Week 2: coherence; action/observation descriptive essay no. 3

Gridlock.

When we get into our rented car, a light blue HaHyundai Getz, in Ben Gurions’ international airport the wind outside picks up and shakes it from side to side. I watch Chuck trying to maneuver his way outside the terminal and wonder for the hundredth time if we just made a huge mistake by renting a car against our better judgment.

After circling the airport for few minutes somewhat lost we find the exit and are driving towards Ramat-Gan, a Tel-Aviv suburb where we rented a small apartment for the month. It’s only a few minutes ride I said to Yael (my daughter) the night before when she suggested to pick us up. We’ll drop our luggage and continue to her apartment in Petah-Tikva another suburb farther away, no need to worry we know our way around.

Merging into the main road few minutes later I am losing my confidence. Within seconds we are vividly reminded why we avoided this doubtful luxury of driving a car in Israel all these years.  The highway looks like an ocean of cars, lines and lines of cars and trucks jammed together. Unlike the ocean though there is no movement. It’s a frozen scene. We look at each other horrified. Even though I lived here most of my life the years in Maine made me forget how crowded this part of the world can be. I also forgot something else which I am being reminded almost instantly, the Israeli Chutzpah.

We are pressed tight between a small blue Fiat and a big red and white Volkswagen when we hear the sirens behind us. Chuck looks at his rear mirror and whistle softly. There’s an ambulance four cars behind us with its red lights flashing but no one moves. Chuck veers the car steering wheel to the left where there is an almost unseen space between the blue Fiat and another car I can’t identify. At that same moment a young man on a motorcycle zooms by and misses us by merely few inches. He waves his hand at us with a universal gesture and screams something behind his helmet. Chuck tries to retreat into our prior position only another car is already there. We are now standing diagonally completely stuck while the ambulance sirens are getting closer. I try not to think of the person lying in the back of the ambulance and instead I motion for the blue Fiat to move forward so we can get straighten up. The driver rewards me with the favorite Israeli gesture. He raises his hand palm down and then half way flip it pointing towards us. The non verbal message is clear “Who died and made you king (or queen)?” or in the local shorthand “Why, who died?”

So we sit and wait. Few cars before us I can see a man opens the door and walks towards the intersection he looks intent on solving the problem whatever it might be. I follow this Lone Ranger with high hopes that crush rather fast when he returns to his deserted car few minutes later with no results.  Couple drivers behind us are honking nervously knowing damn well it is not going to help.

Another motorcycle is zooming by and we look at him with envy. We open the radio to hear the current traffic report; maybe there was an accident or even worse, a terrorist attack, any logic explanation will ease the waiting. But no, in the radio is the usual mixture of music and endless commercials.

Suddenly the car before us is moving we lean back with a breath of relief, Thank God we are moving again but no! After few feet the endless line of cars stops again. Our big achievement getting our car aligned with the rest of the cars is almost lost when the Volkswagen on our right is pressing so close I feel myself physically shrinking in my seat.  For the coming ten minutes we’re inching forward. Around us the honking is getting louder as some drivers are trying to shift lanes in nervous attempts to create an illusion of movement. By now the faces in the cars around us become recognizable, I keep smiling and waving to a little girl two cars across her mother is fixing her hair while she talks endlessly on her cell phone. The driver in the blue Fiat softened considerably since our last encounter and when our cars pass by again, an hour into the jam, I swear I can detect a slight nod of his head.  We are so familiar with everyone around us we almost get a sense of closeness, and any time we’re inching forward we feel like we left our friends behind.

When we reach the intersection the light is red and we stop. I look to my right startled to see the ambulance next to us. Still flashing he stops and let the pedestrians cross. I realize the driver turned the siren off and wonder if after all it was too late. No one else seems alarmed or hurried and I watch with a mixture of horror and disbelief how one of the pedestrians, an older man, taps amicably on the hood of the ambulance as he is passing by.

When we finally reach our exit and leave the line of cars behind I look at my watch, it’s been two hours since we left the airport. In the background I hear the sirens again and wonder if there is still hope after all. We weave through the narrow unfamiliar streets trying to locate the address. When we finally get there it takes extremely skillful maneuvering to park the car in the congested street, by then we are both utterly worn out. We just sit in the car and listen to the wind.

Week 2: coherence; action/observation descriptive essay no 2

 On cats and doors

I have two cats and four doors in my home. One door open to the back yard and the woods, the other two doors to the front, one from our residence and one from the motel lobby. The fourth and last one leads to the laundry room and from there to the outside. That in itself is not very exciting until I realized how much time I spend during the day helping one cat to make decisions about which door to use to go out and preventing the other one from going out through any of them.

It reminds me every time of my fascination with the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland; the one so smugly explaining how it really does not make any difference which direction you choose if you don't have any idea where you are going to in the first place.

My cats don't seem to know that. The older of the two, Necko Chan, is a tri color short hair that came with us from Israel and was originally a street cat. Tri color cats are considered good luck in Japan; I read somewhere and her name means just that “cat” in Japanese.  She grew up having a free range of our yard and over the years developed a keen sense for danger (or so I hope). She also seems to have a hard time making decisions regarding doors.

In the summer she likes the back door. She walks through it with confidence just to stop two feet outside the door sniff the air and seek for possible danger. She than makes a mad dash to the wood pile in the back, never in a straight line though. Once there she will spend endless hours sitting at the top and watching over her kingdom. I can see her from my kitchen window looking extremely content. But now it is winter and things get complicated by the high snow piles at the back. She needs to decide between the two front doors. So we spend considerable amount of time going from one door to the other. At each one she stands for awhile scratches her back against the door frame and my legs looking deep in thought, evaluating the possibilities. I fail to understand the thought process that eventually brings her to make a decision and walk out with great determination only to sit on the front step and look entirely lost.

My other female cat, Sheleg (Hebrew for snow) is a big white ragdoll and an indoor cat who aspires to become an outdoor one. She is trailing behind me and Necko as the latter is trying to decide which door to use. Once a decision was reached and a door was opened she will sprint forward trying to get out and often succeeds. She will then continue to run witlessly without looking back. She is the one the saying “curiosity killed the cat” was crafted after. She just bolts through the open door without casting a look back and never actually being outside for any length of time has no clue how to return. I of course run after her in the snow, with my house slippers, there is no time to spare here. When I catch up with her I pick her up and hold her tight. I can feel her heart beats frantically and see the gratitude in her eyes. I know if she could speak she would thank me for saving her from herself.

Few hours later we repeat the routine, walking from door to door, finding the chosen one, bolting out, chase and rescue and so on. In the meantime, Necko who finally figured out why she walked outside in the first place will walk away from the front door only to show up behind the back door and sit there miserably cold and half frozen while I am calling for her in the front.  

Some days I swear I can see that damn Cheshire cat with his wide teeth full grin hanging in mid air following me and the cats from door to door.  In moments of hesitation daring me to walk through the open door myself without even one look backwards after all what difference does it make?

Week 2: coherence; action/observation descriptive essay

“hafuch”

I love coffee but not just any coffee. What I really like is what we call in Israel “upside down coffee” or in short “Hafuch”. Sitting in any coffee house in Israel, and those are many all you have to say to the waiter is “I want café hafuch”  and this master piece will appear on your table.  It comes in a medium size white cup or preferably a glass with a thick layer of foam and if it is really done right imprinted in the white foam will be a sketch of a heart. “Hafuch” with a heart it doesn’t get any better than that.

The next best thing to the coffee is Israeli cafes. Most of them in the Mediterranean style stretch out on the sidewalks. With one cup of coffee you can claim ownership of any table you like and the right to sit there for as long as you feel.

My favorite café is on the corner of Shainkin St. in the center of Tel-Aviv just steps away from the beach. This corner café is not at all fancy and have just few dozen tables some inside and some perched on a very narrow deck. The tables are small and somewhat old and wobbly but the human landscape forever colorful and changing is absolutely worth it.

The current fashion in clothes is well represented in the small boutique windows but even better on the young women walking along the sidewalks on high hills or stylish boots.  Imagination and panache parading like a fashion show against the Bauhaus style buildings with fading European grandeur of days gone by. Young mothers with their babies in a variety of strollers and carriers, hurried business men and an occasional dog on a leash.  Sleek motorcycles are zooming around parked cars and the few cyclists trying to get by without being run over.

In the entrance to the street under the street lamp just steps away from the crossing sits the local beggar, always on his mattress with a blanket covering his legs. A small open box in front of him to remind the people passing by that he is not here just for fun; he is a working man and needs to make a living. The mattress cover and blanket are often of a matching pattern as is the pillow he leans against when he takes an occasional break or a sip of coffee from a small thermos.  Even though I know it is sort of peeping I can’t take my eyes away from him. He is there every time in good weather as in the pouring rain. With one hand on his collection box, palm up in the classic request gesture and the other texting on his cell phone.  A somewhat distorted picture of a business man, conducting his financial affairs.

Every time the light changes to green the mass of people crossing the street splits as they reach his small sidewalk hamlet and then merge again. Young men and women in their stylish clothes, old couples next to mothers and babies, cyclists and kids on roller skates, an occasional dog on a leash they all pass by him all day long.

From my table in the corner café I can see him texting on his state of the art cell phone and hear the intermittent ring of the coins landing in his box. I watch the people parting and merging as they are going around him never stopping or slowing down. If I was a painter, I think, this would make a great painting. I would title it “an upside down view” but being just a writer I take another sip from my cooling café hafuch and keep watching.

Nature

A desert collage

From my dining room windows facing east I can see the desert. In the mornings with a cup of coffee in my hand I stand there and watch how the sun, a huge red sphere is rising slowly over the Edom mountain range on the Jordanian border. Once over the mountains it colors the otherwise brown landscape with all shades of orange as if lighting a fire. The massive mountain range, hazy in the morning, becomes crystal clear in the evening when the sun as it goes down strokes it with its last rays. I love this view and watching how the colors change with each time of the day.

 Brown on brown is the desert color pallet. From the dark deep shady browns to the very light ones that appear almost white. The rocks bleached by the sun shimmer and almost force me to close my eyes. When I stand there squinting against the blinding sun I can see for miles how the soft round hills go on and on until they end abruptly at the edge of the sea. One brown hill follows another, and another, broken only by an occasional lonely tree.  Nothing to stop my eyes from resting on the Dead Sea a splash of vibrant blue just below the horizon. 

 From where I stand at the big glass window I can see the point at the end of our street where the town ends and the road, a black narrow strip of asphalt keeps on going creating the only disruption in the uninterrupted scenery. It appears and disappears behind the curves and I try to follow it until I can see it no more and all is left is the vast emptiness.

If you are not familiar with the desert you might think it is desolate and barren but I can assure you it is not. It hosted many ancient cultures for hundreds of years. Diverse people came and left, leaving behind just the echoes of their voices and their foot prints in the uninterrupted dust, never to be seen again. They were loners, outcasts or dreamers but they all had one thing in common. They did not bend over to the rules and were willing to assume the consequences. The desert can be a home and a shelter, at times more welcoming than the richest of homes. Its wealth is subtle and its vastness calming.

As I watch the desert in the different seasons I am constantly amazed by its richness, diversity and many faces. The changes some small and others almost theatrical are quick and utterly unpredictable.

In the fall the rain comes, big heavy drops, after months of scorching, blazing summer sun. The rain will pound on the sun baked ground and create a magical transformation. Suddenly there is life everywhere creating a vivid sense of awakening. Small plants will sprout within minutes and small insects will emerge from under the rocks. Almost as if some quick messenger delivered the news, “water! Come out, water”. The air heavy with anticipation just minutes before will be buzzing and humming with the frantic movement.

The harmless rain drops, messengers of life when they first appear can within minutes turn into a full scale flood. The small streams will join to create a wall of roaring water with a surprising force and magnitude that can take on everything on its way to the sea.

In the spring the desert becomes restless. At night the winds are howling, and their echo is spreading over the vast empty space and the narrow ravines. The dry bushes are woken up by the winds that make them go on, rolling, for miles. It is the time of the sand storms. They gather force silently and then fill up the sky and the air with a dense cloud of yellow sand and deafening noise. There is no way to hide from the sand when it surrounds you like a shroud limits your move and take away your sight.

In the front of my house I planted a garden and cultivated it for years. Forever battling the burning summer sun and safeguarding the precious flowers and few trees with a constant supply of water. I know how they completely rely on my care to survive and it makes me proud to see the patches of green I created against the brown landscape.  When I sit there on my porch in the summer nights I relish on the temporary relief from the heat and can almost forget the desert in my back yard.

For over twenty five years I lived in this small town at the edge of the desert. Every spring I would try with no success to keep the sand out of my freshly cleaned house. All along the summer I battled the heat and dryness making sure to hydrate myself and my precious garden. When the fall finally came I hoped with everyone else for the rain to come and reward us with a spectacular show of wild flowers.

Living at the edge of the desert and being surrounded by the remains of ancient extinct cultures; is a constant reminder of the desert power. One cannot forget for even one minute that underneath its great beauty danger lurks. The desert is a giant. For days it can lie quietly outwardly harmless but dare to defy him and it will turn up on you and within minutes crush you up. It was always here and will be, while we humans are transitory and finite.

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Introduction

My life through writing.

I always liked to write, I must have inherited it from my father who wrote a diary from age twenty till he turned minty years old. It was a family myth that even when he had to run away from the German Gestapo he did not forget his old leather bag with his diaries. He wrote in Hungarian and later, when he and my mother settled down in Jerusalem, in Hebrew.

I started my diary when I was ten and wrote diligently all through my high-school years documenting my teenage ups-and-downs. I continued later through my army service and university years in the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. I took my diary with me when I went to study in Pittsburgh, working on my degree in counseling -Ed.

I don’t remember at what point I started to leave my diary behind. Perhaps getting involved in other types of writing mostly newsletters and professional writing diverted me away from the more personal aspects. Maybe being very engrossed in raising a family while holding a full time job as a teacher and school counselor did not leave me  much time. In any case, my diary, by now, a whole pile of numbered notebooks, was left untouched and tucked away.

It was not until we arrived to Maine and purchased our motel four years ago that I felt this tug again. I wanted to write but wasn’t sure what kind of writing and even more complicated in what language. I did try to write in Hebrew and document the motel purchase experience but it was way too early for that. So, instead I joined a creative writing class. Writing in English proved to be an intriguing challenge. Creative writing surprisingly was stimulating and deeply rewarding. Having a supportive group to bring my writings to every week was an added bonus.

I became addicted. Words and phrases filled my head and I spent many hours trying to put them on paper. Maybe at age sixty I can go back to my lost diary and pick up where I left. Like my father writing in a language other than my mother tongue but writing none the less.   

Just checking

Mornings are a good time for writing.

This is my first post