5 days in the galileeý ý
ý of course I’m not online up north here – but I am addicted – so I am writing ýuncensored and uncorrected impressions and will put them on the web when I get ýhome. It may not be ‘fresh’ but it’s real.
ý Almost everywhere you go up north you’re in another world. As soon as we got out of ýour cars for some refreshment we were tourists, welcome strangers in a familiar yet ýforeign land. We asked at Al Asil (North of Carmiel, south of Sefad) if we could ýbring the dog into the restaurant and discovered that hospitality extends to terriers. ýAnd a few other pointers and shepherds wandering around.
ý We were too hungry to decypher and translate the food and allowed the waiter to ýmake the decisions – he began with alfalfa (think its called filfellia) salad, collard ýgreens (Jargir?) and onions, pickled sorrel (olesh), and a few other delights like ýburghul and fried onion.
The main courses were equally strange and yet familiar, ýcourgettes stuffed with lamb in a yoghurt lemon source, kafta (ground ý lamb baked in tomato sauce) and a pulled beef in some kind of bacarahat cinammon ýsauce with brown rice.ý All of it seemed familiar – I know I’ve had all of it before – the jarjir in harlem (!) ýThe rest in various restaurants and homes years and years ago.ý But I was enthralled – with the food and the people. And this thrall continued. From ýthere we went on to Amirim where we’d rented a little house in the forest – a faintly ýpissy smelling place that was nevertheless great fun – a big jacuzzi on the back porch ýthat we tried in the dark at night and saw the stars, a loft for the little kiddies it took ýthem a while getting used to, a garden rich in mulberry and sage and wonderful ýflowers.
ý Now Amirim was a real surprise to me – why I don’t know – if I knew it was ývegetarian, and up in the mountains, I should have known it would have a kinky ýbunch of guests – like Haim Chertok who I bumped into at the grocery story. And ýme. Even the clerk at the grocer’s sent me off with words of warm advice, and when ýwe took the kids to the playground the dog made friends with every one. A group of ýlong-haired haredi girls in long skirts and long sleeved-blouses taking care of their ýonly little brother learned for the first time to pet an animal. And when I told them I ýwas from tel aviv, one of them asked – do you know the Russo family?
ý The next morning we went to the monkey jungle – then I could see how many ýdifferent kinds of tourists there are – Shusha and I was confined to the entrance ýbecause the number of wild animals and birds and kids would have shook her up (plus ýthere was a rule about dogs). So they came to visit us anyway – swans and roosters ýand peacocks and pelicans. And I got to see some of the monkeys when I got ýspelled.
. but I was talking about the people – City Haredi and Mountain Haredi, ý Regular religious, and kibbutzers, christian and Muslim – in traditional wear, in ýreligious clothing, in regular clothes. On the phone I describe them to Orit and she ýsays, of course, the whole area is ‘ruchni’ or, in english, ‘spritchal’ (like a corruption ýof spiritual)
The monkey jungle is inYodfat and we stayed there for lunch in a café ýthat was part of the kibbutz’s mess hall long ago, a place called Il Collina. It’s a little ýý‘tuscan’ and the food and the atmosphere is inspired by that. It was good and not ýexpensive – with pizzas and pastas and stuff, and apparently very famous.
Still in ýYodfat we went to visit its sock outlet and my fetish-ridden husband bought countless ýpairs of brightly striped socks for children. His equally fetish-ridden wife bought ýunderwear.
We kept missing the news on the radio – the paper here is always out ýof whack from the moment it comes out because new things happen from minute to ýminute, so missing the radio or the television news is being entirely out of whack. ýBut it must have been freudian. Who would want to know the news when the ýpossibilities seem so much better?
Here’s an example. We stopped for gas at a ýplace called Arabiya – a big Arab town with countless pharmacy, dentist, and doctor ýsigns. Shusha and I got out and sat on the steps of the gas station office next to a boy ýwho knew no hebrew, and my arabic failed me suddenly. I started to tell him about ýthe ‘cat’ and he thought I was crazy. He did enjoy her singing, though. Then all of a ýsudden Shusha spotted some man who she decided was a friend – he walk up a small ýalley and she ran after him. He got spooked and ran away, and the guys from the gas ýstation ran after to bring her back. She disappeared into her new lover’s courtyard but ýcame back when I called. And with no language there was something for all of us to ýlaugh about.
When I came back and caught a minute of news on TV I saw only ýconflict and enmity. Now why should I want to see the news?
The second ýmorning we took off for Manara, a spot that can take an entire day for a normal family ýto explore. We started out with the steep and breathtaking mountain cable cars, and at ýthe bottom some of us took a turn on the track cars. If Shusha was not with us, ýperhaps I would have tried the Omega, and maybe someone would have warmed up to ýthe cliff climbing or snappling, but we didn’t. We skipped the swimming pool and ýthe children’s entertainment center too, and were forced to skip the restaurant – which ýwas full, and decided to descend to Metulla for lunch. We were so hungry we didn’t ýstop on the way, and stopped at the first restaurant, the one by the old school, called ýý“Hatachana,” named both for the Station (or the ruins of the station) and the act of ýchewing. Having overindulged on meat, we drove through the main road of Metulla, ýnow lined with restaurants and hotels, and went up to the Lebanese border. We’d ýactually been driving along the border for a while before we hit Metulla but I couldn’t ýpass without visiting the “good Fence,” the open border between Lebanon and Israel. ýý
I used to have good friends who lived in the last house before the border, but he died years ago and I haven’t been able to reach her for at ýleast 3 years. So I wanted to stop by their house and see who was living there – but it ýwas all closed up, even though their name is still on the door.
Even though I’d ýseen her many times since the hope of the “good fence” diminished, and I’ve known them through many different times, I will always associate them and their ýhouse with the wonderful feeling we had when we would buy trinkets from Lebanon ýon the border.
Although there are lots of places that mean a lot to me in that area, ýour next stop was the roaring lion at Tel Chai. This is the memorial to Yoseph ýTrumpeldor and the seven others who were killed in 1920 when a delegation of Arab ýsoldiers investigating the possible presence of French military in the hebrew ýcompound opened fire on the settlers. Trumpeldor was already a hero from the ýJapanese -Russian war, the Russian revolution, and his presence had raised the spirits ýof the weary settlers. When he was mortally injured, he is said to have told the doctor ýtreating him, “it is good to die for one’s country,” and that quote has been frequently ýrepeated, But in recent years it was reported that his last words were in russian “Yop ýfo yo mat” or fuck your mother.
Arik Einstein, about whom I have written ýfrequently here, had a song over a decade ago with the word, “Trumpeldor was a hero ýý– could it be that it’s all over?”
I had to wait outside of Tel Chai because it is a ýcemetery and Shusha does not belong there, so we sat on a stump just off the path and ýwaited. A steady stream of people passed, and because it was Shusha – looking very ýsedate and cute – many children asked their fathers, “is that the roaring lion?” So I ýwound up talking to people from Beit Shemesh, from Jerusalem, from kibbutzim, just ýeverywhere. And they were all braving the heat of the day (35 degrees centigrade) to ývisit the memorial to a man who died over 80 years ago and didn’t even know ýHebrew. In that sense I don’t think it is over.
ý It was getting a little late (4 p.m.) amd everything was beginning to close down, like ýthe museum at Tel Chai and the Hula Nature Preserve, so we decided to head for ýRosh Pina, the community found near the end of the 19th century (1884) and called ýý“Gai Oni” – or the valley of poverty – because it sounded like the adjacent Arab ývillage “Ja-oni.” The town has been reconstructed and the physical form of the city’s ýcentre follows the original 19th century shape and structure, but in content it is more ýlike a 60’s hippy village: jewellry stories, leather shops, galleries and cafés. The old ýfarm implements on display in the middle of the town seem a bit embarassed. And ýyet proud as well. More proud than the patchwork and ceramics, beautiful though ýthey are.
On the third day I was buying milk in the local grocery store, when Ezi ýpushed the newspaper at me – here’s something for our vacation. Bus bombing in ýJerusalem. 19 people killed. So far. Most not identified yet. Natan Zahavi on the ýradio would have preferred to put on sad music and go home – even he had nothing to ýsay. He asked people not to call in with the usual platitudes, and it seemed like they ýtoo were in the same sad silent mood. What could we do? We decided to go up to ýTeffen, the museum and sculpture park near Ma’a lot Tarshicha, although in ýretrospect, I can’t remember why. Every time I’ve been there, except for a very ýspecific exhibit, I’ve been vaguely disappointed by the atmosphere and couldn’t ýremember why. This time when we came to the entrance and I saw the ‘no dogs ýallowed’ sign, I remembered why I didn’t remember the last exhibit we came to last ýtime. I stayed outside with Mocha while Ezi and Rachel went through the sculpture. ýNot that I didn’t enjoy myself. Then it was 4 in the afternoon in the winter and ýgrowing dark, and the birds in the parking lot were in a fury about which tree they ýwere going to sleep in. This time I split the exile with Ezi, and went to the drawing ýroom with Liora (who was a bit cranky from the ride and who knows what else) – but ýa workshop had just ended and the instructor refused to show us the secret of the ýmagic drawing she had just taught, even though she could see the tears forming in ýLiora’s eyes. We grabbed some paper and went out to find crayons but the store had ýnone to sell, and I think the saleslady was the sister of the drawing instructor. At the ýpost office we found a more sympathetic being, willing to see us markers, and passed ýthe rest of the time while the family wandered in marking up papers. Then I traded ýwith Ezi. So Teffen may have been a great place, but we couldn’t appreciate it.
I ýdidn’t really appreciate the great restaurant we went to in Kfar Vradim afterward, ýeven though now I know I’m generalizing because Shusha had to stay outside. This is ýan Arab restaurant situated on a hill, with a breathtaking view from all directions. As ýShusha looked in the window with an expression of great suffering, I complained that ýan Arab restaurant should have an Arab name (not just Kfar Vradim in Hebrew), that ýthe square-shaped Egyptian-looking waiters should be able to smile and communicate ýsometimes, and that someone should have noticed how well-behaved and exceptional ýShusha was and let her in.
Okay, I have my own hobbyhorses.
The food ýwas very good. Standard Arab restaurant menu and very good and relatively cheap. ýThe kebab had a hint of sumak and cinnamon and lots of good parsley.
But they ýwere not nice.
And here we had been going through Arab towns and villages all ýmorning without encountering a scowl like that.
Well, as we were driving down a ýone-lane road in sisra there was a tractor blocking because the driver was conversing ýwith a resident in the second story window, and when ezi threw his palms out to say, ýwhat’s up, he curled his fingers in front of his face to say, come and get me.
I ýthought he was kidding, but as he drove by I saw he wasn’t.
but it was his town, ýnot ours. And if we want the scenic routes we should keep our mouths shut and hands ýon the wheel.
There was a great statue in the center circle of one of the towns we ýpassed through this afternoon – an Arab horseman in full charge. We went by too fast ýfor me to see when he died – I need time to decipher Arab ciphers – but I think it had ýto do with WWI.
Still the charging horseman threw me off and I dreamt about ýhim all night – not as a hero but as my enemy,
I think we’re picking the worst ýplaces in the Galilee to visit on purpose, just to ruin our vacation. I mean how can we ýenjoy ourselves when so much tragedy continues around us. I spend clandestine time ýcalling friends to make sure they and theirs are all right, and everyone knows ýsomeone on that bus or in that neighborhood. It has to be clandestine because my ýgranddaughters are not to feel this tragedy. They don't need to hear or see it. So ýwhen the phone rings and someone asks me where I am and if we're okay, I sound ýhearty and happy. There is no one in this country whose heart has not been ýripped.
On the fourth morning of our trip the radio announces a new operation, ýý“slil mechuvan” going house to house in the casbah in schchem, and all that jazz. But ýwe still are accepting the road map. Right.
I couldn’t have foreseen how dismal ýSefad would be. Or did I make it dismal. We began at the candle factory – which ýwas closed. So we walked around the back way for a half hour in the religious quarter, ýtransparent as glass to all the residents, and then came to the candle shop. Very very ýbeautiful candles but I didn’t get to see them because to the question of whether I ýcould carry shusha in I got a very evil and emphatic look. So I just saw what we ýbought. Colorful and creative pieces, not terribly expensive, and made with a general ýaudience in mind as well as a religious one. I was trying to remember what I had ýbeen saying to myself in Arab villages, if I am in their territory I must respect it, but I ýcould not meet with any friendly faces or a kind word, and especially in light of the ýmutual disaster we have just all experienced, this aloof and superior behavior seemed ýsuperfluous.
why oh why couldn’t I find Adam Schoenbrun’s phone number or ýthe number of others I used to know in the neighborhood? I would have profited not ýonly from seeing good people but also from their advice as to where to go in Zefat. ýý
I always notice strange things – never the central ones. And I found myself ýobserving the cut and the sewing of the children’s clothes. Simple girls’ skirts. I ýmyself made countless skirts like that long ago – but never THAT badly. I mean how ýmany mistakes can you make in a single 4 piece navy garment. It couldn’t be that ýhard to cut the pieces in the same size, sew them together evenly and then put in a ýzipper that doesn’t bunch. Also when you cut clothes down to smaller children you ýcan make them fit.
And then the cooking smells. I remember those smells – ýrefugee soup I used to called it when I was a little girl a few years away from being a ýrefugee myself. The children smelled of it. The apartments smelled of it. I think the ýpot was never cleaned but new things were always being added. I still don’t know ýwhat they put in it. But it wasn’t appetizing.
As if anything attractive and ýappetizing detracts from the tasks of holiness.
The artists’ colony was even more ýsad – there were some artists with great work, but many of the galleries seemed ýclosed, and more were showing kitsch. Tourists were not in evidence. We spoke ýbriefly with a few who exhibited in Tel Aviv, and I remembered the first time I was ýthere – 1965 – and it was vibrant and mutually inspiring. Then I met people all over, ýmaybe because I was young and people were more curious. And I felt space and ýinspiration there.
We had screamingly hungry children and no sense of where to ýgo – a very bad way to choose a restaurant. The nearest and easiest was in a center ýwe’d seen the other day on the way from Rosh Pina – a Thai place next to the ýdrugstore. Some indifferent looking people in religious garb told us we could bring in ýthe dog, and gave us lemonade, and suddenly the day began to improve. The food ýturned out to be perfect – something like Thai-Polish – everything a little sweeter and ýless hot than anything oriental I could imagine. But it had a character of its own. And ýI ate the kids food as well as my own.(This may have been because we had dinner the ýnight before at a vegetarian restaurant in Amirim – very expensive and quite varied ýand complex, but not ultimately filling. You really have to be into that food – me I ýprefer hummous, pasta, chips)
I declined an afternoon visit to Mount Meron, ýeven though I thought my visit to the north would not be complete without a few holy ýtombs, and stayed home to listen to the dogs talking to each other in the late ýafternoon. The jacuzzi on the porch, a glass of local wine, a book of Shirley ýKaufman’s verses… ah, but the hudna just died. Abu shamas has been killed by five ýrockets to his car and the hamas is boiling. That’s what we needed – ‘tslil mechuvan’ ýright into the heart of the road map. Efi Eitam and his guys say there never was a ýhudna anyway and we should be more aggressive about protecting our people, but ýAvraham Poraz and many others noted this morning (before the assasination) that if ýwe can strengthen Abu Mazen the Palestinian people would ensure the continuation of ýthe ceasefire.
It’s a moot point now, isn’t it. We know what I would have chosen ýhad I been in a position to make the decisions. And so what.
Thank goodness I ýdidn’t go to Har Miron. I have my doubts about Reb Shimon Bar Yochai anyway – I ýmean maybe if he and Bar Cochba had kept their cool we never would have been ýexiled from this land, right? But what would have killed me about Miron is the mess ýand the ugliness. The traffic mess, the chaos, the uncooperative population – ýeveryone came back in vile moods, looking for simple pleasures to erase the ýexperience.
Day five and we are on our way home – but stop at Mount Tabor – ýat the top of the church the view is magnificent – you can see the whole countryside. ýThe churchyard is empty, except for some supervisor from the Vatican and an Arab ýworking building a little annex or something. The church itself is magnificent, lovely ýand quiet and holy. There are SOME things we could learn from each other.
ý
