pretty well disguise its etymology. Some people translate "baleboste" as "housewife," but that's not quite right. You've gotta imagine an insanely-efficient, multi-tasking, aggressively affectionate, occasionally nagging, highly prone to guilt-tripping JEWISH housewife. I'm not quite there yet.... Today was my first solo morning in my new pad and I had the matriarchs of my family in mind. After a glorious run on the beach, I washed some clothes old-school style in my terrific laundry sink and made a delicious breakfast

of melon, veggies and--you guessed it--bread with zaatar (and "gvina levana," white cheese, which is sort of halfway between yogurt and cream cheese. I can't understand why this delightful schmear is nowhere to be found in North America).

Cleaning up provided several lovely reminders of both my grandmothers, Grandma Pearl (my mom's mom), whose Yahrzeit candle is still burning bright, and Savta Fanny (my dad's mom), whose electric kettle and glass dishes have found a new home in my cozy Tel Aviv flat.

And of course I'm still thinking of my own industrious Baleboste of a mother, who tirelessly shopped, scrubbed, washed, folded and organized with me yesterday to help me settle in. Thanks, Ima.

The apartment is, as my Savta would say, "sehr gemütlich," very homey and cozy, and I'm so glad I live on a relatively quiet street so that I can work from home.

My landlady seems nice enough, except for the fact that she tried to scam me on the internet (which I won't elaborate on) and neglected to fix the cooktop, as she promised to do, which is perched precariously on a pile of spare tiles (she didn't seem to think this is unusual). According to her mystical calculations, however, Sunday was an ideal day to move in, so all will be well. I actually love the fact that she's into Kabbalah because she left behind all 23 volumes of the Zohar to "watch over me" (her words, not mine). Of course, I think the closest I'll come to studying Kabbalah in this apartment will be listening to Madonna MP3s.

I still have a fair amount of neighborhood research to do. High up on the list of priorities is a butcher (for schnitzel and meatballs, which is about all I'll be making on my little cooktop!) and a green grocer (Jamil on Dizengoff and Ben Gurion was very nice, but a friendly welcome doesn't really make up for overripe plums, don't you agree?).

Yesterday I went to Tel Aviv University to meet with someone at the Goldreich Institute for Yiddish. (If the fact that a Yiddish department exists in Israel and is run by a Berlin-born Jew isn't a sign of progress, I don't know what is.) I was welcomed very warmly and had the opportunity to sit in on a class on Yiddish literature in America, but is of course conducted in Hebrew (again, I think this all screams brave new world!). I struggled to follow the Hebrew translation of Sholem Aleichem's "Mottel the Cantor's Son" but had no trouble understanding the lecture...a good challenge anyway.

Cooking and quacking

Terrific spontaneous Hebrew lesson at the supermarket tonight. I was in search of rolled oats to make a pear crumble for Shabbat dinner but could not for the life of me think of the word in Hebrew (I just consulted my dictionary: "shibolet shual," literally "fox wheat"... huh?). I stalked the aisles and finally came upon a bag of something resembling the desired product. I checked the label. Emblazoned across it were Hebrew letters spelling out "kveker organi," and underneath, in English, "Organic Quacker." Aha! I hope it comes from free-range ducks.

The vocab lesson reminded me of my nephew Shai's stuffed animal, a little fellow with the rather literal name "Soft Duck," who generally appreciates this kind of humor. This one's for you, Soft Duck!

Here in Israel one could easily think that all names actually originate in Hebrew and are only later translated into other languages, never the other way around. For example, it turns out that the tickets I just purchased for Hubbard Street Dance Chicago (I came all the way from Chicago to Haifa to see them!) are in fact—according to the English portion of the ad—for "Havad Street" (the Hebrew letter "bet" makes either a "b" or a "v" sound). This of course made me think of both the classic Bostonian saying, "Pahk the cah in havahd yahd," and my friend Eugena's mother, who, in her thick Korean accent, scolded Eugena for choosing a little college known as Stanford over the world-renowned "Ha-bah-deh." Then there are all the mistakes resulting from the mixup of "p" and "f" (the letter "peh" serving for both), including my mother's confusion over a Hebrew automotive ad for the Ford Pocus ("Ford has a new model?").

Then there's the newspaper! When I'm really struggling to understand a word in Ha'aretz, that's usually a sign that it's actually English, and most likely has something to do with technology or the blogosphere... yesterday it was "talkback" that had me totally stumped, as well as the verb "le-sames" ("to SMS," of course!). And let's not forget about television. I'm not even gonna start with news interviews, in which the interviewer generally does more talking than the interviewee, whom he consistently interrupts, or the "Meet the Press" type programs, in which a minimum of six pundits yell at each other in unison. I'm talking about scripted television. I recently got hooked on the TV show "be-tipul," the model for the HBO series "In Treatment." At one point I had to stop the DVD and put on the subtitles (also in Hebrew, which didn't help in this case) to decipher Na'ama's troubles with her boyfriend. "What the #&%$* could 'onanof' mean?!" Turns out she was sick and tired of the "on-and-off." Oy vey. Gotta love globalization.

Here, even the weather's aggressive!

I believe credit is due to my cousin Dana for coining the maxim, "In Israel everything's aggressive, including the weather!" The belligerent weather of the past 48 hours is a case in point -- flooding that would make even Noah shake in his sandals! First thing this morning I jaunted off to a tennis lesson with Sharon (for the Americans reading, Sharon is also a masculine name in Hebrew), only to have the skies open up about three minutes in. I was rather disappointed, especially because I haven't held a racket in over two years ("Since your last lesson with me, you mean?" asked Sharon, to which I sheepishly nodded in agreement).

Needless to say, today's activities were exclusively indoor. The highlight was a stop at the "Grand Canyon" shopping center...actually, the correct pronunciation is "grend kenyon," which is a clever play on the Hebrew word for mall, "kenyon" (from the verb liknot, meaning to buy). My mom and I were on a mission for the following necessities to furnish my new pad: bed sheets and a solid frying pan. We did a little comparison shopping before settling on some kitchenware from "The Cook Store."

Not one but two saleswomen became intimately involved in the purchase, which somehow evolved into a lesson on how to prepare "ktsitsot" (which are much more than "meatballs"; here in Israel they're a food group of their own). When I express some uncertainty about the large size of the pot, saleswoman #1 exclaims:

"It's the best! I use it! The nonstick surface is great for browning the meatballs, then, since the pot is wide enough, I can easily add the tomatoes--I use only fresh tomatoes, by the way--then a little parsley" (elaborate gestures accompany her instructions)

--"And soda!" interjects saleswoman #2.

--"Soda?" Asks my mother, completely confounded...

--"Yes, yes, you can't use regular water."

--"Just like you can't use regular breadcrumbs," saleswoman #1 chimes in again. "I learned it from my mother. Only matzoh meal."

So there you have it! I emerged from the store with a fry pan and matching pot (50% off the second item! My mom has passed on to me her appreciation of a "vilde metsiye") and the secret to preparing the perfect meatball. What could be better?

Somehow every activity in Israel seems to involve "audience participation." Setting up a new cell phone number is another classic example. Again, I'm speaking from recent experience. Nevermind the fact that I was already being helped by a perfectly capable agent, a soft-spoken Arab man who patiently took me through the entire process. When we reached the stage where I select a phone number, another agent suddenly bounds over, puts his arm around his colleague and, leaning right into the computer screen, says gleefully, "This is my favorite part! Wait, wait! Go back, I saw a good one. No...no...yes! There it is! Take that one. That's the best number." So I did. Did I even have a choice in the matter?

Or is it bread and circus?

"Panem et circenses" is what the Romans called the handouts and petty amusements politicians used to gain public support. Well, since my arrival in Israel a little over a week ago, I've kept myself fairly distracted with both food and fun. Between bouts of apartment-hunting in Tel Aviv I've enjoyed my share of hummus, schnitzel and swimming at Hof Dado (the beach in Haifa where I spent so many childhood summers). From the moment I arrived I have been overwhelmed with memories and new observations, so I've decided to chronicle my adventures to share with all of you (I trust you'll all wave a red flag if this becomes a self-indulgent exercise!).

Thyme, oregano, basil, sumac, sesame and salt. Mix them together and you come up with a little spice blend known as za'atar. Wrap the za'atar in a piece of newsprint to dip your "bagaleh" (Jerusalem bagel) into, and you've got a favorite street-corner snack. Israelis are often called "Sabras" because, like this breed of cactus, they're rough and thorny on the outside but sweet and sensitive on the inside. Za'atar seems the right culinary symbol for Israeli society on the whole -- a huge mishmash of Ashkenazis and Sephardim, Russians, Ethiopians, Yemmenites, Arabs and Jews, Bedouins and Druze, locals, transplants, tourists, and on and on and on....

A free day in Haifa offers a little glimpse of that Israeli heterogeneity, which makes no sense and yet somehow just...works. I accompany my dad on his morning "rounds." First we stop at the newsstand run by Haim, an orthodox Jew with a wooly gray beard, to pick up the paper and perhaps a little lesson in Talmud, then we go next door to Aryeh, the Moroccan green-grocer, who tells my dad, the second-generation "yekke" (German Jew), that an Ashkenazi may fill his home with books but a Sephardi prefers to fill his with food! But before the morning errands are run, a stroll and a dip at the beach are in order. "Chatichat bri'ut" (a slice of health) is what my Savta (grandmother) called it. What warms my heart even more than the sunshine is watching the posse of pensioners playing "sheshbesh" (backgammon) in the shade while they gobble up fresh melon and pontificate about corrupt politicians (Barak spends 500,000 shekels on a Paris hotel?! What has happened to our government?!) Mid-afternoon is the right hour to go down to the Hummusia Abu Marun. BEST HUMMUS EVER. The proprieter, an Arab Christian, sits with us as we savor a few sips of sweet Turkish coffee after our meal and tells us his secret: everything made on the spot with THE BEST INGREDIENTS. The BEST olive oil. The BEST tahini. "Eyn kazeh" (there's nothing like it).

As we leave the joint we stumble into the middle of a film shoot, which, based on the actors we see, seems to involve many kaffiyeh-clad Arabs, prostitutes and midgets. Sorry, there's no politically-correct way to describe such a scene.

The past few days, though, were spent not relaxing in Haifa but rather running around like mad in Tel Aviv. But it was worth it: I finally found a home! It's a charming, breezy flat (shlosha kivunei avir!) in an old Bauhaus building (that also happens to be inhabited by the sculptor Yigal Tumarkin) on a quiet street called Israel's, which (for those who know Tel Aviv) is just east of Dizengoff between Gordon and Frischmann, meaning (for those who don't know Tel Aviv) it's smack dab in the center of things. It's about a 10 minute walk from the beach, a five minute walk to the Beit Lessin Theatre and Dizengoff Center, and close to any bus I may need for adventures farther afield.

It took some time to figure out the whole apartment thing, especially since I'm just learning my way around the city, but thanks to (or perhaps in spite of) many opinions from friends and family (you know what they say: 1 Jew, 2 opinions), I finally settled on something that I think will be great. It's fully furnished and ready to go, so all that's left for me to do is...well...to start LIVING! I move in November 8 and want to hit the ground running with my work, my meetings at Tel Aviv University, and above all the coffee-house hopping I hope to do with old and new friends. Tel Aviv at night is a sight to behold: you've never seen so many patios of coffeehouses and pubs littered with folks chatting and eating and sipping coffee and tea with nana (fresh mint). I love it.