Shall two walk together, except they have agreed? (Amos 3:3)

Just in time for Tim's and my next adventure, to the Balkans, I'm finally getting around to posting pictures of my last trip, sans Tim. Traveling with Tim is a certain type of experience, which I enjoy very much. So it was interesting to see what it was like to have different traveling companions when I went to Budapest, Hungary. Because I took the lead a lot of the time, my co-workers and I did a lot of outings similar to what Tim and I would. But we also made some forays into places that Tim would probably only tolerate.

For example, Tim and I would trek across town to see train stations, like the main international hub Keleti, which in our case was about a block from our hostel:
But we probably wouldn't bail on a whole day of sightseeing to just relax in the park (of course, perhaps if I offered beer ...):

We would wander around the city to take unsuspecting photos of people, like we did at Margaret Island while eating some of the cheapest (and therefore most delicious) ice cream around:
But we probably wouldn't stop on the way back to take such a touristy photo of the sun setting over Buda:

We would make use of public transportation for day trips to take more unsuspecting photos of people, like this one of a little boy getting a horse ride in the artists' haven Szentendre:
But we probably wouldn't be taken in by overpriced touristy garb, like this dyed fabric made in the traditionally time-consuming way for years by the Kovacs family:

We would seek out cultural activities, like watching the old boys' club play chess in the Szechenyi Bath, where tourists and locals mix in the middle of the city park:
But we probably wouldn't consider the Marzipan museum, in Szentendre, a cultural activity, with or without a life-size almond-paste Michael Jackson statue:

We would plan to eat lunch at the food market, like platefuls of sausage at the Central Market Hall:
But we probably wouldn't hunt down a place I saw in a guidebook, even if it does have rustic charm and a true Hungarian name, Paprika:

As much as I harp to Tim that he doesn't let our vacations actually be vacations, as in relaxing, I discovered that I am just as addicted to wandering around a town and venturing beyond its boundaries as he. Perhaps it's time for me to admit that Tim's version of a vacation is just as relaxing, mainly because he is with me.

Thus saith the Lord Jehovah ... I will give you Israel (Ezekiel 11:17)

The other day in yearbook class, I heard one student say to another: "You can't not believe in God and still be Jewish." (I swear, my staff members often have this level of conversation; I've heard better discussion on the U.S. election -- among non-Americans, I might add -- in the last two weeks than I've ever heard on Hannity and Colmes.) The student in question replied, "I'm culturally Jewish." A former co-worker of mine would agree. When one of our mutual colleagues declined a Hanukkah card, declaring that he was a practicing atheist, she told him that he was still Jewish -- by default because of his parents.

I'm not sure what precipitated the discussion in my class, but it was suspiciously close to Yom Kippur, which was the very next day. On that day, a friend and I discussed how little we actually knew about the holiday before we came to Israel. Because of the aforementioned co-worker, I actually knew it was the Day of Atonement; I knew that traditional Jews would fast and reflect at home, except for walking trips out to ask or pray for forgiveness. However, this is the religious American Jew's version of events. If this person were in Israel, he or she would be surprised to see the streets full of families bicycling on the empty streets. Surveys find that two-thirds of Israelis declare themselves as religiously Jewish, in either a conservative or traditional sense (The difference between the two, I gather, involves whether you go to synagogue on holidays and keep kosher). So I have to assume that at least some of these people, at least for this day, are focusing on being culturally Jewish instead of religiously Jewish. At least I hope they are not fasting while out bike riding in the desert sun and heat.

And this, it seems, is part of the crisis of the Jewish State (besides the fact that this official name is not included in any government documents; officially, Israel is the "national home for the Jewish people," not exactly a phrase ringing high with property rights). Some people would prefer to emphasize the culturally Jewish and others the religiously Jewish. In my observations, the latter is more often asserted by immigrants than the people who have been living here since the advent of Zionism, which makes sense considering the fact that the freedom of religion is probably a bigger impetus to leave your home country than the freedom to play paddle ball in Speedo-like underwear.

When American interests insert themselves into issues of Israeli nationhood, this conflict comes to a head, literally. By Israeli law, to make aliyah and therefore get a passport, Jewish identity can be established either culturally, through being born to a Jewish mother regardless of whether she or the child practices, or religiously, through undergoing conversion per Jewish law (read: circumcision). However, an Israeli citizen cannot get married in the country unless the Orthodox Israeli Chief Rabbinate approves. Typically, this means that conversions (circumcisions) done outside the country are not enough all by themselves. As you might imagine, American Jewish movements believe that religious conversions in their country should be plenty to get married, but in an ironic twist, they say Jewish identity should not be established culturally if the parent does not claim Jewish identity.

Are you confused yet? Me, too. Is Judaism a culture or a religion? Yes and yes. As crazy as it seems to have a culture encouraging a horde of training wheels to overtake a six-lane highway, it's even crazier to envison a religion provoking a mob of stoners to attack any wheels of the non-training variety -- all on a single Jewish holiday.

There was a rainbow round about the throne, like an emerald to look upon (Revelation 4:3)

When I started packing for our trip to Ireland, the first thing that came to mind was rain. I wanted to make sure I brought enough waterproof gear. But the first thing that normally comes to people's minds -- which, incidentally, is related to rain -- is the green landscape that gives the country it's "Emerald Isle" nickname. My trip to Ohio was verdant enough, but after spending a week in tan and dusty Israel, the lushness of St. Stephen's Green in Dublin was admittedly quite striking:
But the colors of other jewels were just as evident throughout the country. Despite my fears of downpours, we had plenty of clear weather, including this sapphire sky in Bray, a southern suburb of Dublin that was hosting a summer carnival:
The Salthill promenade near Galway on the west coast also had a carnival, but the main attraction was the silver sea instead. The rare sun brought people of all ages out to test the waters. My wussy self only waded, but Tim took a dip long enough to make his teeth chatter. The Atlantic Ocean is no Mediterranean Sea, even in summer:
Tim was also brave enough to bear the 40 Foot natural pool in Sandycove right as the amber sunlight was beginning to fade. The pool is only steps away from the Martello Tower that houses the James Joyce museum. Joyce was inspired enough by the local scenery that he describes it in detail in the opening chapter of Ulysses; it's easy to see why:The filtering of rays through the clouds gave me an inspiration of a different kind: Time to drop in a pub. No trip to Dublin is complete without the obligatory trip to St. James's Gate Brewery, home of Guinness. The tour, although somewhat hokey, is worth the final reward: a complimentary topaz pint with a 360-degree view of the town and, if you're as lucky as me, a shamrock head:As much of a cultural institution as Guinness is, Ireland is rich in the slate of history. We saw Muiredach's Cross on the way to Newgrange, a Stone Age passage tomb built before the Egyptian pyramids. The 10th century cross at Monasterboice, where the remains of a monastic round tower also still stand, is considered the best example of a intact high Celtic cross in Ireland:
In keeping with the color of history, we had a few gray days, including during a trip to Howth. But the fishing village north of Dublin was dotted with jewel tones. When we did our one and only "hill walk" south of the harbor, I realized that the boats and houses resembled a collection of birthstones: The Irish landscape is full of gems, to be sure, but the true pearls of the country are its characters. The seals in the Howth harbor were happy to get leftovers from the wharf fish mongers. But Tim's oysters and my Dublin Bay prawns, we decided, were too delicious to throw to the seaborne beggars:
Much more intrusive and much more scary were the Close-Act performers roaming the streets at the Galway Arts Festival. I managed to get wrapped up in their antennae on our way to one of the most famous fish-and-chips establishments in Ireland:
The sights of Ireland were undoubtedly gorgeous, but truly, I got most caught up in the people, including the Belfast couple who bought Tim and I so many pints that we nearly missed our train back to Dublin. It saddened me that we only had enough time to merely scratch the surface of the country's many facets. Rain or no, we will return.

I have been a stranger in a strange land (Exodus 2:22)

I know, I know, I can't believe I haven't used this title yet. But until now, I hadn't really felt out of place in Israel, well at least more than expected. Recently, though, I had an experience that makes me feel like an unwanted immigrant. In general, I'm pretty liberal on immigration to the United States. When Americans represent only 4 percent of the world's population, but use more than 30 percent of the world's energy resources, for example, I feel the country is somewhat obligated to open its doors. Yet I also sympathize with those people who feel that new immigrants should make attempts to integrate, even in terms of language. But we could be more accommodating during this transition. Consider my recent experience trying to fix my car embellished as a little fable, with the following roles:
Me = Recent immigrant
English = Spanish (native language)
Hebrew = English (new language)

So a young Mexican woman immigrates to the States, and one day her car is hit while parked on the street, leaving damage to the front driver side of the car. After calling her insurance company numerous times and never hearing back, possibly because it's too hard to find someone to speak to her in Spanish, she just decides to take it to the shop anyway. Upon arriving at the garage, the employees are nice enough to act as translators in dealing with the insurance claim, which must be filed in English. This takes almost half a day to negotiate, causing her to get reprimanded by her employer for taking too much time off.

A few days later, the shop calls to say the claim has been refused. So the woman goes to the shop to see if she can find out why. The employees there are not nearly as helpful this time because it seems she wasted so much of their time before, but they still help her get in contact with the insurance company. A representative there tells her in Spanish that her policy covers only "body damage." This woman, who has taken enough English to buy groceries, get gas, and pay bills, clearly does not know enough to understand her insurance policy; apparently, she didn't really understand her insurance policy in Spanish either. Although her car is merely dented, requiring no repairs beyond structural, this does not qualify as "body damage."

Now the garage and insurance employees are both frustrated with her. Her claim isn't going to be covered, but the parts have already been ordered. Luckily, the woman has enough savings to pay for the repairs, which is a good thing because now that she has missed another day of work to deal with the problem, she will probably lose her job. After feeling like a burden to everybody and an idiot to herself because she was ignorant of how bureaucracy works in her new country, she just wants a cigarette and a stiff drink.

So the woman is now out of a job and out of money, so she just keeps coping by smoking and drinking, which eventually puts a strain on her new country's social services: She has to draw unemployment because of her poor work record, and she has to apply for Medicaid to cover her tobacco- and alcohol-related ailments. You see where this slippery slope is going, right? The open-door immigration policy is now hurting every honest taxpayer.

And so the critics have some validity to their claims. But all of this could've been mitigated and perhaps even avoided if someone, anyone would've helped the young woman negotiate a system that even native Americans oftentimes have trouble navigating. It would've taken only one person -- from the insurance company, from the car title office, from her job -- to tell her that her insurance policy was not complete, and she would've fixed the mistake before she had to face the consequences. And this is only one of many bureaucratic nightmares she will have to endure. Changing the initial cause of the effect -- refusing immigrants, period -- certainly takes care of the issue, but addressing some other causes -- like new-immigrant assistance -- might achieve fairer results.

Though he knew it not, yet is he guilty, and shall bear his iniquity (Leviticus 5:17)

I don't like to proliferate stereotypes, so I am going to try to dispel one, that of the Jewish mother, accused of laying on the guilt so thick that her children have mental breakdowns, ala the stock character in Portnoy's Complaint. 

I am here to say that Jewish mothers are not to blame, for this is an Israel-wide phenomenon -- parent, child, sibling, spouse, significant other, friend, landlord, neighbor, boss, co-worker, and stranger alike. Almost all of these have guilted me into action within the past year: 

I park my car elsewhere after neighbors told me that specific spots on the public streets belonged to them. 

I walk my dog twice a day after my landlady told me that Sage's pee and poop (the latter of which was not his, but her own dog's) was killing her plants. 

I go to Monday morning meetings after my principal said all staff were required to attend even if they have no responsibilities there. 

I grade homework on weekends after students told me that they didn't have enough time to revise them by the end of the quarter. 

I sub for my colleagues after a few requested me specifically to fill in for them, knowing I could actually teach in their absence. 

I took on students for independent study classes after guidance counselors told me that students just couldn't fit my class into their schedules. 

I move my stuff between Herzliyya and Even Yehuda on a near-daily basis after the children of friend told her that they didn't appreciate the intrusion of their privacy through our voluntary house- and dog-sitting.

I go the gym more after a trainer told me that I could be in even better shape if I just a little more cardio and lifted a little more weight. 

I call my dad every Sunday to let him know I am okay after my uncle told me that bombings are the only Mideast news in the Mansfield paper.

I drink more beer at the beach with my boyfriend after he told me that my stress level was affecting our relationship. 

I drive to Haifa to drop off the school yearbook after the printer told me he felt disrespected that I shared his bid with another company to get a counteroffer. 

I carry my contract and a business card after a security guard told me that my work visa was not enough to prove that I am allowed to live in Israel. 

To be honest, I'm not against using guilt as a tool. My parents were pretty adept with this skill. Disappointment was always a more effective motivator than punishment in my life, and I turned out pretty well, albeit as somewhat of a perfectionist. I think I am just jealous that, despite all this training, I have not mastered the art myself. If I had, things would've went much differently here: 

I would ask my neighbors to call the eyewitness who left me a note after my car was hit while parked in one of the "non-reserved" spots. 

I would respond to my landlady that, if the plants bore vegetables, we would be more careful, considering we can't fit more than three apples in our mini-fridge at a time. 

I would suggest to my principal that I use Monday morning meeting time as my planning periods, considering two are eaten up by voluntary independent-study courses and the other is spent on cafeteria duty.

I would tell my students that since they whine about too much work, I am taking away the option of revising essays to raise their grades.

I would request my own personal sub to see if they could teach, say, how to download a photo to my newspaper class.

I would refuse the guidance counselors' intention of adding a fifth prep to my schedule simply because they won't tell parents "no."

I would agree when my friend told me that perhaps her child-rearing skills are to blame for her son's and daughter's attitudes.

I would declare to my gym trainer that I am, in fact, in as good of shape as most of the other female members -- even though I don't flaunt the cleavage to prove it.

I would e-mail my dad that get-aways from all the violence are exactly why I can't call every week.

I would send my boyfriend to the beach to imbibe alone yet still expect him to bring me back food and a bottle of wine.

I would demand that the printer give us 100 more yearbooks for free because it was the rush to do changes for him that made me mis-add the total order.

I would reply to the security guard that perhaps he or she should check with the Ministry of Education about my credentials, considering it still has my diplomas and teaching certificate.

And yet, I am building my talents of manipulation. Within the past month (which is how long this post has taken to write because of my succumbing to guilt), I have made some progress in using guilt to get what I want:

I helped ensure that my neighbor next year will be another teacher from the school, which won me favor with both the administration and my landlady.

I took pictures of a bruise left by a bite from the landlady's dog, which I plan to use as leverage (along with the new tenant) for a new refrigerator.

I suggested to my principal that, considering I have five different preps next year, I don't think I should have to have any duties, homeroom, cafeteria or otherwise.

I stuck to my requirement of an 80 percent to get my recommendation for AP Literature, and all but one student revised multiple essays by the deadline to get in.

I started assigning staff members as responsible for various parts of the new Web site, implying that they will now have to download their own photos if they want them online -- unless I have time to do so while I am subbing for them.

I decreed to the guidance counselors that I will not entertain any requests for students to switch in or out of my class next year.

I split from house-sitting for my friend, telling her that the disrespect, no matter its cause, was interfering with my personal well-being.

I alluded publicly to the fact that I know my gym trainer, who happens to be my landlady's son, had a nose job to fix his physical flaws.

I told my dad that continuing to talk every other week, which happened accidentally for a while, was a good idea.

I asked my boyfriend to drink his beer with me at seaside restaurants instead of at the local kiosk.

I created a purchase order with the newly contracted printer and accurate total for next year already.

I piled three yearbooks and a newspaper on the security guard, just in case she really needed to see them for verification of my work status.

Am I proud of these things? Some, yes, a little, and others, a lot. But more to the point is that I have learned to fight fire with fire. As someone with a Superwoman complex, guilt is my greatest kryptonite, as all my arch-Israel enemies have discovered. What they didn't realize is that they are not immune to guilt either. And this tragic flaw is the stuff all good comic books and novels are made of. After all, even Philip Roth, through his Portnoy, turned his guilt around: into a writing career. I wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, those printed words have put the guilt back on his mother.   

Jehovah made a covenant with Abram, saying, Unto thy seed have I given this land, from the river of Egypt unto the river Euphrates (Genesis 15:18)

All good historical holidays and lessons come served with beer, so let us commence. Last Saturday, I took part in a tour to Taybeh, in the West Bank, where a factory there makes a beer that is "the finest in the Middle East." Five days later, on Thursday, I drank this aptly-named beer at a BBQ during my day off for Yom Ha'atzmaut. Israeli Independence Day commemorates when David Ben-Gurion proclaimed the establishment of the State of Israel, realizing Theodor Herzl's Zionist dreams, on May 14, 1948. This same day is called the Nakba, or catastrophe, by Arabs and Palestinians, because although their lands became free of the British Mandate, they were soon to be controlled by another nation. Israelis believe they were only recovering the land that had been promised to them by Jehovah and that their ancestors had been ousted from; meanwhile, of course, a new population would be displaced.

According to the International Herald Tribune, 1.3 million Arabs, or 20 percent of the population of Israel, are being restricted on land where they once had independence. To ensure the security of the Israeli (not Jewish, I must say) state, some rabbis dictate that Jews may not rent apartments or give jobs to Arabs. The larger key to this security, though, is land. Arabs are not allowed to work on about 120,000 hectares of their land, even though it might be just sitting idle. And I'm not even talking about the West Bank and Gaza Strip yet.

So where does beer come in, you ask? Taybeh is located in Area A of the West Bank, which is under complete Palestinian control and is supposed to be legally inaccessible to Israelis. Area C is under complete Israeli control and is the base for many settlements. Area B is under joint Palestinian-Israeli control. Here is a good map of the situation. It is not just the West Bank that is partitioned off by the separation barrier, but each of these areas is isolated too, with parallel highways on each side of many walls, one for settlers and one for Palestinians. Therefore, even though Jerusalem is only a 15-minute drive from Taybeh, any of the beer that is sold in the city is likely bootlegged; it is not legal for Israelis to transfer goods from Area A to Israel proper. And if the beer is to be shipped through Israel -- which it must be to get to, say, Jordan -- the taxes are incredibly high.

So at his grandfather's urging, in the early '90s, Nadim Khoury (above at right) came back to the West Bank to open his brewery, instead of staying in suds-central Boston. Granted, things were looking good: In the year the brewery opened, 1994, Israel signed a peace treaty with Jordan that, among other agreements, stated that "normal relationship between them will further include economic and cultural relations." Since then, though, Ehud Barak's "generous offer" was rejected by Yasser Arafat during negotiations at Camp David in 2000. This offer would have ensured Palestinian control of portions of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, about 80 percent of the green-line area you hear talked about. But even if this deal would've been struck, Khoury would've been left in the lurch, because only small strips of land would connect three patches of Palestinian property, surrounded by Israeli-controlled estate. And the "generous offer" didn't include any specifics about "economic relations," including non-exorbitant export procedures and taxes.

The Gaza Strip, of course, is a whole different ballgame. Its residents aren't worried about exporting; they are worried about importing. Israel does not allow the territory to have its own port, and the state also controls incoming goods across the land border, which often aren't much. Some aid groups have pulled out of the area, because negotiating through restrictions is difficult. Just last month, the United Nations Relief Works Agency suspended aid to 1.1 million refugees in the territory because of fuel shortages caused by Israeli sanctions on Hamas. It's no wonder that desperation led to the storming of the border with Egypt.

Okay, but back to beer, with an analogy: You're Coastal Extreme Brewing Co. in Newport, Rhode Island. You're trying to make your livelihood with your latest stout, but you aren't allowed to export anywhere outside of the state borders, not into Connecticut, not into Massachusetts, without paying the price. And anyway, your production depends on whether you can get the shipment of Canadian malted barley into the state, because your truck has been stuck at the border for a day now because the crossings were closed and security is investigating your supply. And your Bavarian hops couldn't come in by plane or boat because you're not allowed to have an airfield or port.

I say all this because I want to show that statehood is not the issue. The constituents in Israel already understand statehood; they can draw and re-draw borders with proficiency and on a daily basis. What the area is lacking is an understanding of nationhood, where individual states cooperate with one another, including shared authority over security and trade. A two-state solution can't be a solution until this is realized. Giving the Palestinians, or even Arabs, their own state would mean little if they are going to continue to be partitioned off like my hypothetical Rhode Island, unable to participate in the broader country -- and even world. Perhaps, just perhaps, younger generations of Israelis will consider this as they sip beers on the beach during their Independence Day BBQs. And maybe one day they'll even drink Taybeh.

An unhealthy interest in controversies and quarrels about words that result in envy, strife, malicious talk, evil suspicions (1 Timothy 6:4)

Although Turkey is perhaps one of the friendliest countries I have ever been to -- even the free-roaming neighborhood cats and dogs would let you pet them -- at times during the trip, I undeniably felt conspicuous, if not suspicious. Despite Istanbul's reputation as a party city, drinking beer was not as accepted as you might imagine. Although Istiklal Caddesi, which stretches from Taksim Square to Galata Tower in the newer Beyoglu district, serves as an eastern European Bourbon Street, imbibing was not as prevalent in the older Sultanahmet area. 

When Tim ordered a beer at a tea cafe near the Spice Market -- and, granted, in the shadow of a mosque -- it was brought to him in an opaque glass and announced loudly as a cappuccino. I have to admit that the beer foam did look like milk froth. We debated the need for secrecy. After all, a hawker enticed us to the cafe by pitching beer. If the establishment had moral qualms about serving quaffs, it shouldn't mention beer on the menu, orally or otherwise. We concluded that it was probably more about not offending the more conservative clientele. Indeed, none of our fellow patrons, many of whom wore head scarves or ran off to the mosque after the call to prayer, were having alcohol. But then again, no one was having cappuccino either. So we were, um, obvious. 

But the stares weren't as evident as when we sat down for tea in the bazaar area of Erzurum. In the West, drinking tea is a non-gendered equal opportunity, but in the East, it is more reminiscent of the old boys club. I felt like Tim was the stupid guy who brought a girl to his friend's stripper-filled bachelor party, and I wasn't there to show off my G-string. Once again, the proprietors cheerfully served me, but they weren't as inviting with the refills as they were with Tim. I tried to be casual as I sucked down my spot of tea. They are small glasses, so we got out of there quickly, but I felt extremely disconcerted, so much so that I didn't mind wasting four hours at the supermarket and train station instead of wandering more around the city. 

Surprisingly enough, it was an American -- or so he said -- and not a Turk that made us feel most suspect. As we headed in to check out Istanbul's Sirkeci Station, once a hub on the Orient Express, a pedestrian asked me, in English, where I was from. Trying to keep up my resolution to be more open to talking to strangers while traveling, I answered him. We chatted for a good 15 minutes before he asked us if we wanted to join him at a whirling dervish show at the station that night. I didn't mind talking or even going to the show, but I didn't want a third wheel for the night, so I mustered up as much diplomacy as I could to extricate us from the dialogue. 

It was only after we parted ways that Tim expressed doubts about the numerous coincidences that came up in the conversation. Okay, so he said he was on business in Ankara -- which we were planning to visit in a few days -- but taking a break in Istanbul. Believable. He said he worked in counter-terrorism and lived outside DC -- where we used to live. Still believable. He said he had recently visited Berlin -- which we just visited in December. A little scary. He said he had traveled as a Fulbright scholar -- which Tim applied for last year. Getting scarier. He asked Tim if he was a international politics major -- which he is, well, international relations anyway. Definitely strange. He said he had taken a tour of Israel where he had visited the Interdisciplinary Center in Herzliya -- which is about a mile from our house. What the hell?!? 

The most disconcerting part, though, was all the information he got out of us: our current location, our previous homes, our hometowns, our professions, our educational backgrounds, our previous travel, and our current itinerary. The near-cross examination almost made me feel I was worth being interrogated. Of course, we had no need to worry because our intentions were pure. We were heading to the East, but with no malevolence. In fact, we managed to avoid an outbreak of fighting in Kars province, in which a Turkish soldier and five PKK members were killed, two days after we left. We dodged another bullet, literally, by skipping our treehouse stay in Olympos. The morning of the day we were scheduled to arrive, two nearby hostel owners engaged in a shootout that wounded a dozen guests. And still, this guy made us feel suspicious. But if you ask me, inviting two strangers to attend a show where men in fezzes and dresses twirl around to honor Allah is much more eyebrow-raising.