Semester Abroad: Tel Aviv

We were itching for another getaway for this newly retired guy and my not-so-newly retired wife, Geri, to kick off the next stage of our adventure together.  While we discussed the possibilities of various destinations on our list of places to which we wanted travel (there are many), we kept coming back to the one that pulled at our hearts like none of the others:  Israel.  Why Israel?  I could go into the cultural and religious aspects, or the countervailing political aspect, of our thought process, but ultimately, the decision came down to emotions.  Of course it should be Israel, because although both of us had visited there while in high school and thought we would return soon and repeatedly, life, work, family, etc. had intervened, and we had many lost trips to make up. Of course it should be Israel, because of the pogrom of October 7 and the rising antisemitism that has made us ever so much more attuned to our Jewishness and our Israeli brethren.  And of course it should be Israel, because just the thought of stepping off the plane onto Eretz Yisrael (literally “the land” of Israel) had us, to quote Mike Myers, kvelling.   Thus, for this iteration of our Semester Abroad, we embarked on a six week journey to Tel Aviv.

First off, where to stay?  Tel Aviv offers many alternatives:  modern apartments overlooking the beach, the promenade (Tayelet), and the Mediterranean; sophisticated Neve Zedek; the vibrant and always busy (except for Shabbat) area around the Carmel Market (the Shuk)….  The potential choices were daunting.  And then there was Florentin, the gritty, graffiti-filled, noisy, hip area with seemingly endless numbers of cafes, bars, and restaurants, the Levinsky Market, and one delectably perfect Airbnb.  From the moment we saw it, it felt Beshert (meant to be).

Off we went, only days after the ceasefire, to a country that was issuing a collective sigh of relief and yet still grappling with the horrors of the October 7 massacre and the fallout of the ensuing war against Hamas.  We witnessed this in an emotional and poignant rally at Hostage Square two days after our arrival and at the end of our first Shabbat in the country, the first rally since the announcement of the ceasefire and the return of the live hostages.  We couldn’t understand a word of the speakers’ Hebrew, some of whom were family members of the deceased hostages who had yet to be returned to Israel, but in this instance, the literal translation was unnecessary—the meaning of the words was revealed in the anguished tone in which they were spoken.  The rally culminated in a heart-warming singing of Hatikvah by a young woman with an angelic voice, with the gathered thousands joining in, tears flowing in abundance.  

We were fortunate to have our niece, Ellie Krasnick, who made Aliyah, give us an early tour of Yafo and help us get our initial bearings. After we wandered the streets for a few days, what we observed could only be described as astonishing in the differences from our last visit—massive new office and residential buildings going up everywhere, multi-lane highways, high speed rail lines, streets under construction for light rail and a new subway system.  And yet, it was the diversity of the people that was the most profound and most noticeable aspect of the city: overwhelmingly young, encompassing all races, religions, nationalities, and sexual preferences, kippot and tsitsit wearing, tattooed and pierced.  Lots and lots of them smoking (hand-rolled cigarettes—a huge thing in Israel).  And LOTS of pregnant women and those with newborns, as we discovered that Israel was experiencing a major baby boom since October 7. 

Tel Aviv is also very much a melting pot reflecting the origins of its people and the enclaves in which they live.  Food-wise, you can find Yemenite spice shops and restaurants, French patisseries and boulangeries, Italian restaurants and pizza shops, burger joints and cocktail bars lifted straight out of Manhattan, gin joints from the British influence, and of course, falafel, shawarma, sabich, shakshuka, and bourekas stands.  Similarly, the music, art, jewelry, and languages reflect a multiplicity of cultures and influences.  And speaking of cultural influences, Tel Aviv is very much of a European vibe, from the Bauhaus architecture to the restaurants that sprawl out into the middle of Nachalat Binyamin Street to the late dining (you’ll be the only one there if you go before 8:30 p.m.).  

We walked to every corner of Tel Aviv, from Hayarkon Park in the North to the quaint old city of Yafo in the South, from Park HaMesila in Neve Zedek then along Rothschild Boulevard all the way to Rabin Square.  While we initially thought that our Semesters Abroad would allow us to experience our destinations like locals, we have found that it is actually more of a slower, more relaxed version of tourism.  On this trip we had a lot that we wanted to see and experience, and we had the luxury of doing it at our pace.  That being said, we never took a day “off” and did nothing—we just couldn’t bring ourselves to be THAT relaxed. So, on our lazier days when we sat in our Airbnb reading our books over several cups of coffee, we had to eventually motivate to get out and about, even if it meant just walking aimlessly along tree-lined Rothschild Boulevard, or to Levinsky Market or the Carmel Shuk or the Tayelet.

Around the country we spent a day at Masada (as breathtaking as we remembered), Ein Gedi (a true oasis in the desert), and the Dead Sea (hey, we’re floating!); did a tour of the Old City of Jerusalem with our great guide, Avi, and spent time wandering the eclectic Machane Yehuda market; took a two day trip to Tzfat and the Golan Heights with another great guide, Itzik, sleeping overnight at a cute hotel/resort at Kibbutz Merom Golan; spent a “heavy” day in the Gaza envelope, visiting Sderot, the car cemetery, the shelter where Hersh Goldberg-Polin sought refuge and from which he was captured and taken hostage, and the Nova festival site, all of which were heart-wrenching; did an overnight stay at the awesome Bereshit hotel perched on the edge of the Ramon Crater in the Negev; took a daytrip to see the Bahá’í Gardens in Haifa and walked the Old City in  Akko, culminating with a great meal at restaurant Uri Buri overlooking the fortifications and the Mediterranean; spent a day volunteering with others at an olive farm in the South; did a day trip North and were led on a wonderful and informative tour of Karmiel, Pittsburgh’s sister city, graciously guided by Kim Salzman, Jewish Federation of Pittsburgh’s Director of Israel and Overseas Operations,  especially their beautiful and touching Tree of Life memorial and the Mahal volunteer integration program, and visited our dear relatives at their home in Kfar Vradim.

It is hard to describe our emotional state while touring through Israel and living in the country for our six week stay.  Of course being on top of Masada or at the Western Wall or just seeing the walls of the Old City lit up at night brings on a myriad of emotions, as did visiting the Nova Site and Yad Vashem.  But also walking the streets on Shabbat, being wished Shabbat Shalom over and over again and finding ourselves gradually adapting to the slowing down of life that Shabbat brings on Friday nights and Saturdays, hearing the language being spoken by everyone around us that is the language of our ancestors, watching the vibrant scenes on the Tel Aviv beach of people playing volleyball and soccer/table tennis and doing yoga handstands and of families strolling the Tayelet—witnessing all of those things and realizing that there we were, in Israel, our historic ancient homeland, and that we were one with all of it and everyone around us.  It brought us a sense of comfort and of being that is unique to that place and to which we felt an innate connection.   

The highlights of this Semester:  rolling out of bed, jumping on the high speed train, and arriving in Jerusalem in just thirty minutes; watching a herd of wild boar running during a Jeep tour of the Golan Heights; praying together (not separated) at the Small Wailing Wall in the Muslim quarter of the Old City; volunteering picking olives in the Gaza envelope; taking a cooking class and tour with Jon’s Carmel Market Class where we found all of the best spice merchants in the Shuk and made tahini, falafel, and pita from scratch; stumbling upon a warehouse of art and meeting the famous modern Kabbalah artist, Zygo; visiting Ghajar, the charming Alawite Arab village on the border with Lebanon (not “near” the border, literally “on” the border, and some say the border runs through the middle of the village); wine tasting with IDF paratroopers at Pelter winery in the Golan Heights; learning about Kabbalah through the art of Detroit native Avraham Loewenthal in Tzfat; attending a live nighttime Jazz concert on the rooftop of the Ilana Goor museum in Yafo; touring the great exhibit on the history of the Jewish people at the  Anu Museum of the Jewish People at Tel Aviv University; taking in the sunsets over the Mediterranean and walking along the Tayelet.

Some observations:  Israelis have zero sense of personal space and as you approach each other they do not move out of your way—they will literally walk into you; motorized bikes and scooters (as well as motorcycles) ride/weave on sidewalks and bike paths and don’t care much to look out for pedestrians;  word to the wise:  even if a “helpful” person tells you that the best way to go into the Old City to get to the Western Wall is through the Damascus Gate, don’t take that advice (use the Jaffa Gate); it is lovely to hear everyone say Shabbat Shalom and Good Shabbos everywhere you are on Fridays and Saturdays; similarly, it is so nice to see Mezuzahs on every door, even on stores, warehouses, museums, etc.; you can respond universally with Beseder or Sababa to almost everything said in Hebrew to you, even when you don’t understand Hebrew; Pines Street is not pronounced like the tree (think—body part ; )); every street in Tel Aviv seems to lead eventually to the Shuk; the ceviche and crudo at every restaurant is fresh, fresh, fresh; bars are full of gins, tequilas, bourbons, and araks—vodka-not so much; beware of the nut merchants in the markets who leave their product uncovered—pigeons love to land in the nuts and take a bite or two.

Just like our last Semester Abroad, the trip started with us thinking we had so much time ahead of us, then the days and weeks flew by so fast.  The lesson being:  slow travel is anything but, because no matter where you go and for how long, unless you end up staying forever, the trip always comes to an end, and you always end up lamenting how it all went by so quickly.   So, on our last day we found ourselves café hopping, eventually landing at Hotel 48 on Rothschild Boulevard, having an afternoon drink and watching the hustle and bustle of Tel Aviv move around us.  We went over all of our amazing experiences from the previous six weeks, the places we’d visited and the people we’d met.  Could we rate our Semester Abroad a success?  Sababa!

Favorite Walking Park:  Park HaMesila

Favorite Walking Street:  Rothschild Boulevard

Best Meal Tel Aviv:  Shila

Best Meal Jerusalem:  Satya

Best Fun Restaurant Experience Tel Aviv:  Port Sa’id

Best Fun Restaurant Experience Jerusalem:  Machneyuda

Best Tried Restaurants:  Bar 51, Barbur, Radler, HaBasta, Casino San Remo, Mezcal

Café Noir, Florentina, Hakatan, Hashachaf, Mirage, La Shuk, North Abraxas

Galliano, Taizu, Jasmino, Miznon, Beit Goldberg, Ouzeria, La Tigre

Best Shawarma:  Mifgash Rambam

Best Non-Meat Street Food:  HaCarmel 40

Best Falafel:  HaKosem

Best First Bite:  HaTaco

Best Bread:  Hagay Bread

Best Bakery Cafe:  Seniora Bakery

Best Coffee Cafe:  Petit Verre

Best Sidewalk Drinks Café:  Franky’s Jam

Best Hotel Cocktail Bar:  The Library Bar at The Norman

Best Cocktail Bar:  Bitter

Best Place to Grab a Late Afternoon/Happy Hour Drink:  Hotel Cècil

Best Ice Cream:  Cassata (the Crème Fraîche with Olive Oil and Salt)

Best Market to Wander:  Carmel

Best Market for Nuts:  Levinsky

Best Street Food Any Day of the Week:  Mifgash Rambam

Best Shopping Street:  Shabazi Street

Best Museum Tel Aviv:  Anu Museum

Best Museum Jerusalem:  Israel Museum, Dead Sea Scrolls, and Old City model

Best Being in Tel Aviv/Israel Experience:  Street Cafés packed at 11:00 every night

Best Historic Site Experience:  The Southern Wall of the Temple

Summer of Hope, Summer of Dreams

My Summer of Hope - Ebook Largelatest book, Summer of Hope, Summer of Dreams, was launched yesterday!  (see sidebar to the right to purchase–yes, a self-serving plug, there).  The book was just put out for public consumption, but it was a long time in the making–made even longer due to some delays beyond my control.  The title is a metaphor for the subject matter of the book, and is a play on a Springsteen song title, Land of Hope and Dreams–also in the book.

I grew up in a small steel town in West Virginia and was a rabid Bruce Springsteen fan (still am, of course).  A common theme running through almost every one of his songs is that of keeping hope and having faith.  Although confronted by what seems like a dead-end–in your hometown, or in your relationships, or in the despair of a post-9/11 America–Springsteen sings about the light at the end of the tunnel.  He reasons that in the most trying of times, even though despair threatens to overtake you,  keeping your dreams alive, and allowing yourself to hope and have faith that it will be so, will get you through your darkest of days.  As it is in Summer of Hope, Summer of Dreams.

Becoming an author is a dream come true for me.  Sheer blind faith led me to where I am in my writing today (see the connection?).   Summer of Hope, Summer of Dreams is my latest baby, and it was a true labor of love.  I hope you will read it.  I hope you will enjoy it.  And to that end, I hope that when you finish it, you will feel that sense, as I have since my childhood, that we can have faith in our dreams coming true.

“Once Upon a Time”

“Once upon a time, in a land far, far away …” Can you imagine opening a new book, turning to the first page, and reading those words?   Pick up any how-to book (do they still print those?) or go to any online forum, and you—the aspiring new author—are told to never, ever start a book with: “It was a dark and stormy night…” Or anything of that sort. Why not? Because any literary agent or publisher you are trying to woo won’t get past those first few words. Because, according to them, it’s wrong.

Someone needs to explain that to me. Isn’t writing a form of art? Since when was something artistic capable of being “wrong?” Was Monet wrong for breaking from tradition to help create impressionism? Was Picasso wrong for cubism? How about Tolstoy—War and Peace? Orwell? Kerouac? Salinger? Harper Lee? Tom Wolfe?

Art is like fashion: in today, out tomorrow. It is subject to the whims of society as it then exists. Van Gogh was hated in Arles and sold one painting during his life. Can you imagine if he listened to his critics and stopped painting his way? He may not have achieved fame and fortune during his lifetime, but his art is society’s treasure.

Not every budding author is going to find success or fame. In reality, very few will. But the problem in the literary world—the traditional literary world—is that it is all about the money and not enough about the art. Publishers and the literary agents who feed them their material are the traditional gatekeepers of the art. And they’re failing in that role. Who is to say there isn’t a brilliant author who purposely starts a story “once upon a time,” or “on a dark and stormy night,” who then spins a remarkable tale that is remarkable, in part, because the book began that way? Or is written in a unique voice, or with unique, convention-ignoring grammar? Is that wrong? Or is it art?

 

Hello, I must be . . . Writing

Hello, I must be . . . Writing

So, it’s been a while since I’ve written on this blog.  Without getting into the gory details, I was too busy dealing with family illnesses to be able to write.  Actually, it wasn’t that I was too busy–it was that I couldn’t.  I couldn’t write–an act that to me is a joyful exercise–while I was in the midst of some not-so-joyful stuff.

My wife kept telling me that I should be writing.  She said that writers do their best work when under emotional strain.  That their writing under such conditions brings out their best, most pure feelings.  That some of the most famous novels were written by authors who were suffering.

Well, if that concept applies generally to all writers, I guess I am the exception to the rule.   I just couldn’t do it.  Not one word, for a long while.  Not here, not on my new book project.  But, as with all things, time acts as a salve (any fans recall where they read that line before?), and I feel capable of writing again.  Thank goodness!

I am busy finishing up the new book, but not quite ready to give any spoilers.  Umm, ok, a little spoiler:  If you grew up at or around a small steel town in the late 70s, the scenery will be very familiar to you.  ‘Nuff said (for now).

The most common question I’ve been asked by my readers is how I come up with ideas for my books.   The truth is that every day ideas pop into my head for a new book, and they just come from my observations.  What I read, what I watch, what I see.  A person walking alongside of a country road — there are a whole slew of potential stories there.   A story in the paper or on the web might trigger an idea, or even standing in line at a grocery store.  I see something or somebody, and nuances frolic through my mind.  The ideas are always there.  But, to state the obvious, it’s what you do with the ideas that matter.  A quirky thing that I do though, is avoid reading any book that I think might involve the same situation or general story line as one I’m working on, because I don’t want to risk that something I’ve read is going to find its way into my writing.   When I was writing Sandy Cove, I was watching television one night and a promotion for Nicholas Sparks’ Nights in Rodanthe came on and I had a mini panic attack.  I didn’t even know what that story was about, but I knew that Rodanthe is in the Outer Banks and that Sparks’ books are love stories, which was exactly what I was writing.  I did the “lalalalalalala” and put my hands over my ears.  Ok, it’s weird, but I wanted to be sure that I didn’t taint my writing with his story line.

Writing is such a personal thing.  It’s about what’s going on upstairs, in the author’s head, at any given time.  I couldn’t write like Stephen King, because I don’t think like Stephen King  (Who does?).  I hear it in my head and I write it (okay, that is a little freaky–like Stephen King).  And it’s revealing bits of yourself to the world, which is in itself a leap of faith that the world won’t think badly of you.  It’s fun and scary and exhilarating to know that people are out there in the world, reading your words.   But that means you have to write.   Which reminds me–back to work!

 

 

 

Labor of Love, Or Fool’s Errand?

What do you call something that is years in the making, gives you no immediate tangible reward, and  ultimately opens you up to widespread criticism?   Torture?  Or nirvana?  I call it doing what you were meant to do.

I once read about a math wiz, a savant, who didn’t know how he was able to do what he did–it was just a part of him.  To him, it was normal.  To everyone else, it was remarkable.

I can’t sing or write songs or draw or paint, and I’m smart enough to know not to even try.  But I can write.  Don’t get me wrong:  I’m no savant–at anything.  But I’ve always been complimented on my writing.  Whether a short story, a letter or a simple (to me) email, I’ve received unsolicited praise, but I’ve never really understood what the big deal is–it’s just me and it’s just writing.  So, I thought, maybe that’s my calling, and maybe I should do something with it–I’ll write a book.  I just didn’t realize the time and effort and sacrifice that writing a book would entail.

In hindsight, mine was a thoughtless leap of faith.  Just because you can string a couple of sentences together doesn’t mean you can make up a compelling story or write good dialogue.  And maybe I can’t, at least not well.  But I did enjoy the process.  Even though it took me years, without reward, and that now, it may open me up to ridicule.

My words are my brush, my keyboard my canvas.  Time to paint.

Write or Wrong

Can I start calling myself a writer?  Or an author?  Have I earned it yet?

Some background:  A long time ago, on an uneventful day at work, in the days of the poingo poingo of internet connections (read  as the internet was not readily accessible), I sat at my desk pondering a scene that had popped into my brain with complete clarity.  I mean, every sensory nuance of the scene, sights and sounds and smells, was fully developed.  And I didn’t know what to do with it.  So I started writing, evicting from my brain this complete thought that was almost painful to ignore until it was purged.  And what appeared on the screen in front of me was that scene, final draft, no additions, changes or rewriting necessary.

It was the opening scene for a story–a book–but I didn’t know where to go from there.  So I showed it to my wife, and after she read it (and initially looked at me as if I was from another planet), she told me to write the book.  She might as well have told me to jump off a bridge.  But naive person that I was, I tried, and it went fairly well–at first.   Then I got to that certain point in the story that I now know as the line in the sand.  That point in time where you think it’s all garbage and a waste of time and oh my God, what was I thinking?  And at that point you can either push through and have faith in your ability, or you can punt.  I punted.  I put what I had printed into a drawer, and moved on with my life.

Fast forward ten years and endless entreaties by my wife to start writing again, to not push aside those scenes of clarity that kept popping into my head.  And one day, once again, I just had to purge one of those scenes from my brain.  But this time, I decided that good or bad, I was going to finish what I had started, and the surprising thing was that each day that I sat down to write, new thoughts did come into my head, and new scenes and characters and new story lines developed from thin air (i.e. the recesses of my brain).

Everybody writes differently.  Someone once told me that I had to have the whole story outlined and every character’s profile fully developed before I could write the first paragraph.  Wrong advice for me.  Some people, like me, just sit down and start writing and somehow, a story begins to flow forth.  I may have some mis-steps, I may go down a path that ends with the worst thing ever–the delete button.  But that’s how it works for me.

So I’ve completed book one and I’m well into book two.  Book one is getting published–my way, which is the subject for another day.

Have I earned the title Writer?  Author?  Have I?