Turning Left On Red

2011-12-06T11:57:00.001+11:00

Good students

I’ve been a bad, bad girl.

A bad writer, I mean. Deserted the poor place completely. Not that anyone visits it anymore. The memoirs of my Israel trip are but ghosts in the glaring Now. (Happy ghosts but). I’ve made this blog a forlorn land by my absence.

I had intended it a travel blog, mind you. I hadn’t employed much thought to the predictions of its further gloomy future. Suspended in space, waiting for Miss Smilla’s next travels to inflame her keyboard.

The travels that are bound to come. They are in fact inevitable. They pollinate my dreams and hatch in my brain and speak to me in the quiet hours of my days, biding their time.

Not yet but. Not yet.

My last months have been busy and studious. I started and almost finished my diploma. The studies rocked. I’ve been collecting praises for my laboured academic writing all around (and I sweated blood and tears with every word. Never again). Now I’m foreseeing a bright future as a community services worker. Do I really? Well, I’m trying.

And I have settled in Sydney. Having moved five times, I have now found a happy home. Anxiety visits only occasionally. Friends visit more often. I’ve been training my body to become strong, resilient. I have been learning to say No to things that don’t nourish me. I have been learning to say Yes to some things brave and dangerous.

I have taken fancy to being in the air. Crazy Miss Smilla, go figure.

I have acquired a kind of a love life. And, but of course, it’s complicated!

These have been amazingly good months. But that’s Too Much Information already.

Right now: sitting in front of the open fire in a little bush cabin in the Blue Mountains. Outside the rain is stopping, the birds are doing their thing. It might turn out to be a fine day. If I were to stay huddled on the couch, whining for the Negev desert and the middle-eastern sun, I’d be an utter fool.

Yalla.

Belated anniversary

2011-08-15T21:28:00.001+10:00

This time last year I was in Ladakh. Its barren beauty and limitless space-ness didn't intimidate me; it enchanted me. Its moonscape deserts have become my secret inner sanctuaries, places I visit in times of hardship and stress.

Then the tragedy happened.

Here's in memory of the many victims of the flash floods in Leh and surroundings, on the 6th August 2010.

Suffering and serenity.

A story of the flash flood and its aftermath in Ladakh

The incredible Ladakh

6 August 2010.

It was well into the night, when the tragedy struck.

It happened during my second week in the northern state of India called Ladakh, famous for its high planes, looming Himalayas and friendly self-sustainable people.

Something woke me up from my heavy sleep; I heard distant, but alarmed voices coming from the hotel corridor. Then I realized that torrents of rain were tearing through my open windows into the room. I struggled up to close the windows and looked outside. It looked like the Armageddon had come. The sky would come aglow with the lightning every few seconds, promptly followed by the grim rumble of the storm. The rain and wind were a howling tumult outside, assaulting the windows and doors. The trees on every visible slope were in anarchic motion: swaying, rustling, tossing. There was scurrying of panicked human movement outside, someone trying to close the doors, usher valuable possessions inside. Other inhabitants of the hotel seemed awake and unrestful too.

My initial excitement soon turned to anxiety as I blindly fumbled around the room, trying to drag my sodden possessions away from the window, looking for matches (electricity was out by then). Still, as the rain and hail gradually lost its intensity, I managed to reconcile with the land of Morpheus, in my comfy enough bed, in sturdy enough hotel, quite oblivious to the rest of the town.

As soon as I got up the next morning and took my first stroll down the main road to meet my friends and arrange some exciting adventures for the day (river rafting or mountain-biking, it was to be decided), I realized that something was amiss. Muddy waters filled the main market area. Big clusters of silent people stood gathered all around town. The shops were closed.

Soon I was to find out that when I peacefully slept in my bed, many Leh citizens were already bemoaning the biggest natural calamity to have ever happened (or at least not to be remembered even by the oldest citizens). The cloudburst up in the mountains had propelled flash floods and mudslides. Indu River’s banks swelled up with water, until the river broke out and spilled all over lower Leh and several surrounding villages, causing unprecedented damage: literally wiping out Choglamsar and several other villages, washing away bridges and hence severing the communication with these places. Some onlookers remarked on helplessly observing brown masses of lave-like mud descending upon them with great speed. What could these people do against such unstoppable force, but grab their children and run for the nearest mountain top? Many didn’t even manage that. At the time of writing this article at

least 137 people died, buried under their mud houses that collapsed in the storm; over 400 were injured, 500 were still missing and hundreds lost their homes and other possessions. A tourist mini-bus travelling to Manali overnight got swept off the edge down the mountain ravine – all its passengers as well as the driver were killed, another 100 tourists were stranded on treks or tourist routes. Leh, situated in an arid mountain desert at an altitude of 3,505 metres, normally receives virtually no rainfall all year and has no planned drainage system.

In spite of having heard about what happened, I didn’t really register it fully for the first part of the day; it didn’t sink in just yet. You didn’t so much as glimpse rubble or collapsed buildings or dead bodies around upper Leh. Then my friend and I walked down to the bus station and there we sighted tell tale signs of the night’s before ravage that we won’t soon forget. The bus station was completely flattened, with broken buses and cars floating around in big pools of mud. The whole place wore desolate look with smashed houses, debris and flesh piling up in huge mountains. The district hospital also got flooded, yet it was lined up with bodies – both injured and dead. The victims lay under a small rooftop – contorted and bloodied corpses, fear frozen on their faces and hands still reaching for help. There was buzz of flies and wailing of the bereaved coming from all directions. My friend attempted to take some photos, but started crying so much that we had to leave; we were shaken to the bone.

Hardly any shop or business was to be open that day. Tourists (including myself) were roaming the streets searching for food and water. And of course there was neither biking or rafting to be done.

As soon as I left my place again in the early evening, I realized that something was again brewing in the air, something big. As I looked up over the rooftops, scanning the mountain peaks, I saw the muscular grey-black clouds heaping up, layer upon layer. They were apocalyptic in their size and menace. They were already pressing hard on the peaks, squeezing down buckets of rain; very soon they’d be pressing down on us. The hills visibly darkened as I watched.

The lubricated wind, moist and relentless, was beginning to buffet me, filling out my clothes. There was the heavy imminence of rain chasing my every step, and so it seemed, everyone’s step. The air was moist. It smelled of wet ground, just like I remembered from back home, spending summers in the cottage house in the country, when the farmers used to turn the soil. It was the river, having swollen threefold since I last crossed the bridge, carrying tons and tons of brown muddy water. The angry waters had already started to wash away the banks. A crowd was gathered around the bridge, people carefully inching their way towards the shore, but not too close – peering down the darkening tumble with horrid fascination; people smoking and talking in high pitched voices. The rumour had it that water was gushing down from Khardung La (highest pass) and it was just a matter of time before it got here, causing more damage and mayhem.

I walked away from the bridge, chased by the deafening roar of the river. My chest felt constricted and my breath was coming out in short gasps. I realized I was making whimpering sounds. I was simply scared, with that cold sticky fright that often has something to do with fearing for one’s life or others’.

I nearly ran down Changspa road, normally busy and bustling with tourists and local businesses. It was mostly dark and silent. The lights had blown with the first powerful gust of wind. A bee line of about 30 anxious travellers slithered and writhed their way up to the only working phone booth. Many of these people had meant to leave Leh on buses, taxis or planes last morning or were hoping to do it the following day. No such luck though. We were all stuck in this town, waiting for the catastrophe to hit.

Having decided that I’d seen enough, I turned around to go back to my hotel. By then hordes of people were pushing up the road, anxiously making their way up towards

higher grounds like the Shanti Stupa[1] – the Buddhist refuge situated on top of the mountain. I blindly darted alongside these people, a single sheep in the herd, propelled by the notion of the group, unsure of my own goals. I hurried up through the bridge again, struggling to keep my balance in the wind and darkness.

“Away from the bridge!” a sudden sharp voice materialized near my ear and I felt an equally sudden and sharp stab of pain in my hand as a wooden stick connected with my knuckles. It was one of the soldiers of the army supervising Leh, trying to pull us away from the danger of the crazed river. I know he was just doing his job, but at that precise moment the brutality of the act hit the soft spot of my loneliness and confusion, and as if on command tears welled up in my eyes, self-pity ripened in my heart and I cried.

I was still wiping tears with the back of my hand, when I arrived at Jeevan Café, the yummy next door neighbour to my guesthouse. Harpreet Singh, a powerfully built and handsome owner of the place, Sikh in a purple turban, didn’t miss a beat. “What’s going on?” he asked upon seeing my crumpled face. I explained what had just befallen me. “What do you think it’s going to happen now?” I wanted to know. I was desperately seeking clues, advice, temporarily unable to access my own judgement or inner wisdom. “I don’t know, but in any case there’s no need to panic. If we’re meant to die here, we will. No need to worry about it” answered Mr Singh with such calm equanimity, that could be easily perceived as nonchalance, and that made me swallow hard. I know things aren’t rosy, but die???

Dying notwithstanding, Mr Singh kindly invited me upstairs to the rooftop restaurant to have a tea and take a few deep breaths. I promptly climbed up to the rooftop of Jeevan Café for a well-deserved ginger tea and veg biryani.

There was no shortage of groups of Ladakhi people – mainly what looked like families – huddled on the roadsides, or marching up with street with determined strides and big bags on their backs. They had fled their river-based houses. Some were shivering as the temperature kept dropping, clutching their water bottles. Many of them would be out on the streets all night, fearing their rooftops collapsing onto them; others would find the refuge on the top of the holy mountains, in quickly pitched tents, under Lord Buddha’s statue’s watchful gaze.

Unsure what to do next, I spontaneously decided to join a group of British tourists on their way to Shanti Stupa. Strange excitement danced in my body together with fear as we plodded through the darkened street leading up to the stone steps. The rocky mountain on top of which Shanti stupa sits had by then become the Mecca for the scared and the lost, foreigners and local folk alike. There were dozens of tents stretched everywhere. Lighters and headlights were flickering. Pop music was blasting from someone’s portable speakers; somehow inappropriate, belittling all that Waiting in the air.

To look down the valley from here was to see a landscape of terrible beauty and terror. An ominous greyness had descended, as the amassing black clouds killed the day long before it was due to give way to the night. Lightning bolts were striking one by one in the distance.

I didn’t make it very far up the hill at all. While mounting the first hundred of steps, we met a Ladakhi man, who asked us where we were going. “Up to Shanti Stupa, and yourself?” “I’m going home.” He answered. His eyed gleamed in the raising dark, his moustache making him look like the proverbial ginnie from the bottle. ”I like my home. Whatever happens to you, you can’t change it. It’s all natural”, he explained in broken English. It was the second time in this night that I heard such an acceptance of the natural order of things expressed and it again sounded genuine. I found that unknown man’s trust somehow infectious. I carefully stepped down and followed him, passed by Ladakhi women, carrying their possessions on their backs. Having given sufficient warning, the rain struck with fury of a boxer in the first round. Fist-sized silent drops landed like a flurry of blows and stinging where they hit me. By the time I reached the guesthouse, I was soaked to my underwear.

The father in the family owning my guesthouse welcomed with the candle, as I came under the roof. I straight away wanted to know what their plans were. “We’re staying here. We’re hoping it’ll be all right. Don’t worry, we are all here”, he reassured me.

I stayed then. I accepted the family’s invitation to join them in their sitting room. At least three generations squatted in this warm cubicle, lit only by flickering butter lamps. Prayer beads moved and prayer wheels whirled as Tibetan Buddhist mantras were being ceaselessly repeated in a low murmur. If you think that the atmosphere there was one of doom and gloom, well – you’re wrong. Children continued running around everywhere and the grandmother would every now and then stop praying to pour some butter tea or share some laughs with the others. Just another night in a Ladakhi home. Almost.

Luckily that night, the downpour, albeit heavy, ceased after a couple of hours. The river managed to stay within its constraints. No more damage was done and no more human victims were added to already devastating toll.

I left the family after an hour or so. I sat on my bed by candlelight for a long time. I thought of my semi-random choice to leave Choglamsar, where I had intended to stay before, and find a hotel in the upper, safer part of Leh. I was thus spared having to spend two nights on top of the mountain, if not the actual departure from this world. My thoughts ran out to all the other people in this town: the pilgrims at Shanti Stupa, the ones who stayed at their homes, to my friends, temporarily lost to me in different parts of town. Then I thought of all the trekkers whom the rains caught on distant trails. And I prayed for the safety of all of them.

I was one of the lucky ones. I survived, I wasn’t harmed, I didn’t lose anything. But walking through the sad remnants of what I remembered as bustling lower town left me devastated and changed me forever. Within the next few days Indian soldiers, police and paramilitary troops initiated the relief operation, sifting through destroyed homes and providing basic medical care to those injured. Several local committees were assembled who started enlisting volunteers to do some “cleaning up” work and to help the flood victims. For a few days I carried the mud out from what used to be a hospital. It was Sizyphus’s work, as the destruction was immense and the tools scarce. We did it factory-chain style, passing heavy mud-filled bowls from one to another, then emptying them on a pile outside, to be taken away by a truck. In the end the hospital was returned to some usability, but it was clear that the damage was so wide and vast, it would take many years to rebuild it.

Upon reflection I found it almost ironic, that the same people who I earlier worried I couldn’t help, ended up feeding me, giving me shelter, listening to me with compassion and sharing their ancient wisdom with me. No doubt they suffered greatly from their losses. They may have lacked material resources to protect themselves from the elements, or to deal with their effect. Yet as we worked arm in arm, they still laughed and sang songs together. They didn’t sit there mourning; they did what needed to be done. They took their time. They did it their way, with inner strength and grace. With acceptance of their fate, kindness and strong sense of community that I’d never experienced before.

Julley, julley![2]

Miss Smilla's Feeling for Deserts

[1] Shanti Stupa The Shanti Stupa is an impressive white-domed structure in Changspa that is beautifully illuminated at night. It was built by a Japanese Buddhist organization to commemorate 2500 years of Buddhism and to promote World Peace. In Tibetan Buddhism a stupa represents enlightened mind.

[2] Greeting in Ladakhi language. Depending on circumstances it can mean „hallo”, „good-bye” or „thank you”.

Here comes the black sun, so much fun

2011-08-14T09:40:00.002+10:00

“Did you walk up to Volunteer Park to watch the (total solar) eclipse?” was the first thing Ricki said to Priscilla when she came by her apartment Monday noon.

“Nope. Didn’t make it outdoors,” said Priscilla, yawning.

“You watched it on TV then?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You didn’t see it at all?”

“I listened to it,” said Priscilla. “I listened to it on the radio. It sounded like bacon frying.” Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume.

What can I say. My personal universe has granted me a private, for VIPs only total eclipse of the sun this year (and part of last one too). It lasted several months: four, five, six? Even now, there are days when the light switch goes out; when I wander what on earth happened to my sun.

Back then, whether I chose to bunk up indoors, curtain drawn, or forced myself to venture outside, I could hear its sound very well. No kidding. Sometimes it was like a fire alarm siren going off right in my ear; sometimes the steady drone of a shamanic drum, hypnotizing me into moronic stupor. Sometimes my solar eclipse would play out the funeral march (clichéd much?), and I’d align my steps with it. Or it’d sound like the good old bacon frying – yuck!

Here’s acknowledging that this year has been BIG for me, in the particularly challenging kind of way. It’s worn the stigma of TRANSITION (scary word, if overused).

Transition from being in a close and loving relationship for some years, to being by myself ain’t no easy one in general, baby.

Cause it’s often more than just that.

For me it’s been about transitioning into being WITH myself.

It’s been about losing the baby fat of some residual childish innocence. It’s been about learning to sit with the many fears, insecurities, practical challenges, moral dilemmas, weight-laden choices and the like - gems of everyday life – ones that I’d gladly have transferred onto my partner’s broad back before without even so much as a glimpse of a thought. It’s been about learning to deal with these fears; to make these decisions; to apply my own wisdom (sic!) in the face of dilemmas. It’s also been about teaching myself how to fix a leaking tap. My oh my. It’s been about growing up!

Whilst being is Israel was healing in numerous and wonderful kinds of ways, when I wrote this post, I was a little…overenthusiastic. Mildly arrogant, if only through means of naivety. Or simply thinking wishfully?

Cause, you know, it’s not like I was instantly cured by one hand wave of a desert Sufi master with a flaming magic wand (ha, ha). Neither was I trying to say that then.

The electrical and empowering moment that I described then, was just the beginning of a journey. A journey that on some days darkly resembles the one that Sisyphus used to make.

Being in transition means for me, well, many things.

One of them is, living under the day-to-day hegemony of the multiple-tentacled beast that resides within my solar plexus. I can rarely second-guess its whims, when it’s going to decide to wake up and stretch, and extend its extremities into my different internal spaces, stealing my breath. Shrinks and the think-alikes of this world call the beast “generalized anxiety” and I can sure count on it to show up anytime and say “Hallo” with a ghastly smile.

(And I do wander whether living with anxiety really is a symptom of transition. Maybe it is a symptom of being me.)

And, contrary to the impression you might have gotten from reading this, things are getting better. They are, they are. I mean, really. I’m getting stronger, more grounded, more myself. I think. At least I know how to fix that leaking faucet at least. I’m still stalking the damned pigeon, and sometimes I sort of get to touch its smooth tail for a second.

“One would have thought a solar eclipse would have made a noise like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir,” said Priscilla, “but it really did sound like bacon frying.”

“You slept through it, you asshole.” T. Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume

At least I’ve stayed awake through mine.

Well, for most part.

Failng

2011-07-22T10:20:00.001+10:00

I'm on the train, having left Sydney before dawn, fast-tracking towards the Blue Mountains. The irregularly scattered stops barely break the monotony of my trip. With my head bouncing against the cold window, with my innards shaking with nerves and anticipation of my first day at college, I can't quite go to sleep either.

Then...
"Where did you find it?" an ancient male voice, generously laced in glorious Ocker Aussie accent, raises up from the seat behind me.
There are three second of silence, and then the voice starts again, louder. "Where did you find it? Your hearing device." He seems to soften and stretch the vowels to infinity, as if hoping that making his words longer would help them reach his companion's ears.
"What?" an equally ancient, female voice responds.
"Where did you find your hearing device??" the male voice booms, albeit not impatiently. Just slightly exasperated.
"What?" answers the lady.
They repeat the exchange a few more times, each time turning up the volume just a notch. Sounding a bit more desperate.
"Where did you find it? Your hearing device."
"In your bedroom!" says the female voice at last, a note of triumph ringing in it.
The companion says nothing, but I'm sensing perplexed and intense exchange of face expressions going on behind my back. The lady's answer must have been not an appropriate one.
"What did you ask again?" she pleads.
"Don't worry about it" says the male voice. There's a soothing quality to it. And a barely recognizable hint of resignation. But more soothing.
Then there's no more.

The train pulls over at my destination, and when I rise from my seat, I see them. They're getting off as well. They are both tiny and wrinkled like prunes. She is wearing a pale blue knitted hat. A walking cane supports his fragile steps. They look as old as the trees in my grandfather's yard, firmly intertwined by their twisted roots.
I follow the pair gingerly towards the way out. I watch them help each other cross the gap between the train and the station grounds.
I know nothing about them, except that they'd just failed at an attempt to communicate with one another. Failed to be heard, to be understood, to convey their message, to connect.

Which is a near-impossible task between people even sans hearing problems.
Seeing this, the reflection that followed, make me kind of sad. So much for the funny post again.

Returns

2011-07-15T04:21:00.001+10:00

"Don't wait any longer.
Dive in the ocean,
leave
and let the sea be you.
Silent, absent,
walking an empty road,
all praise." Rumi

At first, albeit a mightily jetlagged glance, Sydney hasn't changed much.
Which sort of surprises me.
That the Westfield shopping mall is still exactly where I left it, and so are "The Greeks" selling their overpriced produce at the grocery across the road from where I live.
That Jenn is still cheeky, Soojin still loves sake and Jutta remains the same amazing work-driven hero I remember her as.
That my friends have not forgotten me. Have missed me. Have looked forward to my return. The last one astounds me most of all.
Yes, I am funny like that.

I probably haven't changed that much either. To the first, perfunctory glance. A couple new wrinkles, hair a few shades redder, but that's all.
Yet, I know I've changed deeper. Duh. Obviously. I have jumped the ship and left. I have dived into this scary ocean with no security rope. With no swimsuit even.

I've changed and so has Sydney. So have my friends.
And the next months will probably bring the mutual exploration of 'how'.

Meanwhile, the normalcy of being back here is baffling. Unnerving. Frightening. While at this point there are still people to catch up with and travel stories to be told, soon... It'll be like I'd never been anywhere. Like it was nothing but a dream, a vivid one, but quickly fading. The unrelenting speed and intensity of everyday life will close up above me and swallow me up.

It's good that I have this blog after all. It'll remind me.

Where am I?

2011-07-15T00:00:00.001+10:00

I awaken from an afternoon nap. My eyes take in the room: the heavy chestnut cupboard with a massive stone buddha head placed upon it; the abstract painting, a japanese couple hugging across the milky way-like smudge of white paint; a couple of weathered bar stools; a thin stripe of sky outside the window, so blue it makes the eyes pop. All achingly familiar, all known and touched a hundred.

Then why the vague sense of unease? Why the feeling that I am still dreaming, yet to awaken to a place and life that is truly real?

Deja vu?

No.

Sydney.

I have come back.

***

In the labyrinths of airport - incessantly waiting, tasting my own well-practiced patience - I was brushing past time. I had reached the cliched point of no return and decided to take it as a blessing. I had feared it. I had fantasized about deliberately missing the plane. Now it's here. Happening.

The impression that I'd set out on this journey some immeasurable pieces of existence ago helped me, paradoxically. It held me when my fingers expressed the sudden and desperate clawing for the past. When the great moan for what I'd left behind uncoiled in my gut. Had it only been a day since I walked the grassy greens of my parents' backyard, since I sat on the porch wrapped in a blanket, watching the sky go to sleep? Time. It twisted and danced around me like an Indian sari, first entrancing me with its seemingly weary stillness; then again jumping up and ahead like an agile horse, leaving behind chipped remains of hours.

Another seat on another plane, I closed my eyes, letting myself drift back towards Poland, amidst the pine forests and barley fields of gold - caressing the moments I'd spent there, living them again in fast-forward. When I opened them back, I found out that time had galloped forward again, swallowing several precious hours of being, and bringing me closer - geographically, mentally - to where I was headed.

The timelessness of traveling on planes, I have fondness for it. In the fume of filtered, microbe-laden air-plane air, between the neatly packed rows of seats, hosting simultaneously bored and anxious hordes of co-passengers, liberation occurs. Somewhere between what's already the past and what is to be future. A bland but poignant now. You are given space to farewell what's left behind, then - to open to what's coming. It's a rite of passage.

And then I was there. The fed-up mouth of the Boeing spewed me out, mercifully, right into the fresh and wintry Australian ground. And into my friend Jenn's comforting arms.

I still have to wake up though.

Too many loves

2011-07-07T17:18:00.000+10:00

My heart lives now in three places. Yes, as if two weren’t complicated enough.

The red land

Towards the end of my first year in Australia I discovered Pacific Ocean. I remember blissful hours spent making love with the splendid waves, a new Venus on the block. Ever since, in my mind Australia and the turquoise element have become inseparable. The so-called “temporary” tattoo in the shape of Maori symbol Koru was the result of my longing and my promise to return to the Land of Plenty. The tattoo never disappeared.

Poland is the land that has seen me born and has witnessed my growing. My feet have forged and memorised countless paths here, which in my body are never forgotten. When I think of my childhood, I see the barley ‘fields of gold’ and me running through, ahead of my little gang, in search of a hidden treasure. I miss the endless summer evenings when I’m not here. Yet I have fled – haven’t I – and I have serious doubts whether I could grow satisfied roots here. I wouldn’t know how.

The homeland

Poland always brings the feeling of family. My friendships here are old like ancient oaks. Whilst their branches may be reaching for different skies, they’re still intertwined at the roots. My blood family…through separations and conflicts, through lost tracks and confusion, through endless searching, and trust and trying, through love that is truly unconditional, through joy and comfort of knowing someone and being known by someone for your whole life…I’ve come to a place of peace. We’ve grown closer. We let each other be.

The holy land

There is another country I’ve come to love. Go read my older posts, you’ll know what kind of love I mean. The fresh like young olives leaves and simmering with yet unspoken hopes, juvenile hopes perhaps – kind.

Three deep, significant relationships. Three loves. I’m a polyamorous citizen. Hell, aren’t I lucky?

As I’m the sort of person that develops attachment faster than a homeless dog catches flies, the pain of separation with my loves tends to be brutal. It is a familiar feeling, you’d think I’d be immune to by now. The inner tremble when you pack your bag. The conversations that get stuck, because you always fail at behaving as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, and pathos – you don’t like pathos either. The last walks around the hood your eyes tattooing every single detail into your memory cortex. The catching in your breath, the painful savouring of each moment, the resistance to leave, the holding on to the stair rail, the fantasy that you’ll miss the plane and will have to remain where you are.

The deep breath you take while safely tucked in your airplane seat, with a magazine and inflated cushion. The worst is over. On to another world.

Ah, it’s so very hard to leave one amazing home and switch it for amazing another. Poor, poor old me.

Seriously though? I’m perched on the brink of yet another journey, waiting for someone to mercifully push me off that nest. Then again I know that pushing won’t be needed. Scared, hopeful and grateful I’ll make the jump myself. Scared but pretending to be fearless. Hopeful just because one naturally is. Grateful for the three amazing homes that stretch my heart to bursting, that show me that its capacity is after all, limitless.

Lomir ale in eynem

2011-07-03T21:50:00.001+10:00

The beautiful Tempel Synagogue

Khaira Arby "The Queen of the Desert"

Roger Davidson Ensemble

My small suitcase was packed. My stomach was churning with excitement. As if I hadn't done enough of it recently, I was to travel once again. My parents were taking me to the train station.

"Should you meet Shevah Weiss" said my Dad, while lifting my suitcase into the car boot "give him my respect and admiration. Here's my business card, invite him to visit us."

My Dad's sense of humour is the dead-pan kind. If you don't know him very well, and superficially judge people by the number of smiles they shoot into the atmosphere, you might think him a very solemn and stern man; which is nothing but untrue.

We both knew that the chances of delighting Mr Weiss (Polish-born Israeli political scientist and former politician; a great friend of the Polish people) with our home made cholent were as scarce as snow in Tel-Aviv. But one can dream, can't they? And since I was going to Krakow, to participate in the XXI Jewish Festival, dreams like that were even appropriate.

Sadly, I didn't end up harassing Mr Weiss. Neither did I stalk him from afar. I simply didn't see him. Could it be because I missed the Friday's Shabbat dinner, to be populated by many VIPs and some 200 hangers-on? Too long I procrastinated with buying the pricey ticket, worrying about my red shoes - my only shoes - would they be inappropriate? Having finally gotten over this trifle internal conflict, I was told that the tickets had been sold out long time ago anyway.

No, I wasn't heart-broken. I'd been already gorging on too many concerts, talks, workshops, meetings etc. offered by the festival - my head and heart full to the brim - that I barely noticed. What a sensual, emotional and intellectual feast it was, what a smorgasbord of top-notch events. I could pee myself trying and still I could not describe it.

"These are the real heretics of klezmer music" bellowed Janusz Makuch, the creative director of the festival, when introducing a band called Sway Machinery " and I love heretics. There wouldn't be growth or progress without heresy."

I couldn't agree more. I did listen to many amazing heretics these last few days, to bold propagators of unpopular thoughts or seemingly jarring sounds. I sat speechless, open-mouthed, sometimes I sang or danced, then wandered the quaint streets of Old Kazimierz in a kind of stupor, as if a huge elephant had jumped of a building and landed on my head, except it hadn't.

During an open meeting called "The Wisdom of the heart. Message from the spiritual elders" conducted by transpersonal psychotherapist Tanna Jakubowicz-Mount - around 30 people shared stories about their sense of identity. Is there a question more difficult to answer and yet less familiar than "Who am I?". The bravery and wisdom of these randomly gathered individuals was mind-blowing.

Jan said he was a Holocaust survivor. David said that although Judaism was him spiritual home, he was just learning to live from his heart. Iwona said she was a leaf on the wind. Ewa was a silver wolverine. Magda, Tomasz and Jeff had been found by Jesus when they needed it. Danusia and Andrzej were recovering alcoholics. Mariusz just was. Smilla was confused; she'd suddenly found herself longing for a God so much that it choked her. And so on. Here we were, a bunch of seekers of something that may never be found. Seeking nevertheless.

It was a tremendous relief - I repeat, tremendous - to find such alikeness, it this one, but powerful aspect. To be with the Poles of no known Jewish origins, but feeling very strongly about this culture, drawn by affiliation that cannot be rationally explained. It's like Shevah Weiss wrote, perhaps the Poles do miss the Jews after all. Perhaps our genes feel and mourn the loss of the nation that was part of our history, a common element of everyday lives, for many centuries. Through the wild and cruel currents of history, there are hardly any Jews in Poland these days. And some of us long for them.

At the hostel, during the short breathless breaks, I talked to Joanna. She was my age, she matched me with the intensity of emotions that colour her days; she too was mourning love lost. Twice we attempted to go wild and entered the crowded club Alchemia for some midnight klezmer dancing; twice we left after less than an hour, defeated by sticky and pushy crowds, by room where breathing space was quickly shrinking, sucked in by deep, beer-infused throats. "At least we tried" said Joanna as we retreated. Then sleep claimed us fast and brought no dreams.

Yesterday the train spewed me out - crinkled and cranky from the 8-hour trip - in Poznan. The weather was disgusting. Grey unrelenting piss of rain that did more than soiling my thin jacket through and through - it also washed out my juvenile euphoria. Yesterday I danced in the circle and ecstatically to the Yiddish music; I considered giving the belief in angels a go. Today...what goes up, must come down, they say.

I'll sit with it. And since these new metaphorical suitcases are big, heavy and have many pockets, it might be a long sit.

Rude or what, or not.

2011-06-24T20:38:00.006+10:00

It was long before I came to Israel for the first time that I heard some epic tales about the legendary Israeli impoliteness. Thankfully the Lord didn’t make me wait very long at all to have them backed up by my very own little taster. While I was considerably shaken by the experience at a time, my perception’s shifted already. A passionate fight in a public place, sucking in bystanders, who each feel obliged to take sides and express their personal opinions? I’d say, nothing out of the ordinary.

Impoliteness - it's omnipresent - it saturates the entire country through and through. The moment you step foot on the Holy Land, your circle of personal space shrinks rapidly. Here tact is nonessential, conversations are direct and queues have a culture of their own. Strangers make comments to you about things that, in Australia, you'd only hear from the mouths of close kin.

Israelis are raised to feel they are kings and queens and consequently shyness is a rare quality. People will talk to you in the street if they feel like it without the slightest hesitation and will tell you what to do without a second thought. There’s a joke that explains this:

Why does no one make love on the street in Tel Aviv?

Because if they did, someone would come along and say:
‘No, no, no! Squeeze her ass before you kiss her! Where did you learn to do this? Alright, move aside and let me show you…’

Now, Western foreigners do get hit hard. The atmosphere in Israel is something new. The country seems developed, modern and civilized. They see the Americanization at work and wonder how the heck Israelis still aren't behaving American! They seem so direct and, well, unrefined.

What follows, is the common assumption: Israelis are rude, barbaric and inconsiderate.

While I’ve certainly has some less than pleasant interpersonal encounters whilst in Israel, I’m refraining from straight off the bat judging and criticizing the whole nation. Perhaps I’m simply sentimental and let people get away with lots of crap for my unexplained affinity with their ways. I’m also trying to be observant here, and understanding.

Israelis simply love to argue. The saying ‘You have four Jews in a room and five opinions’ couldn’t be more correct. They shout at one another but no one’s really angry. It’s just their way of saying that they care.

The grandparents of Israelis came from all corners of the world and so the country is essentially a melting pot of European, American and Middle Eastern cultures, all mixed up with a dash of Zionism and a healthy paranoia that everyone always has been and always will be, out to get them.

But Israelis love to assimilate and the one million Russians who arrived in the 90’s are already thoroughly Israeli – which doesn’t mean that the national jokes about them all being criminals or whores have completely died out. The Sephardic Jews are still sometimes seen as being one step away from being Arabic and everyone knows that when the Polish Israelis are in a good mood they sit in the dark until it passes. The Iranian Jews never want to spend a shekel, the Moroccans all carry knives and the Americans aren’t real Israelis but Jews living off their rich relatives in New York.

Although they can appear the rudest people in the world, at heart they’re immensely kind and hospitable. Israel is a tribal society so if you’re on the outside they seem quite hostile. But once you’ve cracked their shell, they’ll spoil you rotten with their hospitability: they’ll invite you to their homes, offer to kill your enemies or their daughter’s hand, that kind of thing. The Israelis are very much community oriented and often exist as tight networks of friends and family. They are fiercely loyal to and protective of the ones they love. Prickly-skinned fruits with big bleeding hearts inside.

These people make the polite Americans and Australian appear ingenuine and constrained by comparison. And my little Slavic soul has no choice but to long to jump right into the middle of that row and bellow: "Ma ani, ez?"*

* "What am I, a goat?"- an expression used as a protest against unequal treatment

Quiet

2011-06-22T07:14:00.004+10:00

Where to from now?

It's suddenly gone all quiet around here. Can you hear it? The words sort of dried up. Then, I don't even know if anyone comes here anymore, or maybe I'm writing to a void, bottomless, toothy and writhing like a giant caterpillar.

I'm still sort of sad, having left the Holy Land. I wake up with my head full of palm trees, and desert winds, and lively conversations half in Hebrew. I wake up to the reality of being here, in this cozy haven, familiar as the womb itself, where the coolish weather has been a respite for my sun-drenched skin. The reality reminds me to get off cloud nine for fuck's sake, and face it, man.

Why does my heart ache so? Why do Jaffa's mosques nest underneath my eyelids like rolled up carpets, to be stretched into vivid and richly patterned images as soon as I close my eyes? It's a laden step to decide to grow up. It hurts. No wonder not many travel this road.

Where to now?

Miss Smilla wants to run. She wants new virgin planes to set her not so little foot on. She screams for deserts, roads, books, stairs, stars. Is she stupid? Is she dreamin'? Is she marrying a demon? (just cos it rhymes)

Should Miss Smilla stay where she is? Just goddammit stay for once??

No, don't answer.

Perfect

2011-06-16T07:09:00.007+10:00

Photo: Courtesy of Zvika Rotbart

It’s clearly a non-enlightened being speaking, but some days are better than others. Some days suck. While other days just seem to flow, like nature intended them to do, without grinding halts, or pitfalls, or otherwise annoying obstacles.

On one of these days, you may go out for dinner with a dear friend. You may sit in a waterfront restaurant and watch the sun lazily make its way down towards the water, your skin aglow with the evening light. You may wiggle at the sight of the amazing array of middle-eastern salads being brought, all for you to taste and fill you with carnal delight. There might be some bubbly white wine involved, gentle in taste but exploding in your head with fireworks and stories that arrive from god knows where. You’d look up from these fragrant goodies, into your friend’s laughing eyes. You’d be mildly surprised, ever so slightly baffled, for all the knowing him, you’ve suddenly seen him again, anew. You’ve both been able to temporarily strip off, from your individual histories, and from the one you share together. You’ve even forgotten the neglect and grief you might have caused one another. As you laugh, eat, tell funny stories, feed your posh fish dish to the cat – you feel excited; you want to start getting to know your friend all over again.

And then…

Then Shai and I repeated our infamous walk through the empty and trashy Carmiel Market again. It was just as stinky and sticky as on my first night here, only this time Shai (sans the halva), God bless his soul, carried me on his back.

And then we said good-bye. And I was wistful, but joyful, that a friendship I thought of as lost, showed hope to be salvaged after all. That forgiveness and compassion can triumph over resentment and hurt feelings. That you can know someone long and well, and continue to see the goodness in them.

As my Israel trip inevitably draws to an end, I am sad. I don’t want to leave yet. So much still to see, to learn. So many people to meet and have a little banter with. So many pitas with falafel to eat.

It hasn’t been an entirely easy month. Some of my expectations crashed with a huge thud when confronted with ruthless concrete of reality. Some timid hopes had to be buried under the not so clean sands of Tel Aviv’s beaches. Other timid hopes have had to remain timid hopes, for now. And there were times when my longing for loving touch preceded all thought.

But amidst all this balagan, unexpected love for this breathtakingly beautiful land was born. I began to find stories in the mundane and catch them on the fishing rod of my words again. Passion and creativity were restored to me. The sorry leftovers of my prozac pills finally landed in the bin. We all know that life ain’t an endless firework show. Still, for here and now, dear readers, let Miss Smilla proclaim herself – recovered.

"Say anything is possible,

It's not too late

The sun has already risen

It's time for love

Together, heart to heart,

we'll open and we'll see

The light in the sky

Together, heart to heart

we'll open with hope

- to love" Yachad, by Gaya

(translation from Hebrew)

(and she better not be mistaken).

Be Ivrit bil'adit

2011-06-14T12:55:00.005+10:00

Had I known how much fun it’d be to seriously tackle a new foreign language, I would’ve started many years ago.

A few months ago I started learning Hebrew. Studying a new language as an intellectually fully-fledged adult (as if!) –a totally different kettle of fish! Like, trying to understand what’s going on from the grammatical, as well as linguistic point of view. It’s challenging, frustrating, makes you question the extent of your own intelligence, makes you appear a fool in front of laughing audiences, all that stuff. It’s also loads of fun. And more.

For the last 2.5 weeks I’ve been studying Hebrew at Ulpan-Or in Tel-Aviv. It’s a vibrant and young-in-spirit company, offering a real smorgasbord of one-on-one programs, customised and tailored to their students’ needs. They use this kick-ass methodology, called Rapid Language Acqusition (RLA) Method – and I swear, they must be doing something right, for I’m quite happy with my progress, as happy as I’ve been with the whole experience.

Three hours of study a day, five days a week? Intensive. And intense. But mostly: pure fun. They use wonderful study kits based on lively up-to-date dialogues and day-to-day life situations, presented often as audio-dialogues, soap opera-style. Which made me howl with glee, banshee-style. How many times would I arrive for class slightly frayed at the edges from some internal drama I was battling, and leave with a huge moronic grin on my face? Many. Ask Leanne, the office manager – she’ll tell you.

My gorgeous teacher Yael was by my side every step my language-learning journey: enthusiastically cheering on my progress, patiently correcting my cringe-producing mistakes and gently encouraging me when my confidence was faltering and my brain turning into falafel mash. She was guiding me through the maze of Hebrew verb groups with astuteness and grace of a tightrope walker. And she’d produce a wonderfully cheesy song for me to learn, just when I needed to laugh, then make me soppy with tears with another.

I don’t think of myself as an easy student: I’ve been known to be stubborn, lazy and perpetually low self-esteemed. But I might have made it up to Yael by producing sentences like: “Why do you like these young black studs so much?” during writing exercises. Or by brightly announcing that “I like to get up in the park*”. Or by professing that Tel Aviv absolutely needs a “Secretary Shop**” Ah, the perils of hammering the new into the thick mass that is one’s brain; you need a licentia poetica for all the damage you do to the innocent language. Nonetheless: kudos to Yael for sticking it out with me. I miss you already.

What I also like about Ulpan-Or, is that it successfully combines language study with the immersion in Israeli culture and history. T-Ulpans – short tours to historical places in Tel Aviv are a fantastic way to learn about the Eretz, and you get to interact with your teacher only in Hebrew be for the whole two hours. I’ve had a great time on both of my Tiyuls. Both my tutors – Yoav and Tzvika were ace, and unperturbed that instead of talking about history, I drilled them with personal questions. I guess they know better than me that in Hebrew there’s no word for “tact”, but the word “chutzpah” is not for nothing.

Yesterday Tzvika and I were touring the Old Train Station (HaTahana). While admiring artsy old-school posters at Made in TLV shop, I even got treated to an upgraded, yet unauthorized version of the Bible story about Jonah and the Whale. One featuring Pinoccio, who came to accompany the prophet in the guttural abysses of the great fish.

“So Elohim requested that Jonah talks to the Assyrians, and tells them ‘No no no’, but Jonah wasn’t interested” continued Tzvika “He’d rather go to the beach, smoke a ciggie…” .“Have a beer…” I chimed in. Even the shop girl came over to listen in, attracted by our unabashed giggles.

And that’s how I came to realize that I can actually have an entire conversation be Ivrit bil’adit*** without imploding from frustration and effort. A conversation as halted and awkward as it gets, but still – a conversation.

Learning Hebrew has proved a very empowering experience to me. Not only did I discover that I wasn’t brain-dead yet, but I also found something that the very brain has a real liking for (I tried it with maths and physics before, but it didn’t work). It’s like landing on a brand-new planet and discovering that you can actually live and breathe on it. It’s exciting; exhilarating in that child-like kind of way. It’s many things. It’s saved my arse from drowning.

Gee, I love Hebrew! Both ancient and modern, it’s got spunk and soul, it churns in my belly and sings in my heart. It’s beautiful.

I wonder who can temper my polyglotic appetites now? In my sinister fantasies the list of languages I want to acquire in this lifetime is expanding. Yet I’m hoping that I’ve still got a considerable amount of time left, before the mighty Alzheimer claims me. Which, hopefully and considering the energy I put into keeping my wits running on high octane– will be never.

* I mistakenly used “lakum” (to get up) intead of “laruc” (to run).

** Idem, “mazkira” (secretary) instead of “mazkeret” (souvenir).

*** meaning: “exclusively in Hebrew”

2011-06-11T13:52:00.004+10:00

I was sitting on a bench on Frishman Street, just off Ben Yehuda Street. I had come to hear a teaching on the tenets of Jewish faith at the Tel Aviv International Synagogue. “Bible! Halacha! Jewish Philosophy!” had screamed the bold letters on the random flyer that I’d found earlier in the day, clipped to a notice board at the hostel.

But I’d come a bit ahead of time and had a few minutes to kill.

I was just energetically biting into an apple, when a dark tall stranger walked past me and said something in Hebrew.

“Say that again” I said automatically “I didn’t understand”

“You didn’t understand? What didn’t you understand?” he bellowed the Israeli style “I said bon apetite.”

But he had an open face and when he smiled, something happened between us. I felt my insides melt and become like Max Brenner hot chocolate…the world slowed down, everything becoming thick and sweet with anticipation…

Ah no my lovelies, I’m just joking.

Were I this quick to be charmed by men, I’d be in deep shit by now, believe me. For these Israeli men, they are notorious. Notorious! Not a day goes by without some attempt from someone to chat me up.

“How old are you?” they demand candidly “Do you have kids? Husband? Boyfriend? Would you like one?” I’ve met a man who claimed to be a playwright and who pleaded with me to become part of his project as the 70s’ “nature girl in the woods”. There’ve even been one or two marriage proposals.

And just to dispel any confusion: I’m no Angelina Jolie. Just your average girl next door (plus a brain). I recall Samira telling me about a man who approached her at a bus terminal. After she gave him a cold shoulder, he swiftly moved on to another female passenger in the queue. These men are just trying their luck, and they’re honest about it. It’s just the way it is.

I actually find this attitude not entirely unpleasant; it’s non-pretentious and somewhat refreshing. At least most of the time. I’ve been experimenting a bit with being less rigid in these situations than I was even a few years ago. Travel experience and aging combined, doing the deed. Still, there are lessons to be learned. Fast. But that’s a topic for another topic, as I’m digressing shamefully.

This experimentation and all, could be why I allowed the dark tall stranger sit next to me.

Enter Yossi. Yossi is funny, easy-going and self-assured in a sweet kind of way. Born and bred in Tel Aviv, he drives like a maniac. We were cruising on his scooter last night, breaking just about every law there was. When the road gets too jammed, Yossi has no qualms about driving onto a footpath. And I seem to have no qualms about being his partner in crime. So last night we were powering through the sea promenade, manouvering between Muslim families and gay men with their dogs, until we nearly ran over two police officers! Op-pah.

Not to worry but. I mean, Yossi didn’t bat an eyelid: “It’s all good” he reassured me as he duly produced his driver’s licence out of his pocket. The three men engaged in a properly heated exchange of words and gestures.

“I really wanted to get off the footpath, but I couldn’t” he pointed towards the wired fence separating our path from the road “who put this stupid fence here!”

He got away with it, of course. We parted with the policemen, with friendly “Layla tovs” and convivial pats of one another’s backs. “I know how to talk to them” said Yossi “been down that road many times.”

And the Jewish teaching I had been going to the night I met Yossi? When I finally entered the synagogue, I was met by three men, advanced in age and very friendly. They advised me politely that the shiyur was for men only. That was pretty obvious actually; the vibe was that they couldn’t wait for me to get out of there fast enough. I even got a personal escort out.

The slick road of my conversion to Judaism might have just been averted. But not to worry. I acquired a new friend instead.

I forgot to mention something about Yossi: he works as a driving instructor.

A boring post, but so tends to be life

2011-06-10T01:46:00.006+10:00

My window

The infamous rooftop

“Nu” I asked Zohar, the middle-aged woman, whom I often see behind the reception desk at my current home, the Old Jaffa Hostel “Are you the boss here?”

She laughed.

“The boss” she answered, gesturing towards the ceiling with both hands “is upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” I parroted. I was slightly baffled; while there is a great rooftop at the top of the building, and a bunch of mattresses for more adventurous travellers to sleep on, that’s about it.

“I meant, up there” she corrected herself, annoyed at my dumbness, and then I clicked: I realized which Boss she was talking about.

“But” added Zohar after a moment, as if chewing on thought that wouldn’t go away “the real boss is here” she thumped her chest “the boss up there doesn’t always help, I’m not convinced. But your heart knows and will tell you, if you listen well.”

Both Zohar and her daughter are, like many Israelis, tough and a little abrasive on the outside. Like an eggshell with spikes, perhaps?

“Have a look at the map yourself, it’s all there. Don’t be lazy!” Zohar snapped at me on my first day at the hostel, after hearing me inquire timidly whether “there is a chance-that perhaps-she might happen to know-where the post office was”.

But once you crack that eggshell, there is bounty of pudding and sweetness in there. After over a week of me being here, we are very friendly.

And I love this bloody place.

Even though the noise outside (the flea market, people shouting at each other at different times of day and night) annoys the shit out of me, and at night (oh at night) ravenous mosquitos feast on my dermal tissues like there is no tomorrow.

I love the rustic rooms full of old photos, and I love the fact that there is enough other half-residents and half-tourists like me stationing here; queer, socially awkward nerdy types, sexual outlaws or undefined kinds of misfits – which makes me feel right at home. There is of course a steady stream of young, 95% American backpackers passing through, clogging the lounge with their ipads, iphones and whatnot. They are sweet, but they barely register on my film screen, if you know what I mean? They don’t seem to notice me either. Somewhat, somehow, I’ve moved to the more invisible middle-aged group, and how did that happen and when? So, while the young lasses don their super cool dancing-queen outfits to go out partying for the whole night, I chat with Zik the cleaner in broken Hebrew.

“Enough of this studying” he’d tease me “If you want to learn Hebrew, you’ve got to speak with people!”

“What was that? Sorry, I didn’t understand” I’d say in return.

By the way, I haven’t said my last word with regards to the glamorous party-land yet. The raucous gate-crasher Smilla will be back one day in her wildest glory. Just sayin’

In the meantime, the quaint rooftop of the Old Jaffa Hostel it is. Me and outsiders, out-sidering together awkwardly. Then the magnificent “Allah Akbars” (Muslim call for prayer) rip from the three neighbouring mosques in a thwarted attempt at unison, and the whole mess dissolves for a minute. The clear voices of these unseen muezzins seem to cradle my heart; I long for these moments. The other day these spiritual chants went on for an exceptionally long time, and I was ecstatic.

But not everyone was.

“Fuuuck Allah! Fuuuck Allah! Fuuuuuuuck Allah!!!” an anguished voice floated over the roofs, competing, albeit unsuccessfully with those of the imams.

“La illaha illa Allah!” responded the muezzins.

“Fuuuuck Allah” the voice grew more desperate and raspy as it diminished in power.

“Allahu Ekber” continued the muslim singers, unfazed.

To that there was no response. Undoubtedly the infidel lost his sinful voice.

Noone should fuck with Allah, you see.

Anyone could be Jesus. Yes, even you!

2011-06-06T02:49:00.009+10:00

“Hallo! My name is Carlos*” introduced himself a bright young man after Samira entered her dorm room at Abraham Hostel in Jerusalem for the first time.

"Hi, I'm Samira" said she.

"So, my name is Carlos, but really, I am Jesus"

Whoa, how's that for an acquaintance, Samira made a small inward jump. On the outside, she kept her cool. She's used to eccentric individuals; she worked in fashion industry for many years after all.

He seemed nice and friendly, so Samira continued to acquaint herself with him. I'm sure as hell she was intrigued. The Messiah business was no joke, or sassy pick-up line, it turned out. Carlos, or "Jesus" truly believed that it was his mission act as the hand of God and (try to) redeem the stray (again) and sinful (always) human race. He'd been in the Holy City for three weeks up to that point, performing purifying rituals and waiting for the God-appointed day to announce his son's second coming. Set ablaze, the infidel Jerusalem was to crumble and fall. And it was amidst the debris, that Carlos cum the Messiah was to be revealed; to lead the petrified flock towards purer, simpler future, governed by love and devoid of grief.

But she did go to dinner with him.

Despite that unusual kink of his, Carlos was no wall-jumping raving loony; no half-baked cookie. His speech was coherent. He has a comely face, adorned by a beard that he'd grown long. His sense of humour remained unscathed. He was blessed with a healthy appetite for food, although he did refrain from alcohol and grapes. And last but not least, he proved not entirely resistant to Samira's womanly charms.

"You drive me absolutely bonkers" he said to her "But right now the timing isn't right to pursue a new girlfriend".

Samira didn't despair.

The Big Day was approaching fast.

"Would you like to come to the (Wailing) Wall with me tonight, to watch Jerusalem burn and be rebuilt by God's will?" he offered generously to my friend.

"Sure" answered Samira. Off they went. Alas, Armageddon didn't hit. Not a single burning leaf was to be sighted in the immediate surroundings, not to mention burning bush. Nothing, but the most ordinary comings and going of the HaKotel HaMa'aravi - land. The evening stretched interminably like Negev Desert and Samira grew weary.

"Stay a bit longer" pleaded "Jesus" - "I know it will happen tonight. You and I will rebuild Jerusalem together"

But she had to go. She had already made plans to celebrate her last night in Jerusalem with a friend, by having lambchops and wine.

She saw him at the hostel later on. Still no miracle. "Jesus" returned deflated but still hopeful. He threated he was going to visit the Western Wall the day after. Maybe the exact date of his appointment with God had slipped through the cracks in his mind, due all excitement. Or maybe God himself had changed his plan ever so slightly. Unfortunately time wasn't on Carlos' side. His flight back to Miami was leaving in a couple of days.

* * *

It’s the first time I have heard of such phenomenon, but apparently, the malady called Jerusalem Syndrome is no joke. Affected tourists have been found wandering in the Judean desert wrapped in hotel bed sheets or crouched at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, waiting to birth the infant Jesus.

The Jerusalem Syndrome was first clinically identified by Dr. Yair Bar El, former director of the Kfar ShaulPsychiatric Hospital and currently district psychiatrist for the Ministry of Health. Bar El studied hundreds of tourists who were referred to Kfar Shaul for treatment between 1979 and 1993. On the basis of his work with these visitors, who had been declared temporarily insane, he reached some highly interesting conclusions.

The clinical picture that emerges usually consists of the same symptoms. It begins with general anxiety and nervousness, and then the tourist feels an imperative need to visit the holy places. First, he undertakes a series of purification rituals, like shaving all his body hair, cutting his nails and washing himself over and over before he dons white clothes. Most often, he swathes himself in the white sheets from his hotel room. Then he begins to cry or to sing Biblical or religious songs in a very loud voice. The next step is an actual visit to the holy places, most often from the life of Jesus. The afflicted tourist begins to deliver a sermon, demanding that humanity become calmer, purer, and less materialistic.

No one is certain about exactly what causes Jerusalem Syndrome. Perhaps it's jarring for a serious Bible student to arrive in modern-day Israel where, instead of prophets in sandals, he hears businessmen discussing profits on cell phones. Or maybe it's the fact that Jerusalem has always been a magnet for messianic messages, and visitors get carried away.

Perhaps it’s not too far fetched to suggest that before your next planned visit to Jerusalem, you might want to take along the phone number for your favourite shrink back home.

More info http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/History/jersynd.html

*not his real name

Endings, beginnings and all that jazz called life

2011-06-05T23:36:00.007+10:00

Old Jaffa by night

'"Something's ending" said Jaskier

"Something's beginning" answered Yarpen'

A.Sapkowski, Saga o wiedzminie.

Alas, there’ve been some shifts in my Israeli life (did I just say "My Israeli life?" ha, ha).

I have moved cities, for once. I still cruise between the City of Fire and the City By The Sea for work reasons. But I’m now based in Tel Aviv, in Old Jaffa to be exact. A quaint, blessed little area surrounded by mosques and nourished by the sea.

I have also suffered some rather significant losses in the friends’ department.

While this last thing saddens me greatly, the rock-solid truth that all endings tend to coincide with new beginnings has been a consolation to me.

You could say that after the first weeks of fervent travelling and social activity, my existence in the Holy Land has finally come to a standstill of sorts (much like Jerusalem and Tel Aviv do on Friday nights).

My days seem to revolve around two activities: studying Hebrew and writing (plus the occasional falafel+pita fix for the hurting brain). I also go to the beach. In the evenings I peruse the narrow streets of Old Jaffa with my camera, boringly enchanted by rustic charm of the sandstone buildings and the glint of tastefully placed lighting. Then I’m in bed with my book by 10 pm, more than ready to delve into the land of Morpheus. Yup, I’m a complete bore – but that’s no news. The news to me is that under that mediocre costume beats a heart, one that is brimming with passion - for people, for connection, for experience, for living - once again.

I still have my moments: when my demons crawl out of the dark corners and screech in my ears, and pull at my sleeves and want me to be reckless, or to run. I wouldn't be myself without these, right?

But undoubtedly there are minutes, hours even, when I feel peaceful. Or contented. Or perhaps…ooops, what was the word?

Happy.

And that's good. Tov meod.

Shabat Shalom!

2011-06-04T02:16:00.001+10:00

Random snapshots, stolen while walking the (exceptionally busy today) narrow streets of Old Jerusalem...

Challah bread

Co-existing peacefully

Don't mess with us!

what happened to...Axl Rose then?

Not the Garden of Eden indeed...

Shabat Shalom everyone!

Is it hot over there?

2011-06-03T02:41:00.000+10:00

Here’s a little Jerusalem story that Bertrand recalled to me, and is happy for me to share with you.

Characters:

Bertrand, the ever curious scientist on a spiritual path

An Orthodox Jew (let’s call him OJ) of unspecified age, properly clad in black and white, with twirling side locks completing the picture.

Place:

Lobby of the hostel, where Bertrand is staying. Bertrand is chilling on the couch, when OJ, who seems to be the friend of the house and frequent visitor saunters in, sees Bertrand, and the two of them begin small talk.

OJ: Where are you from?

B: From France, but now I live in Australia.

OJ: Wow, Australia! So, tell me, is it hot out there?

B: Well, it’s winter at the moment…

OJ (interrupts him): No, I mean GIRLS. Is it HOT???

Bertrand (bewildered): I guess you could say it’s all right…

They go on for a little while in this semi-tedious mode, and then…

OJ: What do you do for work?

B: Research.

OJ (suddenly animated, fingers flexing in kneading movements): MASSAGE???

B: No, research!

OJ (disappointed): Oh…

The story, when told, spurred peals of laughter, followed by earnest reflection whether such smooth example of one-track mind (hot->girls->massage) could, and would be by-product of OJ’s religion-governed sexual abstinence, and in consequence, his sexual repression?

Quoted after Marissa Brostoff: Abstinence Education: Not Just For the Goyim?

"That the Orthodox Union supports abstinence before marriage is hardly news. Halacha (Jewish law) and rabbinic writings prohibit not just non-marital sexual relations, but also some seemingly benign behaviors that might precipitate sex outside of marriage. Many traditional Jews are shomer negiah, which means that they refrain from physical contact with members of the opposite sex other than a spouse or close relative. They may also practice yichud, which prohibits members of the opposite sex from spending time alone together."

You can read the rest of the article here

I reluctantly recalled my own up-close third-degree encounter with a young Orthodox man in a dark alley of Old Jerusalem from the year before, which left a bad taste in my mouth (but thankfully wasn’t threatening to my life or anything like that). Then there was the Bedouin in the Negev, a young man lonely in the desert and most likely forbidden contact with girls of his own faith (Muslim I presume), consoling himself by voyeuring Western tourists during their ablutions and attempting to lure them into his bedroom ("Do you want to see my room?").

Says Shiva Rodriguez of Liberated Christians: "Some of the side effects of sexual repression as observed in human beings include lack of self-confidence, low self-esteem, depression, suicidal tendencies, and higher aggressive behavior. A child who has been taught to believe that sex is dirty and bad will often mature to become an adult who is self-conscious about his body and overwhelmed with guilt when the natural desire to breed arouses him. Adults who are restricted in their sexual inclinations will often experience frustration that can result in either suicidal actions or violence towards others.

It should come as a surprise to no one that societies that have more relaxed legislature over sexual matters enjoy a lower violent crime rate and are not often seen butting heads with other societies on the war field.
Numerous medical professionals, psychologists, philosophers, and other champions of sexual liberation and its benefits to society have been defamed and their work bastardized by political and religious leaders on the platform of morality and wholesome family values. Citizens of such societies are therefore instructed to deeply repress many of their strong natural urges and desires, resulting in an increase of frustration, stress, and emotional instability that is disguised with the mask of being “the right thing to do.” (...)

Often this opens the door wide for religion, particularly the brands that demand their followers forsake earthly delights and suppress all natural inclinations as proof of being a good and worthy person. Never has the idea of how sexual repression can result in aggressive behavior been better demonstrated than with the history of the followers of such religions butchering and torturing other peoples whose attitudes on such subjects differed from their own. Nor is it a coincidence that the punishments dealt to such people often involved the mutilation of their sexual organs."

Now go and read more here

Hey, I'm not saying that every religious person is a pervert. Okay? Okay. There are numerous spiritual traditions (Tibetan Vajrayana Buddhism for example), where sexual abstinence is practiced, but the practitioners are given methods to harness and transform their sexual energy into wisdom and compassion - to sublimate it. I don't know how effective they are in reality, but at least the powerful kundalini energy is acknowledged and worked with - it is not repressed.

Good for them.

But for the rest of us, ignorant common folk...

Bertrand, Samira and I looked at each other and wagged our heads:

"Sexual repression?" we concluded "No good."

Update:

For those interested in reading about some implications of being "shomer negiah", go there: Nice Jewish Girl's Blog.

Toda Raba Dudes

2011-05-31T15:07:00.000+10:00

"One of the characters asked a death stewardess if he would get to Heaven and she told him that of course he would. He asked if he would see God, and she said, ‘Certainly, honey.’

And he said, ‘I sure hope so. I want to ask Him something I never was able to find out down here.’

‘What’s that?’ she said, strapping him in.

‘What in hell are people for?’” K.Vonnegut, God bless you Mr Rosewater

I met Bertrand on the steps leading to a small hostel in Old Jerusalem, not far from Jaffa Gate. He approached me to ask if I knew where he could find something to eat. I answered that there was a falafel and pretzel stall nearby. But it didn’t end there. We established that we lived in the same city. We quickly trespassed the murky terrains of the usual travellers’ small talk. When he expressed his desire to visit Gaza Strip, I sensed that a truly rare specimen just landed on my doorstep (divine intervention maybe?) – a like-minded, hard-core, fearless traveller; an extinct kind – and I’d rather go and try to drown myself in the Dead Sea than let that one go! I shared my travel plans with the pleasant Frenchie and didn’t hesitate a second before asking him to join me. Now, I’m usually not that forward with people. Like, really really. Especially the male kind. The only other occasion of such an aggressive behaviour that I recall was when I met Olli. That was six years ago and Olli has been one of the bestest friends since.

So with Bertrand mightily jetlagged (having just arrived in the Eretz) and just as overwhelmed by my enthusiasm, I had every right to expect that he wouldn’t call me the next day. But he did!

A few days later I walked into my room at Abraham Hostel after a brief stay in Tel Aviv, to see a new addition to our merry bunch perched on one of the lower bunks – and A. upon her with a fanatic glint in her eyes.

“So, I thought about death” she was saying “or pondered death…oh, not like that!” she stopped herself, seeing the bewildered look upon the lovely face of the newcomer.

“Hi everyone!” I exclaimed “I’m back!”

A. duly introduced us, and this is how I met Samira. As she told me later, she was awash with relief upon my appearance in the room. It distracted A. from impending Christian indoctrination, which was something that Samira, having just spent the whole day with a dude who claimed to be the second incarnation of Jesus, had really had enough of.

Samira, Bertrand and I went on a day trip together. We climbed the mountain over Masada at sunrise. We frolicked in a waterfall in the Ein Gedi reserve. We covered ourselves in mud and floated blissfully in the Dead Sea. And we had absolute ball the whole day long. We laughed, laughed and laughed. When the trip came to an end, we felt like we’d known each other at least several lifetimes; we didn’t want to part. “We make a good team” said Samira. We were giddy with the discovery: we’ve found perfect travel buddies at last.

Ah, the blessedness of meeting people on the road. You bond so quickly and so intensely. There is a fast track of sharing life stories and intimacy, necessitated by the demands of being in each other’s company and dealing with practicalities of travelling, 24/7. There is fierce beauty to these strong but fleeting connections. You know you’ll have to part soon, which allows your heart to open somehow more fully, to be more present and more giving.

The three of us went to the Negev Desert together. A hell of a trip! We formed a united front against a sexually frustrated voyeur Beduin that happened to be our host. The night under the stars was one of the most mystical experiences I’ve had up to date. So was the drive back to Mitzpe Ramon (six of us in a five-person car, Samira and I squashed together on the passenger seat) with a bunch of mad Americans (a pastor amongst them). Oh, maybe I’m pushing it a bit with the mystical, but it sure was very enlivening.

Bertrand and I travelled to Palestine. Twice. Again it was fun. And educational.

Samira and Bertrand went to Tel Aviv together. Not my story to tell, but I can vouch that fun was also had.

Now they’re both gone, back home, to their friends and stories. And Israel is not the same without them. These short few days were enough to recognize their beauty, their sensitivity, their inner wisdom and strength. Thanks for sharing, my friends. Keep journeying with open hearts. “God loves us”

Till we meet again.

Maybe this is what people are for? To be with other people.

Palestine Rocks!

2011-05-31T03:22:00.002+10:00

Post rap class in Balata refugee camp school

Entrance to Project Hope office

So there it goes: I've been living intensely, traveling, connecting with people and so on - and all my vows to write consistently are flying out of the window. There's a backlog of funny - and dramatic - stories writhing within my poor brain, and I'll need to get them out, or else some serious mental constipation - or implosion will follow.

Yesterday Bertrand (a fellow-travel junkie, whom I picked up on the streets of Old Jerusalem and to whom I bid a sad farewell last night) and I dared to cross the Wall for the second time; we visited a NGO - Project Hope in Nablus. We were honoured to meet and talk to the director of the project - Hakim Sabbah - as well as several employees and volunteers. I'm especially grateful to Sandy Marshall (former volunteer and current employee and PhD student, who's made Palestine his home), who dedicated a big chunk of his time to tell us about the situation in Palestine and answer the incessant flow of our questions. That was so helpful! We got to accompany Lynne - one of the volunteers to Balata refugee camp, to watch her run a rap class for a group of 11-12 y.o. boys. I returned very charged by inspiration and just as slightly overwhelmed by all the new information, which I'm still digesting like a boa snake its huge pray, so bear with me, and have a read below (quoted from Project Hope's website):

"Project Hope is a non-profit volunteer organization. We support children denied access to basic services that every child needs in order to develop into healthy and well-balanced individual. We provide educational and recreational activities, medical and humanitarian relief and practical training that can empower them with hope and skills for the future. We are currently working in Palestine, a nation where the majority of the population is age 18 or under and living under harsh conditions, making our work all the more important.

Objective - Children and Youth

The objects of the organization are to provide support and humanitarian aid for children and youth around the world living in areas of war, conflict, enlever and underdevelopment through the application of education, training, recreation and health-care activities.

Through alternatives to violence we are improving both the physical and mental health of our participants. We provide a venue for them to express themselves positively, release frustration, develop skills, engage in dialogue and build hope for the future. Our regular programs include language classes, drama and art. Our educational and recreational activities are provided in partnership with existing groups in the local community. In the spirit of cooperation and to save costs, we provide many different programs in partnership with different Palestinian organizations within the community.

We do our utmost to keep costs low and work efficiently. We do not want to waste money in an environment where money should not be wasted. This is one reason why we prefer to use other organization's premises and/or cooperate to create on programs, pooling our resources together. If a building already exists and can be used to organize an activity, and a basic infrastructure exists there, we prefer to supply the programs and human resources. We believe that working together is always a more effective model to effecting real change.

In Project Hope local Palestinians and Internationals work together. Local Palestinians and Internationals have the opportunity to participate in our programs, partake in the administration of the organization and be a leader of a program. We believe in Bottom-Up, not Top-Down development. This means international volunteers act largely as assistants while we aim for leadership at the community level. In this way we can better understand what the local problems are and make use of local innovations to solve them, while providing advice and know-how from outside.

Project Hope is a grassroots initiative helping ordinary people to make a difference. In our work, we value everyone, whatever their creed, religion, sex, color or class background. We feel everyone can make a positive contribution to the lives of Palestinian youth, and want to give everyone we can such an opportunity. We are doing our best to help what is becoming a lost generation and hold on to hope for a healthy, vibrant Palestinian society."

Or go to their website

I've been greeted warmly by Palestine. There were no suicide bombers in sight, but many friendly people eager for me to hear their stories were. Apparently one listens to many stories when living here. Some even make the hairs stand out. I want to hear them all. And share them. So I have to go back, I suppose. Any takers? ;-)

No longer disenchanted

2011-05-26T01:44:00.000+10:00

Sunset over the outskirts of Tel-Aviv

"Look at you now, you're disenchanted,
can't believe how things can change.
Take a little out of life and things get strange.
And now you find the wishes you were granted,
things you thought were in your hands,
have slipped away.
How much can you withstand?

The wasted time, the money spent,
a sign that reads 'For Sale or Rent'.
And everything is at a standstill,
and where's someone who'll be on hand till
you're no longer disenchanted,
thinking everything is wrong?

You know you're not the only one to wait so long.
I wonder, can you try again?
Are you that strong?" About the girl

I like travelling on intercity coaches. I like their sleekness and speed, the elegance they cut through ever changing landscapes with.

And I like how they make me feel. I like how these trips force me to be still and reflect. Observe the passing countryside; observe the passing of things. Memories come and go, when I'm on buses. Images long forgotten resurface again. Emotions flood through me in mad torrents, then seep through the pores: a sudden wetness on the cheeks, and occasional gentle hand of grace.

Just like today, on my way between Tel-Aviv and Jerusalem.

I think I'm dumb, or maybe just happy.

2011-05-20T21:17:00.000+10:00

Did I say how much I liked Abraham Hostel?

I like it too much. In fact, I may never leave it. I’m thinking of getting a chronic-volunteer visa, you know.

Exaggeration. But it’s cool, really.

Chilled out vibe, colourful walls, super friendly co-workers. The work is easy and pleasant, and their breakfast is actually quite nutritious. Blah blah blah.

What makes Abraham Hostel cool is also the apparent absence of drunken British 20-year-olds who populate Australian backpacker places like plague (not that I have anything against the British, the 20 year olds, or the drunks); most of the hostel’s patrons are middle-aged, and religious.

Take my two roommates: A. and B. are Canadian, middle-aged and super sweet. They greeted me heartily when I arrived. They asked many questions about my background and experiences, and they sounded appropriately gob-smacked by my answers. Then the ominous question was asked (by A., the more eloquent one):

“Do you believe in God?”

“I don’t know”, I responded according to the truth, trying to sound like I was genuinely seeking some truth that was "out there", as well as puzzled by my spiritual limbo, which I actually was a little.

“I see” said A. “Well, I’ve been there too. But then…I’ll never forget the day when I found Jesus”

“What’s up with that?” I thought, but then a long, passionate story of A.’s seeking and eventual conversion to Christianity followed – backed up by many quotes from the Bible – and I knew: A. and B. were looking for another sheep to join their herd. It’s a funny thing, that power of persuasion. But the end of the spiel I felt as if I’d been sucked into some kind of a void, my vision went blurry, my limbs grew weak – I even acquiesced to a prayer for my soul, which A. conducted curled into a ball on a bunk bed. The prayer was frank and ardent, and it actually melted something in my heart. But then I was fried. I needed to regroup almost as badly as I needed to pee.

“Remember, God loves you” called B. after me, as I was making my hasty retreat to the bathroom. This sentence, as well as too much sin talk (“Human nature is sinful”) already started to grate on my nerves, and I had a slightly ill feeling that A. and B. were going to grate me with them again. So far I haven’t been mistaken; I’ve been hearing it every day. What’s worse: I’ve started to believe them.

I also live with Richard (not his real name). He often plonks his great behind upon the bunk below me, making the bed shake and wheeze with exertion. Then he rants how his internet wouldn’t work, and how the Israel-Palestine conflict is to take responsibility for this. My introduction to Richard was less than sweet. He accused me of having malicious thoughts, before I even had a chance to form any at all. He’s obviously a soul in pain and I’ve been trying to break him by my kindness (offering to lend him my laptop, where the wifi is fine etc.). The progress is slow. I’m fearing I might be coming down with a slight case of Samarithropia* and it’s only been a few days!

Overall I’m intoxicated with Old Jerusalem: with its white walls, and ringing of the church bells and muezzins singing “Allah Akbar”, and the orthodox Jews rushing past in different configurations of pairs, groups and singles; all is happening at once as I stroll through the ancient paths, stroked by the warm, dry desert wind.

It’s just like one grungy, suicidal dude used to sing: “I think I’m dumb, or maybe just happy”.

* "Samaritrophia, hysterical indifference to the troubles of those less fortunate than oneself. Samaritrophia (…) is the suppression of an overactive conscience by the rest of the mind." (term coined by Kurt Vonnegut)

A lesson in history

2011-05-20T01:05:00.001+10:00

“A country is not just what it does—it is also what it tolerates.” Kurt Tucholsky, German essayist of Jewish origin.

So, Yad Veshem – the Holocaust Museum. Watching the footage of Hitler ranting and raving in the Reichstag and then passing through the streets of Berlin, thousands of people cheering on him, I couldn’t help but marvel (again) at the phenomena of this one man, who with his mad passion and charisma managed to ignite the whole nation; to inspire it with his idea to follow and commit things unspeakable.

Yad Vashem is a Jewish museum (duh!). It’s created and maintained by Jews, and meant for Jews to visit. Its focus lies in showing the whole spectrum of German persecution and annihilation of the Jewish race. The message is loud and clear: Lest we forget what was done to us. I’ve heard opinions that the post-war generation of Jews tends to make the Shoah their new religion and define themselves by it. No doubt there are people who take remembrance too far, but…but. Who am I to judge, really. See the museum materials and you’re reminded that a terrible thing had been done. It is also true, that we, human race, have an enormous capacity of sweeping things under the carpet, should the shovel and broom not be right under their noses. Howgh.

I’ll refrain from writing more, for the fear of getting into some philosophico-political discourse, which is way tedious and not the focus of this blog, but just so you know: this period in history and all that goes with it is a topic close to my heart, and my brain too.

Shalom Y'all

2011-05-17T19:06:00.000+10:00

So I'm here, in Tel-Aviv.

The flight was uneventful, except for zero sleep caused by freezing temperatures on the plane and the lack of blankets of pillows. Which I excuse, it was a so-called cheap flight. I'd brought my own little pillow with me, but it got pinched as soon as I left my seat to visit the bathroom. Oh and there was a little screamer two rows ahead of me wailing on top of his/her lungs for the two thirds of the trip. I tried to read the first page of my book for the eighth time, while darkly fantasizing about a world with no such little kids in it.

Yesterday I was resting a lot, as my birthday rolled in and out, thankfully sparing me the burdens of painful reflections on where my life is going. My family blessed me with sweet messages. The highlights were: the first swim in the Mediterranean, the delicious if way too big meal in a lively eatery in Old Jaffa; the evening walk through the street market - the narrow path between sleeping stalls overflowing with rotting food leftovers and other soot from the day. "If I weren't so sure we're in Israel, I'd say we're in India" said Shai brightly as we hopped over this pile or that. The fishy smell intoxicated, not in a nice way. Shai didn't seem to mind gorging on his Vanil Halva all the same. I stumbled and slipped on a heap of fish heads. I was mortified; my brand new shoes were soiled.

We had a ball and I learnt two new Hebrew words: eshkolit for grapefruit and rimon for pomegranate. Or was it the other way round?

I clearly can't write very coherently as I'm overwhelmed by the new; the smells, sights, sounds of Tel-Aviv, the crazy driving, people arguing vehemently on buses and streets, everyone minding other people's business. Yasss, delightful. I've just broken a chair by merely sitting on it (one leg collapsed under me, then I was on the floor, dazed and confused and with a sore bum), which is just a perfect illustration of how excited I am to be here.

How I became Slowacki for a day, suffering for millions in Jerusalem

2011-05-14T18:35:00.001+10:00

I’m one of these people who are capable of turning their life around in an instant. In other words, I have no problems making spontaneous decisions. Not much thought process involved before, and lots of “what the f..k was I thinking” afterwards. Sometimes.

Before Israel I was in India, awesome trip but it kicked my arse, as India does. At the end of my seven weeks I was so ready to leave, but still had some days to kill before meeting my partner in Turkey for the next leg of my trip. So with nothing much better to do, I booked a flight to Israel. As luck would have it, I arrived (after a 24 hour trip) in Tel-Aviv the day after Rosh Hashana, when the whole city was lulled by post-holiday decadence and sleep and public transport was shut of course. At the airport I met a Russian Israeli, who hailed a sherut taxi for us and apparently negotiated a deal with the driver. “Apparently” being a relevant word here, for soon after we departed, some sort of conflict between “my” guy and the cab driver sprouted. I didn’t even need to employ my long-forgotten Russian to guess what was going on: money. The driver demanding more than was agreed, my new friends rebelling, all that jazz. The tiff seemed to escalate with the speed of light, my companion betraying some truly evil temper. The cab driver kept turning around, waving his fist and barking back angry words. There was an unspoken threat of driving our car off the road and into a tree. Two older ladies who shared the taxi with us tried to placate the fighting males, but to no avail, while I sat stunned and mute, swinging between amusement and dull annoyance. Then our taxi driver must’ve found himself at the end of his tether, as he pulled up on the side of the road and ordered his opponent to get the hell out. And you know what: yours truly, as his assumed companion and therefore-partner in crime, was made to depart as well. Unfair!!! We were left on some road on the outskirts of Tel-Aviv. I remember saying to myself, wow, this is gonna be fun.

Fast forward several hours, I was safely installed at Florentine Hostel, not too far from Old Jaffa port. I’d met Rafi the owner – a chilled and mischievous bloke and did the usual preening and ablutions to bring my pitiful feral self back to the state of relative useability. Then it got dark and out on town I went to catch up with my sweet Israeli friend Shai* and his brother and brother’s son. Tel-Aviv that night was ablaze with lights, crowded with families and party-goers and bursting with music: an avid celebration of life against, and perhaps even despite all odds – and threats. It is most likely a city like many others (by which I mean dirty and obnoxious), but it felt like Kingdom Come that night, feeding my post-India starved flesh and soul with sensual feasts and blessings of good company. Shai and I stayed up long. We lounged on reclining chairs at a beach bar (psy-trance sound system behind us, the sea in front) and shared some kvetchy talk and shocking drinking stories. Numbness was leaving my body. The night was balmy. Life was cool. Everything was all right again.

I also recall an endless wait for an empty taxi to take me back “home” on

Elifelet Street.That’s where my memories go blurry, the night being late and all. I know I was somewhat hesitant getting into a cab, the traumatizing experiences from my earlier ride still ringing loud and true.

I awoke at midday the following day. For the first two minutes I had to ask myself where I was. Ever heard of refreshing benefits of sleep? Gee, I felt as if I’d been fed a gram of valium and my head was pounding with the nastiest of aches. Then Rafi barged in, in his hand triumphantly sat my passport.

“The German guys found it by the entrance. You must’ve dropped it last night”

“Holy shit” was about the only thing I could utter, disbelieving how my angels looked after me. “But…how…?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve done worse when I was pissed” the proprietor reassured me brightly.

“But I wasn’t!” I protested. I was livid.

Too late, my fame had already spread.

Florentine Hostel was a super cool place really, it has a massive terrace that served as community space cum bedroom for the guests that weren’t lucky enough to have beds. Shai and his brother still haven’t forgiven me for choosing a place in apparently seedy part of town and for being able to sleep in a roomful of twelve snoring fellow travellers, unperturbed by the smell of rotting towels and filthy socks spread evenly about the room by a staggering fan. Maybe they don’t know that I’ve slept in the bushes of Central Park in NY, strapped to by backpack once, and it was far worse.

I loved Florentine Hostel, and swapping travel stories with cool folks from all over the world, but I didn’t stay there long. Shai pretty much decided to delegate me from there; I gamely obliged. I spent the next couple of days with him and his family. I’ll spare you the details of what we did and where we went, but these were happy times, and meaningful too.

On day five I said hasty good-byes to my sweet hosts (and I was cut up with grief to have to do so) and hopped on the Egged bus to take me to Jerusalem, which I felt I needed to explore alone. I got to Old Jerusalem and basically never left it for the next twenty four hours or so, till it was time to go back west. I was overwhelmed by the city’s liveliness and its sandstone beauty, I let myself get lost in the narrow streets over and over again. I remember standing agape amongst the bustle of a crazed street market in the Arabic quarter; I walked the ramparts like a woman possessed, looking out to the great desert and olive groves outside, going back and then forward in time; I followed a pilgrimage of Polish Christians, grateful for the fleeting sense of belonging, then – I was alone again. At some point I discovered that my camera was missing, and that trite fact brought on some immense and unstoppable catharsis. The camera was a piece of crap and I couldn’t care less. But the photos inside…well they held some sentimental value to me. First I wept for the lost pictures; the next thing I was wailing for all human suffering – a crumpled wet ball of snot amongst the sun-drenched cemetery. I stuck my tiny bundle of prayer between the stones at the great Western Wall. It was there, surrounded by women crying, swaying and bowing in fervent prayer where I caught a hint, that my life was about to change completely. Again.

The following day. On a bus back to Ben Gurion airport. Well ahead of time. Wistful and weary from all the crying, but also calmer, relieved. Guess what: my adventures weren’t over yet. I fell aslumber on that bus, missed my stop, woke up with a start somewhere short of Haifa. Kicked up a fuss, made the bus stop, jumped out. Once again I was out on the street in the middle of nowhere, forced to hitch-hike. This time I was only slightly amused, in why-does-it-always-rain-on-me way. I darkly pondered the pros and cons of missing my flight to Istanbul and barely resisted the mounting temptation to jump out of the car again and march romantically in the direction of setting sun. So what a disappointment it was, that I made it to the airport on time after all!

Strangely, when I finally tore through the barbed wires of airport security checks, I was sure of one thing, it being: I wanted more of the same.

I spent six days in

Israel

. Riddiculously small amount of time, some of which I managed to waste, recovering from various jetlags and hangovers. Those six days only sharpened my appetites. New dreams were born: to spend a night on the Negev Desert, under million stars; to walk the narrow streets of the City of Fire again, marvelling at its history, complexity and madness.

I wish I was this sure now. I’m freakin’ nervous, that’s what I am. At the same time I kind of can’t wait.

*not his real name

Night is long and full of zasadzkas

2011-05-11T10:53:00.000+10:00

Photo: Courtesy of P.C.

It’s late at night, but the birds wouldn’t shut up, all too excited by the abundance of Spring in full bloom, fragrant and spilling juices and lust. There’s a lonely dog barking in the distance, a semi-dark night already bearing the promises of dawn, and one lonely mind inside with some fingers attached to it, tapping clumsily away at the keyboard. Mind you, I don’t really feel lonely right now, I only say it cause it sounds romantic and existential and seems to fit in with the mood of the scene.

Right now, at this very moment I feel oddly connected, loved even. I know that downstairs in the kitchen kidney beans are soaking up with water, in preparation for a yummy czulent to be made for my pre-departure dinner. Which will be served with Israeli kosher wine and shared with my parents tomorrow night. A curious bunch of judeophiles we are, I have to admit. My Dad, with his passion for history and unrelenting desire to ponder and discuss the complexities of Jewish-Polish relations across centuries; myself with my mysteriously acquired knowledge of the Bible, with my interests in music, customs, ethnicity and sense of community exuded by the members of the tribe of Judah; my Mum finally, who just goes along for the ride, but it’s a good ride and she enjoys it all the same – and she’s a great cook always ready to explore new recipes, czulent for example. My bro I don't know how he fits in there yet, but he sure did ask me many questions about Hebrew.

Philo-semitism aside, the dinner, the wine, the trips to Krakow and Auschwitz and the sea – my parents probably would never do it if I weren’t here. They’re doing it to see that cheesy little grin on my face, to have it spark again with excitement, to bring me back to the proverbial life. My parents are amazing, I know I’m repeating myself, but bloody hell it’s taken me 30 or so years to realize it, duh.

***

The night moves along, the sky doesn’t get darker, the birds still wouldn’t shut up.

I remember one of the last nights before departing from Australia earlier this year. The full moon drumming circle on top of the cliffs at South Bondi. How high and proud did the moon hang, casting its silver rays across the silent waves. How wildly and unabashedly I danced in the circle, surrounded by other ecstatic bodies. The drummers drummed, the fire-twirlers twirled, the winos wined, the stalkers stalked while the talkers talked, and so on, you know the drill – but altogether it was an awesome night, laced with magic, tinged with melancholy. I knew I was leaving. I was acutely aware of each moment. I wanted to remember

Australia

in its most symbolic and splendid guise – and the universe provided (or else I made the right choice of places to go).

After I left the party, and was walking briskly yet pensively down the cliff walk towards the bus stop, head full of longing and shit like that, I trotted past a group of teenage boys.

“Hi” called out the tallest and boldest of them “Could you…um… perhaps get us any weed?”

I opened my eyes wide, jerked out of my somnambulic state. There were three of them, the leader and two hangers-on. Their faces looked drawn and hopeful in the lame lamplight; they could’ve been thirteen, fourteen years old.

“ I – don’t think so” said I. I had to bite my tongue not too say “Aren’t you a little young for that?” but that was one of the phrases I’d promised myself to never utter.

Awkward silence. Moving right along.

“So, what you up to tonight?” asked the leader, desperate not to forgo the little connection he’d won with me “Getting wasted?”

“ No no and no. Too old for that. Bye!” And off I went.

I was smiling amusedly; also because I realized that I managed to say something unoriginal after all. Not for the lack of trying.

Beautiful night to remember Australia by.

***

Ooops, dawn is here. How did that happen? Nighty night!

If I were a drinker, I could have a boyfriend by now

2011-05-08T22:01:00.000+10:00

At my physiotherapist’s. I lie supine, he prods at my biceps. He’s a tall, brooding type, a bit like Angel from “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”, except less boringly handsome. As he spins the tale of how he used to come to work zonked out on fado music, his eyes have that faraway look of a complete goner. He talks to me as if he knows me, even though we only met last week. And he abuses the word ‘romantic’.

‘Do you drink alcohol Smilla?’ he asks out of the blue, as he continues to expertly stick his fingers in my trigger points, sending hot needles of pain down my arm, which is kind of nice.

I wait him out a bit, let him prod some more, but I can’t help smiling.

‘What kind of question is this? And what’s it got to do with the work we’re doing?’

‘Nothing. But I just had a moment of terror there, when I realized that you might be an abstinent.’

You’ve got to love Poland.

***

Ah the interminable days of Miss Smilla. Lots of nonsense and picking at my pimples. Occasional glimpses of some terrible beauty and madness. Catching the obscured absurdities and hilarities of life on a fishing rod of my observations, as I stand aside, chewing my hair. Waiting.

We all hate it, but still we have to

2011-05-08T08:55:00.000+10:00

Small Talking

We are in a car, stuck in a traffic jam in front of a railway crossing, somewhere halfway between Walcz and Poznan.

Piotr was supposed to be my navigator. But he kept on fiddling with his new camera and filming the road signs rather than reading them, so we got lost. Twice. I was hoping that Marta would help, but she just keeps to herself in the back seat, silent like a church mouse.

It’s rapidly getting dark. I’m running late for a dinner with my brother’s sister-in-law’s husband’s parents.

Earlier on I silently grumbled against having to carry the burden of starting conversation with that autistic duo. But. I’m bored stiff.

“Do you know that my brother got married?” I say to Piotr in a pleasant tone.

“No I don’t” He sounds obnoxious, or maybe just indifferent.

“And you don’t seem to give a shit either”

“I do give a shit! No, wait, I don’t really. Is it this Agnieszka he married?”

“Yeah. You’ve met Agnieszka”

“I’ve seen her once. I remember when she came down the stairs when we were watching TV. Wearing a nightie!”

“It was the middle of the night you moron. You’d rather she wore a ski suit? You used to prance around the house barely clad in nothing but boxer shorts yourself and it was in brightest bright of the day”

Piotr doesn’t respond, unfazed. When I glance sideways, I can see the left corner of his mouth twitching.

“Remember how Chunky was going nuts then?” I go on “In Ela’s absence that is. Barking and

running berserk as if she were rabid?”

“That I do”

“Poor Chunky ain’t with us anymore you know. She apparently passed on last year but I found out only recen…”

“But Ela has a child now” intercedes Piotr

“Which means…she doesn’t need a dog?” Well. “It’s true, she used to carry Chunky in her arms everywhere as if she were a baby…”

“At least the child won’t cark it on her so soon”

“It wasn’t SO soon” I protest “Chunky lived the whole ten…”

“Piotr!!!” Marta’s shocked voice from the back seat flogs our ears. I’ve completely forgotten she was there.

“Marta! I’ve forgotten you’re even there.” says Piotr.

“Sometimes when you open your mouth…it’s hard to remember that you’re this supposedly evolved, compassionate, sensitive human being” Marta is shy, but when she speaks, it is with cunning sweetness. Or is it sweet cunning?

“Who, me?”

“Piotr speaks in pure poetry” I chime in.

Piotr grins openly now. “Now look who’s talking.”

He’s all warmed up and wants to keep chatting. I’ve achieved my aim, but Marta’s shriek and her stolid words have had the effect of a bucket of cold water poured over a hot head. They’ve put me back in place; reminded me who the oldest in the group is (me) and who, therefore should set the moral compass – and show the way.

So I try.

(this happened a while ago)

An Incomplete List of Things I've Learnt In The Last Five Months

2011-05-06T20:13:00.000+10:00

An Incomplete List of Things I Learnt In The Last Five Months:

1) Deeds really do bear consequences

2) The consequences more often than not turn out to be in exact opposition to what we expect or desire

3) Contrary to some popular new-age beliefs, we aren’t always able to create our own reality. There are occurrences that our stuck-up minds simply cannot control. Learning to surrender comes in handy than.

4) Impermanence of phenomena is a FACT, not just a flashy slogan-material to quote to one’s lovers for the sake of sounding cool. And, impermanence HURTS like hell.

5) Not to take things for granted. Cliched much? Not to be the arrogant, up myself, nonchalant – and naïve- bitch who acts as if the world should tiptoe around her.

6) As per continuation on more positive note: to be grateful for what you’ve got.

7) To appreciate my family’s selfless love for me and generosity.

8) One has a relentless capacity for falling down and getting up again. A blatant strength of spirit, or potential for survival,

9) And you’ve got to keep trying.

10) Antidepressants are a crap cure for grief and loss, but

What I Am Hoping To Learn (Soon):

1) Time is DA (healing) BOMB (tinged with good amount of soul-care).

Alas.

Stalking a pigeon

2011-05-05T23:30:00.001+10:00

"Kardelen pauses, and enquires, "Do you know what is the most difficult thing in the world?"

Rustem Bey scratches the side of his nose and replies,

"Stalking a pigeon."

Kardelen looks at him as if he's gone mad, and the aga explains,

"They always see you, and they always fly off."

"I see," says Kardelen, curling her lip. "I suppose I wouldn't know about such...country matters."

She pauses for rhetorical effect (...)" Birds Without Wings, de Bernieres

This year's blog, it better last.

I'm not eaxactly sure how many of them I have created and then abandoned mid-sentence in the abyss of the web, as I inevitably got bored or ran out of things to say. But this one, oh, it's a serious cause. Blog with a purpose. A travel blog. Of sorts. I travel quite frequently, or so some seem to accuse me of. For me, of course, it's way to rarely. When I'm on the road, I usually torment my love-me-long-time friends with lengthy group e-mails filled with descriptions of places only I find captivating, or situations that noone but me has considered amusing. From now on, I'm gonna dump it all here.

Enter Israel. I'm going there in 2 weeks. Yay! Reasons for going:

Reason 1: I have some time to kill and no clue what the hell else I could do.

Reason 2: I really want to get some volunteering under my belt.

Reason 3: "Jerusalem, if I forget you, let my right hand forget what it's supposed to do"

Reason 4: I honestly deserve to have some fun...and hang on, why do I expect to find joie de vivre in a religious land threatened by wars such as Israel? Intuition? Cellular memory? Cognitive-behavioural conditioning? Yep, that one. I've been before and fun was had.

What happened to the first half of the year anyway? Honestly, it's been some seriously crappy times. I fled Sydney at the end of February, just as the sticky heat was about to turn my brains into pudding. I gave my boss 3 days notice. I didn't have to worry about my flat thank god - I had been homeless for nearly two months by then. My love relationships dissolved, my career burned out, I was exhausted and unhappy - depressed even. Oh and did I mention the heat?

So I boarded the plane and crossed the (metaphorical) 7 seas to enscone myself in the safe coccoon of my parents' home in Poland. Right back into the womb. My parents have been fantastic. I've had no obligations, no money stresses, but abundance of time to sulk and feel sorry for my messed up-self. In consequence I wallowed in depression for as long as I could, until one day I woke up so bored with myself, that I got up and said ok let's get on with it.

Or something.

Ever since, I've been trying to love myself a little. It's like stalking a pigeon, as it keeps flying off when I get a bit closer; but, you know, I keep trying.