Bauhaus Tel Aviv

Letter to Temple Israel Portsmouth

I will always treasure my daughter’s first Hannukah at Kochavim preschool. It was a very special moment for me and I will tell you why. Raquel had started school about a month before and the day of the Hannukah celebration I was a little late and the classroom party was already underway. Rabbi Larry was there, singing and playing his guitar, and all the children were seated in a circle around him with rapt expressions on their faces. I went and sat next to my daughter and was soon joined by my husband. As the three of us sang “Light One Candle” I was overcome by such joy that the tears streamed down my face.

Having come from an anti-Semitic country such as Spain where our synagogue was tucked away in a small side street and being Jewish what not something you ever talked about with anyone outside of the community, it was a moment that I had never even dared imagine: to celebrate such a Jewish holiday with my family, including my Catholic-raised husband, in such a perfect and yet almost ordinary setting. That was the amazing part: it was ordinary yet extremely special.

There is nothing that makes any of the holidays as relevant as our children do. Like my father said to me once, you only feel like you have done a good job instilling Jewish values in your children when these in turn pass them on to their children.

It was also a powerful moment for me because I began to feel more a part of the community, in sharing this holiday with the teachers, the parents and the children of Kochavim preschool. I had lived in NH for seven years and had never attempted to get involved with the Temple community. When I had my daughter it was the thought of a Jewish preschool that prompted me to make that first call. If that is not clear enough, let me put it this way: it is thanks to the preschool that my husband, daughter and I became a part of the community.

I looked for a Jewish preschool because I know that the first years are when lifelong values are instilled. And I know that as my child grows older it will become more and more difficult to keep those Jewish principles alive in the midst of a largely Christian society. So what better than to give her a base she can forever return to? What better than to make the Temple her comfort zone, something that surely must be a consequence of her spending three or more happy days a week there?

I am always telling my family in Europe how wonderful it is to live in a country where it is possible for us to even have a Jewish preschool. If we were still living in Spain Raquel would not be so blessed. We should not take this freedom lightly. As Jews we should know that the moments in history when Jews have been able to live openly are tenuous and should not be taken for granted. To be sure, there are not many of us in New Hampshire but by closing the preschool we can rest assured that there will be even less of us in the future. Thanks to the preschool not only our children are learning how to live a Jewish life, but thanks to Rhonda and Elian, we as parents are learning how to incorporate Jewish rituals and values into our every day family life as well. We are learning how to make the holidays more interesting for our children and some of us are finding new meaning in them, as we see them through our children’s eyes.

I cannot stress how important I think it is to provide this preschool for our community; for our young children to be nurtured in a setting as far removed from anti-Semitism as possible. Our children are our future and if we want to avoid assimilation, such a huge threat in this country, we must do everything we possibly can to keep Judaism significant in their lives.

I feel that Rhonda and Elian work so hard to create a peaceful and loving Jewish environment for our children that we as parents and Temple members should do everything we can to support them. It is clear to me that their classroom is so much more to them than just a job and they deserve to know that the Temple stands behind them all the way. I thank G-d every day for the blessing of having them in my child’s life.

Casco Bay, Maine

Time flies when you have an addiction

At least this much can be said for me: when I realize I'm addicted, I quit. When we moved to America eleven years ago I had my last cigarette at Barajas airport in Madrid (actually that's a lie, but more on that later), so entering a new phase of my life filled with plenty of stress and culture-shock without the help of nicotine. For a while now I have been fighting the feeling that I should not be spending so much time playing games on Facebook, but it was a quiet background noise in my head, easy to ignore. Until Oscar said to me last night: "You've got a problem. What happened to your writing?" It wasn't the first time he said it but this time I was ready. I deleted Yoville, Farmville and Cafe World. I mean, what was I thinking? The release and sense of liberation was immediate. I spent all afternoon playing with my beautiful daughter and now here I am, writing my blog for the first time since July 22, after having read all the copies of Writer's Digest that had been accumulating on my "to read" pile. I feel quite chuffed with myself for making a clean break.

Just to explain my earlier comment about smoking, I did quit cold turkey but I smoke like a chimney when I visit Israel or Spain. Maybe a good reason to stay put? We'll see.

Tel Aviv at night

Excerpt from "Bring Me Comfort"- Chapter One

I felt Ze’ev’s eyes following me and the first few steps I danced I felt very self-conscious, until I realized that I had lost sight of him in the crowd. When we made our way back to the bar a half hour later Ze’ev was deep in conversation with Arik, but he looked up and caught my eye and smiled at me again. I smiled back and wanted to light a cigarette but I didn’t think I could do it without burning somebody so instead I took my drink, which Ze’ev held out for me wordlessly. I thanked him and took a sip. Not long after we poured out onto the street again and discovered a surprisingly quiet little café nearby where we all sat down at a table and ordered coffee. I found myself sitting next to Ze’ev and as I got out the cigarette I had wanted to smoke for the last hour he leaned over to give me a light. I offered him one of my Kents but he preferred his own Marlboro.

“I try not to smoke too much,” he told me. “In order to save my voice for singing.”

I smiled at him again, holding his eyes, and took a deep drag on my cigarette. I wanted to say that I tried not to smoke too much either, to save my life, but I wasn’t sure it would sound very funny so I refrained.

“Have you been in ha’aretz long?” he asked.

“About eight years,” I answered. “And you?”

“I was born here, in Holon. What exactly made you decide to come here?”

“Well, my brother already lived here – he went to the University of Tel Aviv - and since the first time I visited him I knew I just had to come back permanently.” I paused, feeling self-conscious for the second time that night. Then I went on: “Israel felt like home the moment I set foot here.”

“I’ve heard that before,” he smiled his warm smile. “What do you do for work?”

“I'm a translator. I work with Spanish, English and Hebrew.”

“Spanish? I love that language. My grandmother spoke Spanish. I’ve always wanted to go to Spain.”

“It’s a beautiful country. I spent part of my childhood there. Was your grandmother Spanish?”

“No, Turkish. But her ancestors were from Sepharad, Spain.”

“Turkey is beautiful too. Have you been there?”

“Yes, I have, several times.”

“I was in Istanbul several years ago. It was breath-taking. I had dinner at this place called the Safran Restaurant, at the top of the Intercontinental Hotel, with a view of the whole city, including the Bosphorus and the Sofia and Blue Mosques. It was quite incredible. I loved the music and the belly dancers, and the people were so hospitable.” I paused. “I’m sorry, I’m talking too much.”

Ze’ev laughed.

“No, you’re not. Don’t stop, I like it,” he said.

Our conversation continued and I found myself very drawn to him. He was soft-spoken, with a slow smile and expressive eyes that were like twin pools of black liquid. He had a quiet air about him that seemed like a complete contrast to my own usually hectic way of moving through life. The more we talked the more we seemed to find to talk about and I almost forgot that there were other people sitting with us at the table, until Nurit leaned in close to my ear and whispered: “You two seem to be hitting it off.”

I smiled and nodded.

Ze’ev was lighting up another Marlboro and I reached for my Kent. He again gave me a light. I enjoyed the attentiveness that it showed. It was a gesture that never grew old, and it was made even more pleasant because it was coming from someone I was very attracted to.

People started to get up and make signs of leaving, but Ze’ev and I remained seated. Nurit made a telephone sign with her hand against her ear and I nodded again. Asher said he would see Ze'ev later and wished us both a good night. Eventually everybody was gone and just the two of us remained. As we finished up our drinks we smiled at each other over the tops of our glasses and Ze’ev asked me if he could walk me home. The bottom of my stomach seemed to fall out and I said I would like that.

We strolled down the empty, somewhat dirty, streets and continued to talk. Ze’ev told me how he and Asher had formed their band, Enfasis.

"A Spanish word. Emphasis," he smiled with a sideways glance at me. They had both been in a band together at school, but when they left school they decided to take another direction with their music and they were very excited with their recent CD release. It had been a long time coming.

When we reached my apartment building Ze'ev asked me if I would like to come to the bar where he worked the following night. I said I would enjoy that and he mentioned a bar that I had never entered but had passed many times while strolling down Ben Yehuda Street.

"Come anytime after eight-thirty; I will be there," he said and we stood looking at each other for a moment. I willed him to kiss me but he just smiled and looked like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. Instead he said good night in his low, deep voice and turned to start walking back in the direction we had just come from.

Saturday evening I walked into Schneider's at a quarter to nine. I saw Ze'ev standing behind the bar as soon as I walked in. He was wearing a black t-shirt and his hair looked a little damp, as if he had just washed it. The small dark pub was not full yet; just a few couples sitting at the tables. I took a seat on a bar stool at the end of the bar and Ze'ev leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. My face burned but luckily it was too dark for him to notice. He asked how I was and how my day had gone and I told him, taking pleasure in his attention and the novelty of the stirrings of emotion he provoked inside me. I felt a repressed excitement within that made it hard for me to concentrate on anything other than his close proximity to me. When he asked me what I wanted to drink I said grapefruit juice. I felt inebriated enough as it was so I didn’t think I needed any outside help in the form of alcohol. Although it might have helped me relax a little, I thought as I sipped the juice he placed before me. I lit up a cigarette and we chatted somewhat haltingly about this and that. Now and then we would be interrupted by customers who needed Ze’ev’s attention and as he opened the bottles and poured the drinks I would follow his deft movements with my eyes until he came back to continue our conversation. After I had been there about half an hour I started to feel myself relax. It was hard not to, with Ze’ev making sure we kept up a steady flow of conversation. I began to feel what we had felt the night before: as if we both wanted to discuss everything we were interested in, as if we had a time limit on how long we had to get to know each other.

Acre Harbor

Opening scene from "Bring Me Comfort"

“I don’t want a marriage, I want a divorce,” Yuval said emphatically.

He paused, then went on:

“We need to come up with an arrangement that will work for both sides so that we can go on to live our lives. Separately.”

Yuval Sela was my brother Eitan’s best friend and he was talking about the division of Israeli and a Palestinian states. He, Eitan and another of his friends, Itay Dahan and I were sitting in the Nana bar in the Neve Tsedek district of Tel Aviv. It was Thursday; a popular night for going out as the weekend in Israel consisted of Friday and Saturday, and the bar was beginning to fill up. Because Eitan and I were very close, I often found myself the only girl in a group of men. I was so used to it that I never gave it any thought until somebody who didn’t know us started trying to guess whose girlfriend I was, only to find out I wasn’t with any of them in that way. People rarely mistook me for Eitan’s girlfriend as we looked very much alike, both of us blond with our father’s blue eyes.

“We need to separate completely. That’s the key,” Yuval went on. We all nodded in agreement. “Then, once we have created our two states, any Israeli Arab that wants to remain in Israel should be allowed to serve in the army.”

Yuval was about 5’9, had straight dark hair and a pleasant, attractive face. He and Eitan had served their three and a half years of compulsory draft together and they had been very close ever since.

“I think it would be a good idea, too, if they had to say a pledge of allegiance, like they do in the States,” Itay said. He was the tallest of the three men, about 5’11 with short dark hair and angular features. He and Eitan had worked together several years ago, and although they had both gone on to different jobs since then, their friendship had prevailed.

“I wish we could just get on with it already. It would be nice to be able to relax a little,” Eitan sighed. We all knew just what he meant. The constant tension of the situation between the Palestinians and the Israelis was definitely wearing. Amongst Israelis what was going on in the country was literally called ‘the situation”: HaMatzav.

“And I don’t know that we can deal with our very serious social issues until we solve the problem with the Palestinians,” I said.

“That’s just an excuse, Aviva. We could be dealing with them right now. The government just chooses not to,” Eitan said to me.

“For a start, it’s the Ultra-Orthodox Jews’ prerogative to be pacifists, but they could do social services instead, to give something to the State. Hell, they could even get paid for it,” Yuval snorted.

“Without a doubt we have social problems,” Eitan said. “But then so does every country in the world. We’re no different in that respect.”

The bar was dimly lit and its exposed brick and hardwood fixtures gave it an informal, relaxed atmosphere that made it a much frequented place with people looking to hang out and make conversation. Neve Tzedek had been the first neighbourhood of what was now Tel Aviv to be built by Jews eager to get out of Jaffa, in those days populated mostly by Arabs. Dating from the 1880s, it was situated in the southern part of the city, between the Florentin district and the sea, just north of Jaffa. It had in recent times become very popular with the bohemian yuppie set and was now full of art galleries and small cafes.

It had been a year and a half since the beginning of the second Intifada, Or “Al-Aqsa Intifada” as it was known in the press, and today there had been another suicide bombing, this time on King George Street in downtown Jerusalem, killing three and wounding 86. Israelis were tired and fed up. The economy was suffering badly, tourism was at an all time low and the majority of Israel’s Jewish citizens felt that something, anything, had to be done to change the current circumstances.

It was close to eleven and the Nana bar was now well and truly packed. My best friend Nurit Ben Zur and her boyfriend Yonatan Magen joined us, after elbowing their way through the crowded bar. Nurit gave me a kiss on the cheek and lit up a cigarette.

“I’m famished. Can I get something to eat in this place?” She said. Nurit and I had been friends since before I moved to Israel. I had met her while I was visiting my brother and we had grown extremely close over the years. She was of medium height with black hair that reached just below her shoulders and clear olive skin that radiated good health. She was a very warm person, laughed often and was always ready with a sympathetic ear when I needed her. I always marveled at her seemingly limitless ability to remain completely calm in any situation.

She had only been seeing Yonatan for a few months and so far I really liked him. He was almost the exact opposite of her ex-boyfriend, Amir Ezra, who she had dated for about five years. They had lived together for the last four, and he had been a prize jerk; endlessly cheating on her and failing to show up for appointments that they made. He was the driver for the Minister of Defense and this only seemed to add to his feeling of self-importance. Yonatan, on the other hand, worked in the high tech industry, as did my brother Eitan and his friends Yuval and Itay. Eitan and Yonatan were both international sales representatives; Yuval a project manager and Itay a software programmer. Yonatan was tall with short dark blonde hair and distinct features; his mouth was often curved up in a little half smile, as if he felt that life treated him well. It was a huge change from Amir, with his sulky, dark good looks and eyes that were as blue as the Mediterranean that washed the shores of Tel Aviv and which got him whatever he wanted. I put an arm around my friend as she ordered a hamburger from a passing waitress. Yonatan ordered one too and they were served with surprising speed, considering the amount of people in the place. As they ate our conversation continued.

“Are the hamburgers any good?” Eitan asked.

“They are actually,” Nurit answered with her mouth full. “Nothing like McDonald’s.”

“Honestly,” Eitan said, shaking his head. “I don’t understand how that place can be so popular in the States.”

“Yeah, but even so someone sued them for making them fat,” Yuval said.

“I hope they were laughed out of court,” I said, laughing myself.

“The mixture of stress and a bad diet is doing nothing for Americans’ health,” Eitan went on.

“Hey, I’m stressed, what with this Intifada and the constant terror attacks,” I said.

“Are you, though?” Yuval asked. “Are the attacks stressing you out?”

I thought for a moment.

“You know, they are, but come to think of it the Americans are way more stressed than I am.”

We all laughed.

“It’s kind of amazing to think that people there can worry more about money than we worry here about losing our lives,” Nurit mused.

Capuchino, Pamplona 2009

Excerpt from "Torero"

We sipped our drinks in silence for a moment and that is when the atmosphere in the bar suddenly changed. There was a hush and Raquel caught her breath. I followed her gaze and saw that a new customer had arrived with a group of people. Judging by the way he carried himself and people’s reaction to him, he was someone important. He was about 5’10, with short, thick black hair, a square jaw and almost black eyes under surprisingly shapely eyebrows for a man. His movements had a quiet, graceful confidence about them that made it hard for me to take my eyes off him. He seemed to be having a similar affect on most of the people in the bar.

“Who is that?” I asked Raquel. I cleared my throat as the question had come out like a croak.

Raquel turned to me, shocked.

“You don’t know?”

I was surprised, although not very. Like I said, he seemed important.

“I should?”

“He’s only one of the top three matadors in the country!” Raquel scoffed. “His father was Nando, who was fatally gored about fifteen years ago. You know.”

Actually, I did. So this was Fernando Cortes Jimenez, the Spanish media’s darling. Due to my aforementioned lack of interest in bullfighting, his handsome face had passed me by. My loss, obviously; I saw that now. But it showed his extreme popularity with the Spanish people that even I had heard of him.

At this point I saw Raquel blush, which because of her dark coloring was only noticeable if you were sitting right next to her like I was.

“Hola. How are you?” she said.

I looked up. Fernando was standing at our table.

“Well, thank you. And you? How is Jaime?” he asked quietly. His voice was like treacle.

“He’s well. He has a novillada tomorrow in Cortes,” Raquel explained, having recovered herself admirably.

“That’s right,” Fernando nodded. “Maybe I will come and watch.”

“Really?” Raquel squeaked, unable to hide the surprise in her voice. “Don’t you have a fight tomorrow?”

“No, I have this weekend off,” he answered.

“Who is your friend?” he asked, turning to me.

“Miriam Herrero Arias,” I said, getting up and proffering my cheeks, which received two kisses from very soft, dry lips.

“Fernando Cortes Jimenez,” he introduced himself matter-of-factly. I liked that he did not assume that I knew who he was.

“A pleasure,” I said with a smile.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he answered courteously.

I noticed that we had not taken our eyes off each other.

“Will you be accompanying Raquel to Cortes tomorrow?” he asked.

“I was thinking about it,” I replied, sounding uncharacteristically coy.

“I will see you there, then.”

He bowed his head.

“Buenas noches, señoritas,” he said.

Fernando went back to the group of people he had come in with. I saw one of the men crane his neck to get a look at Raquel and me. He looked worried about something, on his dark face a deep frown. He caught my eyes for a second but looked away quickly. I did not look away, however, so I saw him whisper something in Fernando’s ear as soon as he rejoined the group. Fernando’s face clouded over for a moment and then he shrugged irritably, at the same time turning to someone else in his party.

“Who is that?” I asked Raquel, discreetly pointing out Fernando’s moody looking friend.

“Oh, that’s Luis, Fernando’s banderillero,” she said casually. “They’re practically inseparable.”

“I don’t really like the look of him,” I said, not knowing why I felt that way.

“He’s a strange one for sure,” Raquel agreed. “I’ve sometimes wondered if he’s manic depressive – you never know where he’s going to be coming from.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“I try not to have too much to do with him.”

I reluctantly took my eyes off Fernando and let my breath out in a quiet whoosh. Raquel looked at me out of the corner of her eye. Her lips twitched and she whispered:

“He’s pretty hot, isn’t he?”

I nodded, not really able to put in to words just how good-looking I found him. I realized that for a moment there I had not felt Abuela’s absence so acutely.

“I’m surprised he’s not surrounded by press,” Raquel went on. “Usually he has at least a few photographers trailing him. Although to be fair they seem to leave him alone quite a bit in Ronda. Unless he’s with one of those beauties he dates.”

I felt a unreasonable and unexpected stab of jealousy. Oblivious, Raquel informed me:

“He just stopped seeing Carmen Rodriguez, you know; a “mees”.”

She meant a Miss España.

“So tell me about a novillada,” I said, to change the subject and keep my mind occupied.

Oma as a young woman

Catharina Johanna Schmidt (nee Paardenkoper) 1919-2009

My grandmother died today, July 9^th, 2009. She would have been 90 on December 22^nd. I hadn’t seen her for many years and had only spoken to her once in the last year (her memory was failing so she wasn’t sure who I was) but I never thought this moment would come. I thought she would live forever. Apparently this is quite a common thought amongst people. Oma was a big presence in my life for many years. When I was a baby I spent a lot of time with her because my mother had only just turned twenty when she had me, and when Oscar and I first moved to the U.S and until fairly recently, she always helped us out with money. In fact, I’m not sure we would have made it if it had not been for her help.

Oma was very particular. She liked the best of everything, a trait she has passed on both to her daughter (my mother) and me. She also passed on to us her love of organization, neatness and cleanliness, and I almost have a phobia about touching money, especially change, because she drilled into me how thoroughly dirty and disgusting it is, after “all those people having touched it.”

Oma was a snob too, but she was very well informed, reading the paper every day well into her seventies. And I also remember her being very open compared to a lot of my friends’ grandmothers. She liked dirty jokes and was known to swear like a trooper on occasion. But she didn’t like us to swear so she would tell us, without a trace of irony: “Don’t fucking swear.” I remember feeling perfectly comfortable discussing my period and certain aspects of sex with her. I remember how we’d watch the Jerry Springer show and roar with laughter together. I don’t remember exactly when I stopped staying with her regularly, but I do know that she would always prepare for me, in the evening, an open-faced peanut-butter sandwich cut up into bit-size cubes. I loved that – it made me feel so coddled. I would never prepare it like that for myself. Food was always a big pleasure at her house. I loved her cooking and we always had “snoep” (candy). The other big joy (which I still love to this day) was shopping. We would literally shop till we dropped and I can’t imagine a better place for it than Den Haag. Although of course I’m sure there are better places, but that is of no consequence.

Until I was well into my teens I would share her double bed when I stayed with her. I would wake up in the morning to the sound of her little radio, which she would be holding on her chest. A pinky inserted in the corner of her mouth and a frown of concentration on her face, she listened to the morning news. When I was a small child I loved watching her morning ritual of “putting her face on.” She had endless amounts of little bottles of make-up and perfume which were utterly fascinating to me. People would often mistake her for my mother.

Oma was married to a prominent figure in Dutch politics and in the United Nations. He was twenty-three years her senior; her father’s best-friend. My grandfather, Petrus Johannes Schmidt, died when my grandmother thirty-three (my mother was five) . He co-wrote the Declaration of Human Rights at the UN and they were frequent house-guests at the Roosevelts’. After his death my grandmother never re-married and she brought up her two children, my mother Petra and my uncle Edo, by herself.

Helping in the Kitchen

Happy 4th July

A quiet 4th of July, taking care of the horses at Harvest Hill Farm and grilling a few hamburgers and hotdogs in true 4th of July style. We were going to eat outside but everything was soaking wet from the thunderstorm we had earlier. Luckily Raquel had a great idea: she suggested that we pretend that inside was outside! So we lit some cintronella candles inside, she got Baby Moses, her doll's, high chair so he could join us and we had a delicious and cozy meal indoors.

Last night Raquel and I went to Temple Israel in Dover for the Family Service and potluck dinner. The gathereing was small but everyone was very nice. Most people came up to introduce themselves and thank me for coming. At one point I mentioned how important I feel it is to have Judaism in our children's lives, and how wonderful the preschool at Temple Israel in Portsmouth is for this. Because, I said, it just gets harder and harder to keep Judaism relevant once they start going to regular public school. Someone else said yes, especially here (meaning NH). Compared to Boston or NYC, this is true, but compared to Spain, it is like Israel here (so to speak) in how open you can be about being Jewish. I have an Israeli flag hanging from my rear-view mirror, and on my former car I had a pro-Israel bumper sticker, something my brother Jov couldn't believe when he saw it (we went to see him when he was on a business trip in NJ). He said I'd be in real trouble with a bumper sticker like that in Europe. It goes to show how easy it is to get used to a good thing.

Raquel, dinner outside

No news is good news unless it's raining

Not much news on the home front. Raquel is very excited that her school's summer camp will be starting next week, on Tuesday. Every Wednesday they are going to go on an outing. On the first Wednesday they will be going to an ice cream parlor and they will be allowed to see the big freezers and build their own ice creams, with toppings! The following week they are going somewhere where they can touch crabs and other sea creatures. Raquel is going to LOVE that. I hope she won't be disappointed, though, when she sees that "camp" is not "camping". She has her backpack ready to go, with gloves, a compass and all sorts of other goodies that she will need out camping...She also told me that I will have to bring my own tent if I plan to spend any time there. She and I are also really looking forward to going to the family service at Temple Israel, Dover, on Friday after our play date with Ruth and Zachary. On Monday we will go to the preschool's open house. Hopefully this weekend it will NOT rain so that we can grill and eat outside on Saturday, July 4th. I am seriously beginning to worry about Vitamin D deficiency; we have hardly seen the sun in a month and July is apparently going to bring more of the same.

Golan Heights

2 Tishrei 5757

Your name wanders like a wolf

Through the deserts of my mind

Memories of heat and of spices

Intensify the touch of your lips

Like a flame in a rain storm.

You stand above the esplanade

And when you turn to me

Your eyes are like stars

Which illuminate the depths

Of my heart and my soul.

In the market all was colour

All was noise and smells

Incense and honey and apples

A new year ahead

Waiting to be discovered.

Through arches of stone

Through tunnels of blossoms

Dust clinging to our legs

Cool walls shielding us

Distant wails inspiring faith.

Twilight falls at Jaffa Gate

The Citadel is bathed in gold

And your eyes reflect the sun

Your hands against the wall

You murmur a blessing.

The music of the cicadas

Rises from the bushes

As you turn to take my hand

Faith and love, you and me

The eternal treasure of hope.

Jaffa Gate, Jerusalem

A turning point in my life

I grew up without any kind structured religion. I was interested in all kinds of religious practices and very interested in a sort of New Age spirituality, which is what best describes my mother's inclinations. I went to a church a few times, growing up as I did for the large part in Spain, and in England did my A-Levels at a Quaker school, but nothing really touched my soul as such.
When I left school I moved to Spain permanently. I saw my father, step-mother and brothers in Madrid for the last time in about ten years and the first time in almost as long. I was eighteen and they were living in Madrid at the time. When my paternal grandfather died in 1994 I got an obituary notice from my aunt on which it stated that the Spiero family was living in Tel Aviv. During the years we had no contact I started working for a cosmetics company as their Export Manager and the circumstances came about that I was sent to Israel by the company. I thought it would be interesting, more than anything because my family lived there, but I thought everybody's comments of "going back to my roots" were rather amusing. On the flight over I sat next to an Israeli who really helped to change my life forever. I told him that I was Jewish but that I knew nothing about Judaism. And although I cannot remember a single thing of what he said, I know that our conversation had a very powerful effect on me and by the time we landed at Ben-Gurion airport I was much more interested in visiting my homeland.
And now came the moment I will never forget as long as I live. The plane's doors opened and the caress of the Israeli air touched my face. I descended as if in a daze and the moment my foot stepped on Israeli ground
I started crying and shaking uncontrollably, completely overwhelmed. The people around me didn't act surprised and some came up to me and put their arm around me (including my travelling companion) and told me that they had seen my same reaction many times. I have a clear memory of the particular smell in the air: a warm, Mediterranean caress which cradled my senses. I was totally overwhelmed by emotions as I walked the streets of Jerusalem and the beaches of Tel Aviv and the culmination came when I looked in the phone book, found my father’s number and called him up. I was very happy that he was as excited as I was with my presence in Ha’aretz.

Byblos Castle, Lebanon

A Given Hope

Golden sunshine, falling water;

Nothing can surprise me now.

Nothing short of something:

Keep away those silver threads,

The ones that capture and entwine.

Becasuse ultimately they fade,

Holding in their grip only skin.

The laughing mouth, the smiling eyes,

They are lost on me as treasure is.

It means nothing anymore,

The way clouds race through blue,

The way stones roll silently

Down the path that breathes only mud.

Living only for tomorrow, let it continue;

But wanting today it must die.

Calmer than yesterday the moon sighs,

Its aura shivering with weariness.

The wall leans slightly south-east,

Trying to reach the warmth it yearns.

A pain, a pang of selfish pity, tears.

Laughter hides so much:

Behind a veil of shining eyes,

Lies a deep dullness.

Listening helps not at all;

There's nothing left to hear -

And yet the sunshine remains golden,

The water continues, silently, to fall.

Formentera

Writer's block

For some reason reality has intruded and I have lost the flow of my story. I am hopeful that it is temporary but I am totally uninspired right now! Lauren, the babysitter, was here for three hours and I thought that would give me the chance to get back into but instead I posted photos on Facebook. Shame on me. I am feeling restless and worried and unable to lose myself in fantasy, which is a disaster as far as writing is concerned. It is such a strange and complete change: I feel no connection to my story whereas before it was always in my mind, like a film playing constantly.

I think one of the things interfering with my thought process is the fact that I have lost some work and am worrying about money. That really interferes with the creative process. I have also reached a transitory stage in the story which I am not relishing. I should probably just pick it up somewhere else and worry about filling in the missing pieces later.

On a happier note I spoke to my brother Jov today and that made me happy. It's his birthday tomorrow and was his son Yotam's fifth birthday yesterday. I haven't seen him since he was three months old, and yet it seems like only yesterday.

Raquel, the baker

Latest news from our home

Father's day is almost over and we have had a nice quiet day. Raquel is so much fun to be around, with all her questions and insight. We had a pancake breakfast and then, because it was raining (surprise, surprise) took her to an indoor playground. She had a lot of fun running around with the other children. I love watching her interact with other children. She is definitely a leader. Last night we had dinner at Terri, Bruce and Jack's house and it never ceases to amaze me how well Raquel and Jack play together. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that Jack is very non-confrontational and easy to get along with, but they also seem to have a special understanding. Raquel played the piano for us, banging away quite gently, wiggling her bum and singing "The Farmer in the Dell".

On another note, I am reading "Little Money Street" by Fernanda Eberstadt, which is about gypsy musicians in Perpignan. Fascinating stuff!

Sevilla

Empty Cafe

Smoke rises in a swirling cloud

The smell of coffee prevails

Outside in the twilight shroud

It is windy at it hails.

I sit wrapped in a grey cloak

And I quietly sip my drink

My eyes sting from the smoke

I'm confused, I can't think.

I can almost touch my pain

A throbbing loneliness inside

The hail turns into rain

And I turn, I want to hide.

So many words say nothing

My body aches from tip to toe

I want some warmth and loving

And I want somewhere to go.

There are moments of light

When I know you're out there

They make everything alright

They show me why and where.

Those messianic moments, then

Make life worth all the gold

Which brightens the way when

All is done and told.

The Western Wall

Jerusalem Will Listen

Warm hills, golden sunlight

Dew distilling on the ground

And my steps wander endlessly

Seeking, searching without cease

The memory of your bright face.

Your features like rain

Pour in my mind

Your laughter like the sun

Shines in my heart

Your body like earth

Weighs heavy on my soul.

Heaven was closer then

The skies were bluer

Your eyes were so like

Two stars near the moon

Your lips were like myrrh

Your breath was like incense.

Hear my words, oh Jerusalem

Draw near the heavens

Paint blue the sky

Bring me the myrrh and the incense

Show me the stars and the moon.

Excerpt from "Torero"

Jaime and Raquel picked me up shortly before noon, which was usually the way in Spain. I did not know of many people who left to go to a meeting before the appointed time. Francisco’s cortijo was just outside of Ronda so we got there at about quarter past twelve. The driveway was long and wound through large fields dotted with the black bodies of toros bravos . The fencing was not pretty but definitely sturdy and very high. Made of wire it was topped by rolls of barbed wire. Fernando was waiting for us in front of the main building. A huge elaborately carved wooden door with heavy black hardware was at his back, the entrance into the courtyard of his house. The house itself was the color of sand, with a roof of red tiles. It was astoundingly beautiful. But I seemed to have forgotten how dazzling Fernando himself was.

He greeted us with a wide grin on his face, his black hair glossy as a bull’s hide, his eyes twin pools of coffee and the skin on his face smooth and tan. His lips brushed my cheeks and he said quietly:

“I’m glad to see you, rubia.”

People had called me rubia, blondie, all my life and yet hearing it from his lips gave me an odd thrill. I was beginning to realize that I might have serious feelings for this man who was practically a stranger to me.

After Fernando had greeted Jaime and Raquel he asked us if we wanted to take a tour of the place before or after drinks.

“What do you prefer?” Jaime asked politely.

“If I may, I would suggest we take the tour first and then sit down to eat and drink to our hearts’ content,” Fernando said with a smile still on his face.

“Is Luis not here today?” asked Jaime, looking around as if he could find him lurking behind a tree.

“No,” answered Fernando. “He had some family business to attend to so we are meeting up in Sevilla.”

The four of us climbed into Fernando’s open top Jeep, Jaime and Raquel in the backseat, I in the passenger seat. Fernando did not believe in hanging about and took off down the track at an impressive clip. We bumped up and down in our seats, laughing out loud. We did not go back down the driveway but instead headed deeper into the ranch’s property, through fields filled with enormous black fighting bulls, the humps of charging muscle on their shoulders shivering to rid themselves of the flies that tried to rest on their hides. Fernando stopped the Jeep at the top of a hill and we got out. From here we could see the whole ranch. The view was stunning and I leant against the Jeep, taking it all in.

“How many head of cattle do you have?” Jaime asked.

“About sixty, including erales (two year olds) and utreros (three year olds),” Fernando answered. “I have two fine seed bulls and 24 breeding cows.”

“Do the seed bulls live with the cows?” I asked.

“Most of the time,” Fernando answered. He put an arm casually around my shoulder and pointed into the distance. “That pasture is where the seed bulls and cows live.”

I followed his finger and peered at some black specks on the horizon.

“Come, let’s go and see them,” Fernando said, hopping back in the Jeep.

We followed suit and bounced back down the track for a good fifteen minutes until we reached the field that we had seen from afar. The seed bulls, being older than the novillos I has seen in Cortes de la Frontera, seemed impossibly huge to me. I must have turned a tad pale at the sight of them because Fernando put his arm around me again. This time I leant into him just the tiniest bit. I didn’t think he would notice but his hand slid from my shoulder to my arm and he pulled me against his side. It felt like my legs might give out and I closed my eyes for a second to ward off the sensation of lightheadedness.

La Real Maestranza de Sevilla - plaza de toros

Excerpt from "Torero"

“There you are!” she said. Fernando turned and smiled at me, and I noticed immediately that the smile seemed strained and did not reach his eyes.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Good evening,” I answered. Then I turned to Jaime and said, because I had not had a chance to do so before:

“I really enjoyed watching you this afternoon. You must be exhausted.”

“Too keyed up to feel tired,” he answered with a grin. “I drew good bulls and feel very fortunate today.”

Fernando shook his head and said: “I’m sorry I missed it.”

He didn’t explain, however, why he had. He asked me what I would like to drink and within seconds, it seemed, I had a vodka lemon in my hand. I took a long draught thankfully.

“So tell me what you thought of your first corrida,” Fernando said, his full attention on my face.

“Well, I have to be honest and say that I was prepared to hate it, but actually, I thought it was rather beautiful.” I answered, trying not to be disconcerted by his proximity and by his dark, dark eyes.

“What in particular did you find beautiful?” he asked.

“The bulls are breath-taking,” I said. “And the color of the sand, and the movements of the torero, his traje de luces – I was very moved by the corrida as a whole. I really had no idea how many rituals it involved…”

Fernando smiled at me, and this time it reached his eyes and they crinkled enchantingly.

“I’m not really finding the right words,” I smiled too.

“You will find more words as you become more familiar with the spectacle,” Francisco said. “You were lucky to see such a good corrida. If you had seen a bad one you would have almost certainly had a different opinion of our fiesta nacional.”

“What would a bad corrida look like?” I asked, curious.

“Bulls that don’t charge; bulls that charge with their horns so low they stick them in the sand and do somersaults. And toreros who don’t know what to do with them. It can be an unpleasant sight, believe me.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Jaime tells me you just lost your grandmother. I am very sorry. You must feel her loss deeply.”

“Thank you, I do.” I said, feeling my eyes well up at his sympathetic tone.

“And you also just got your degree?” he went on, obviously wishing to change the subject for my sake.

“Yes, I got my degree in journalism.” I was absurdly pleased that they had been talking about me.

“Well, just promise me you won’t work for the prensa rosa,” Fernando said a little bitterly. The so-called “pink press” were the gossip magazines of Spain.

I regarded him sympathetically.

“It must be hard, not being able to draw breathe without all those cameras on you all the time.”

“It can get to be claustrophobic and inhibiting, yes,” he agreed.

Fernando studied my face for a moment. I thought he was going to say something else but in the end he made no comment. Instead he signaled to the barman for two more drinks. Although the bar was packed and Raquel and Jaime were sitting a few feet from us, it seemed like we were alone, cocooned as we were in our conversation.

“I am participating in a bullfight at the Real Maestranza in Sevilla next weekend,” Fernando said, handing me my drink. “Do you think you would like to come? As my guest?”

I almost choked on the sip of vodka lemon I was just taking, so I took a moment to answer.

“I would really enjoy that,” I finally managed, my smile a little wider than I would have liked.

“Great. That’s settled, then. I will give Jaime tickets for the three of you.”

At this moment the dark, long-haired banderillero named Luis, whom I had seen whispering in Francisco’s ear the other night, joined us.

“Ah, Luis,” Fernando said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’d like you to meet Miri. Miri, this is Javier Cruz, my banderillero de confianza, my right hand man. What’s with the grave expression, hombre?”

Javier shrugged.

“A word, maestro?” he said.

To my satisfaction Fernando looked a little irritated.

“Can’t it wait?” he said.

“Not really, maestro,” Javier answered.

Fernando sighed a little and turned to me.

“Excuse me one moment, please.”

Bullfighting poster - Malaga

Jerusalem

Jerusalem - a poem

Stones the colour of amber

Steps and walls and trees

Narrow, secretive streets

That climb and twist

Descend and return.

Getting lost in the market

Amidst bright fruit stalls

And little shops with spices

Wood and metal and silk

Silence and sudden voices.

David's Tower and Jaffa Gate

Sunlight and shadow

Cafés and bottles of water

The heat and the smells

A thousand rays of light.

It's all a part of you

You are no stranger here

From the Sinai to Jerusalem

You travelled forty years

And now you will remain.