Going to Israel (2)

On Monday, I arrived in Israel for the first time in my life after so many years… decades… of waiting, hoping, praying.

I came alone.

I knew it was going to be emotional. I knew it was going to be intense.

I was prepared… or so I thought.

It was like being prepared to be hit by a bus… compared to actually being hit by a bus.

When the plane touched down in Tel Aviv, I began weeping. [1]

I could barely stand. Other passengers grabbed their carry on bags and headed out. I was in a daze.

I made my way through a blur of tears. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I moved as if in a trance. Was this really happening? Am I in one of the thousands of dreams and daydreams I’ve had over the last 30 or 40 years?

I was nervous about being questioned by Israeli authorities. Who was I? Where was I from? Where was I born? Why was I coming to Israel? Was I Jewish? A Jew with an Italian name? Were my parents Jewish? Did I convert? What rabbinical court converted me? My daughter lives in Israel? She immigrated to Israel? Where does she live? What is her address? Is this my first visit? What prayer does a Jew make when he embarks on a trip? Recite the first line. Do I wear tefillin? When do I wear them? When do I NOT wear them? What was the Torah reading for last Shabbes? What’s the Torah reading for next Shabbes? Was I married? Did I have an aufrufen? Did I read from the Torah? What was the Torah portion? Can I recite the first line from my haftorah portion? What holiday is coming up in 2 weeks? What book is read? Recite the blessings that are read before the book is read. Can you read the first few lines from that book? Do you know the melody that goes with that reading?

I had heard so many stories about Israeli security. I was nervous. I stepped up to the customs officer and handed her my passport.

“What is the purpose of your visit?”

I explained that this was my first visit to Israel and that I came to see my daughter who made aliyah (i.e. emigrated to Israel) a year ago.

“Where does she live?”

I told her she lives in Ramat Gan.

“How long are you going to be in Israel?”

I said I was staying for two weeks, returning on February 25.

The customs officer looked at me for a few moments, sizing me up.

She smiled and handed me back my passport and told me to proceed to baggage claims.

I walked to the baggage claim area and searched for my luggage. A plain black suitcase. My dear friend (and international travel guide) Tracy suggested I attach some brightly-coloured masking tape or cloth to make it distinguishable. I found it. Both wheels were broken off.

I extended the handle and dragged the suitcase behind me as I moved out into the main lobby. I felt numb. It all seemed so unreal. I couldn’t help feeling that I was going to wake up at any moment.

A tall handsome young man with a wide smile. Tomer. My daughter’s boyfriend. He waves and comes to me, giving me a big warm tight hug.

And then I see my beloved daughter. I’ve not laid eyes on her in over a year.

I cry again. I can’t help it. Tomer helps me with my crippled suitcase.

We walk out into the fresh air. I breathe it deep into my lungs.

I’m here. I feel I’ve finally come home to a place to which I’ve never been before.

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[1] Actually, I started crying as soon as I heard the landing gear lowering. 

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The National Relationships Board

I recall being in a big city law library years ago and seeing four freshly-minted and most attractive young female lawyers. It was a Friday afternoon and I asked what wild and woolly plans they had for the weekend. They said, “nothing much.”

Nothing much?? No dates? No being taken out to restaurants and movies? No romantic weekends somewhere, far away from the drudgery of the law?

The general consensus among that sad little group of young ladies was that guys of their vintage were either intimidated by intelligent successful women or their tastes drifted toward the ‘easier and skankier’ members of their sisterhood. Guys their age tended to follow the path of least resistance, both intellectually and sexually.

(Why is she working Friday night instead of going on a date??)

I was agog and aghast. This situation, rather widespread according to that mopey little gaggle of girls, could not be allowed to continue. It was an outrage. An affront to common decency. Steps of some sort needed to be taken.

The need for Big Brother to step in and take things firmly in hand was obvious. Thus, the idea for “The Board” was born.

I have long believed that there should be some kind of government tribunal… The National Relationships Board or The Federal Dating Tribunal… something along those lines.

Guys… and by this I mean otherwise decent, appropriate and eligible young men [1]… would be hauled up before the panel to account for themselves as to why perfectly lovely, charming girls aren’t being taken out on dates by decent boyfriends who treat them right.

(You got some ‘splainin’ to do, son!)

Very severe penalties would be handed down to those who cannot give good reasons as to why so many gorgeous girls are left standing on the relationship sidelines.

Any guy who could not provide a good excuse (let alone string together a grammatically cogent phrase) would be dealt with in the most severe manner.

The Tribunal’s motto… Pull Up Your Pants; You Look Like an Idiot!

Naturally, I would be head of the tribunal because I see on a daily basis how so many wonderful young ladies are reduced to putting up with rude, crude, thoughtless, heartless, brainless morons. And that’s when they can find guys in the first place!

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[1] There being a glut of inappropriate guys and an apparent dearth of good guys, the Board would concentrate on the latter. As a girl can’t swing a cat without smacking some loser with it, The Board would concentrate on the eligible yet clueless within the pool of available men.

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Why I Miss The South (Part 8): “Sir” and “Ma’am”

If you’ve spent any time in The South, I’m fairly confident that you will have heard your fair share of “sirs” and “ma’ams,” and in a culture and society where civility and common decency… let alone chivalry… are becoming all but extinct, this is breath of fresh air.

Etiquette… manners, for lack of a better word… is still taught in many segments of The South.

In polite circles, gentlemen still stand when a lady enters the room. Gentlemen nod with perhaps the slightest of bows when they take their leave of a lady. Doors are opened for ladies. Chairs are pulled out and tucked in. “Ladies first” rarely needs to be said… it is a given.

The old saying is that if a woman’s car breaks down at the side of the road, all she has to do is lift the hood and stand by her car. Not 5 minutes will go by before some gentleman… even a truckload of them… will pull up and offer her a hand. My dearly beloved friend from Arkansas, Danielle, confirms this. “Hell… they LIVE for that kind of stuff!”

In grocery stores, gentlemen routinely allow ladies to go ahead in the checkout line. If a lady needs a shopping cart (or buggy, as they are often called), a gentleman will offer to give her his own.

While not born or raised in The South, I’ve adopted the practice of calling just about everyone Sir or Ma’am. I get mixed reactions, to be sure. Some girls think it is quaint or cute. Some women take it as a remark that they look older than they are.

One lady, I believe at the post office, smiled wistfully and said to me, “I can’t remember the last time someone called me Ma’am!”

She patted my arms and said, “Don’t ever stop doing that.”

I do not intend to!

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Why I Miss The South (Part 6): Flirting

I’ve given this a lot of thought and have come to two conclusions.

One: most people don’t know how properly to flirt. This is because…

Two: most people don’t know what flirting is.

Flirting is as complex as it is fundamental.

Flirting is about communicating with a person through a careful procedure that involves a little curiosity, a bit of brevity and laughter, and some meaningful glances and smiles. While it can be aggressive and obvious, I personally put this overt style of flirting in the ‘hitting on someone’ category.

To me, flirting is quiet and subtle. A look that lingers a moment longer than it otherwise would. The tiniest of smiles. The most seemingly innocent double entendre or Freudian slip. A meaningful exchange of glances in reaction to what a third person says. The most subtle of body language. Ideally, only the most observant of bystanders would even know there was any flirting going on at all.

One popular fact that gets tossed around a great deal is that scientists believe there are as many as 52 “flirting signals” used by humans around the world.

I don’t know how or where the scientists picked up such information but speaking strictly for myself the Number One Undisputed Capital of Flirting, bar none, is The South.

There is something about the flirting that goes on south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Flirting is not merely a skill way down yonder in the land of cotton… it has been elevated, refined and transformed into an Art!

It is through the art of flirtation that people in The South experience the pleasures of interacting with the opposite sex.

Flirting can be a means by which to get into a relationship, of course. It is certainly an enjoyable way to get to know someone initially.

But to me, flirting is an end in and of itself. It doesn’t have to lead anywhere else. To me, flirting is its own reward.

And when flirting with a Southern Girl… the rewards are immeasurable.

It’s been 12 years since I went down to The South. It’s been 12 years since I’ve experienced Flirtation as Art.

Nothing compares. Nothing comes close.

I miss it.

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Why I Miss The South (Part 4): The Stars and Bars

One of the things I miss most about The South is the Stars and Bars.

Otherwise known as the Confederate Battle Flag. [1]

Now I am mindful of that fact that this particular flag is a controversial image. There have been protests and petitions trying to get the Stars and Bars removed from state flags and even to stop flying the flag on schools, government buildings and other public property.

I’m not a part of that history. I wasn’t born in The South. I’m not even American. The baggage associated with the Stars and Bars is something I don’t carry. I can have positive feelings about that flag because I can pick and choose the things with which I associate it.

And I am the first to admit that my associations with the flag have virtually nothing to do with reality and everything to do with a fictional romanticized concept of what I personally feel the flag and The South was, is and should be.

I am sometimes met with a mixture of righteous indignation and moral outrage on this subject. “How would you feel if someone expressed positive feelings about the swastika and Nazi Germany?” Truth be told, I probably wouldn’t feel too good about it. That’s probably because I have a connection to that symbol and what it means.

But all that doesn’t seem to have any effect on me when it comes to the Confederate Battle Flag. Maybe it should… but it just doesn’t.

All the times I’ve been down in The South… all the people I’ve met and befriended… all the places I’ve been to while I was there… all have been positive experiences for me.

When I think of The South, I have nothing but good memories and good feelings. When I think of The South, I remember friends and loved ones.

When I think of The South… I picture the Stars and Bars.

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[1] Also known as The Confederate Naval Jack.

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I’m Sorry… What’s Your Name Again?

I have memory problems. Specifically, I have a problem remembering people’s names.

Which is why this article at ScienceDaily.com caught my eye.

The article begins, “Most of us have experienced it. You are introduced to someone, only to forget his or her name within seconds. You rack your brain trying to remember, but can’t seem to even come up with the first letter. Then you get frustrated and think, “Why is it so hard for me to remember names?”

All these years, I presumed I had a faulty or weak memory. I was relieved to find that this may not be the case at all.

It appears that lack of interest, not the brain’s ability (or lack thereof) may be why we forget!

According to Kansas State University’s Richard Harris, professor of psychology, it’s not necessarily your brain’s ability that determines how well you can remember names, but rather your level of interest.

“Some people, perhaps those who are more socially aware, are just more interested in people, more interested in relationships,” Harris said. “They would be more motivated to remember somebody’s name.”

This goes for people in professions like politics or teaching where knowing names is beneficial. But just because someone can’t remember names doesn’t mean they have a bad memory.

“Almost everybody has a very good memory for something,” Harris said.

The key to a good memory is your level of interest, he said. The more interest you show in a topic, the more likely it will imprint itself on your brain. If it is a topic you enjoy, then it will not seem like you are using your memory.

This explains a lot, really, since I generally find most people singularly uninteresting.

It’s not that other people are somehow unimportant or that their lives and problems are invalid. It’s just that they don’t interest me, usually. There are exceptions, of course. Rare ones.

The general rule, however, is that most people I meet are a dusk-to-dawn snooze-a-thon.

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Loonies I Have Lunched With (Part 5): CW & the Orange Smile

Years ago, my beloved friend, CW, and I were sitting down to dinner.

We’d met not long before and were still very much in the ‘getting to know each other’ phase of our relationship.

Things were going very well. We were both quite fond of one another. Conversation was light, entertaining and quite enjoyable. We shared many things in common and were very much ‘on the same page’ when it came to most subjects.

One of the things we had in common was a love for Chinese food and this dinner featured several of our favourite dishes.

We were enjoying dessert. I began to tell her a story from my misspent youth. I looked down at my plate, marshaling my thoughts. When I looked up, judge my surprise when I saw my beloved CW sporting an orange smile.

(Not CW herself… but a reasonable facsimile of the Orange Smile)

She caught me in mid-sentence… which I suspect was her intention all along. I just sort of stared at her as she sat there, eyes twinkling, with her large orange peel grin.

For a moment or two, I didn’t know what to make of this turn of events. While CW had a wonderful sense of humour and could joke and kid around with the best of them, I had to confess that this little piece of schtick caught me unawares.

 I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help myself. It was just so ridiculous… so hilariously stupid. How can you NOT love an orange smile, especially one sprung upon you so deftly as this one was upon me.

(Still not CW herself but this one is well executed. Note the coquettish tilt to the head. Excellent!)

CW later confessed that the expression on my face when I first looked up caused her a bit of concern. Apparently, rather than registering disbelief, the old mug had a ‘this girl’s a loonie’ aspect to it. Fortunately, CW is a bit of a loonie but in the nicest possible way.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever told her this but, to me, Chinese food is now inexorably linked with the image of that orange smile … so much so that I have been known to chuckle in the middle of having a spring roll or hot and sour soup.

When asked “what’s so flippin’ funny?” I can only shrug and shake my head.

“You had to be there,” I say, sheepishly.

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Loonies I Have Lunched With (Part 4): LFD & the Chopsticks

A very dear friend of mine, LFD, likes sushi.

LFD and I quite often work in the same courthouse.

There is a wonderful sushi restaurant around the corner from said courthouse.

Put the three above statements together and it was not long before LFD and I decided that steps of some sort ought to be taken.

OK, so there I am, across the table from a hungry, little (and I do mean LITTLE… LFD is about 4’11″, I believe) Irish girl who is trying to figure out how to eat with two sticks.

With a bit of coaching, her first attempt went fairly well.

The second attempt… not quite so well. One of the chopsticks flew out of her hand and landed at the next table.

The third attempt… well, not really so good either, with some sushimi ending up on the floor.

“Can I get you some cutlery?” I asked, watching her lean down to retrieve her chopsticks from under someone’s chair.

“No… no,” she said, gamely, accidentally catapulting some wasabi across the aisle and into a young lady’s Diet Coke. “I’m keen to learn new things.”

I suspect more food ended up in our nearby surroundings than in her mouth but she was unfazed and undaunted.

I’m afraid LFD and I became the restaurant’s cabaret entertainment that day. The owner wanted us to come back and do two shows each evening for the next two weeks. We gracefully declined.

I suppose it’s just a matter of time before she and I go back to that restaurant.

So if you should be sitting down ordering some nigiri or norimaki and two people walk in who look oddly like Santa Claus and one of his elves from the North Pole… that would be us.

Do not be disturbed or concerned. Sit back. Relax… and be prepared to be amazed.

Also, please do not try this at home. We are professionals.

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When Old People Beak Off (and why I love it)

Ever been within earshot of elderly people when they are in mid-rant?

I don’t know what happens to older people when they reach a certain point in their lives. Perhaps old age loosens inhibitions, kind of like drugs or alcohol but without the knowledge that tomorrow, everything will be back to normal and you’ll be in your twenties again. Maybe they are just so damned tired of it all.

Don’t ignore what they are saying. Tune in. Catch a few gems from what is left of the minds of people who have been around so long, they remember when there was only one World War. [1]

I remember an aunt who took me aside one day and said, perfectly seriously, “Never marry a French girl! You’ll spend the rest of your life eating out of a can!” To this day, I’ve never been in a relationship with a French girl. I’m not sure that ready-to-eat tinned food had anything to do with it. I don’t think so, anyway.

I also had a grandmother who held some pretty crisp views on Orientals. I use the world ‘Orientals’ because said grandmother did not distinguish between the Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, Vietnamese, Thais, etc. In fact, she may very well have been surprised (and more than a little disturbed) to hear that there were more than one kind of Oriental. To her, they were all “i cinese”… pronounced “ee chee-NEH-seh”… i.e. the Chinese.

To be honest, I sincerely doubt that my grandmother ever met an Oriental person, Chinese or otherwise, so I am not altogether sure how she came by her strongly-held beliefs. But she was not loathe to expound on the subject, believe you me.

So, next time an old person goes off on a tear on one topic or another… e.g. an uncle of mine complains about the government full-time… give a listen. You’ll probably not learn anything new but see if it doesn’t make you think about what you yourself will be harping on about when you are in your dotage.

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[1] BTW: In case you never thought about it, it was only called World War One when people figured out we better start numbering them. Before then, WW1 was called The Great War or simply, the War. NB: To people in The South, “The War” refers to the American Civil War (i.e. the War of Northern Aggression).

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Loonies I Have Lunched With (Part 3): Rendezvous at Sadie’s Diner & Juice Bar

If I ever need to set up a quick, informal yet special rendezvous with someone near and dear to me, I choose Sadie’s Diner & Juice Bar in downtown Toronto.

Sadie’s is on the northwest corner of Portland and Adelaide streets. One block east of Bathurst and two blocks south of Queen Street West.

My dearly beloved friend, CC, introduced me to the place when she and I set up a lunch date just before she moved to Toronto from Ottawa. As an extra bonus attraction, CC brought along her daughter, EC (aka CC Jr, aka Volume 2).

My darling CC is the one you can blame for getting me started with this whole blogging thing. She herself is a top-knotch writer and I have often encouraged her (i.e. nagged her) to send her writing to The New Yorker. I feel her writing is as good as most of the Shouts & Murmurs articles I’ve read and enjoyed at the back of the magazine.

The get-together with my dear CC was my first time at Sadie’s Diner and CC was right on the money about choosing that as the perfect spot. She and I had a wonderful get-together and I sincerely hoped that EC wasn’t too bored out of her mind.

A few months later, when my own daughter (Exhibit One) and I planned a bit of a downtown rendezvous, I immediately suggested Sadie’s. Once again, it was the perfect choice. She and I sat at a table near the front window. The service was wonderful, my daughter loved the food and the atmosphere and I had one of my best times with her.

She thought the place was just wonderful. One of the things that simply tickled my daughter to death was a plastic cow milk dispenser.

(Exhibit Two’s favourite milk dispenser. Note my wallet absent-mindedly left on the table)

Together, we carefully plotted my daughter’s emigration to Israel at that tiny little table. I am sure that in due course, I will arrange a clandestine meeting with my son, Exhibit Two, and begin plotting his emigration to Israel. I have no doubt that he and I will meet at Sadie’s Diner, hopefully at that same little table near the front window. That spot has brought me much luck in the past.

The good times I’ve had there have endeared Sadie’s Diner & Juice Bar to me. It holds a special place in my heart.

Sadie’s is cozy, informal, yet at the same time very chic and hip in a quirky downtown way. Each time I’ve been there, it has been a wonderful experience shared by those nearest and dearest to me. But take some free advice on this subject… don’t waste Sadie’s on ordinary, average, dull, boring people. Save it for the quirky, exciting people in your life. Share it with that special friend who is the artist, photographer, writer, adventurer, actor or just the one that’s odd and weird but in a good way. Save it for that certain loonie in your life without whom you simple cannot do.

I have promised another dearly beloved friend, AC, a get-together in Toronto. She too is a most talented writer and would, no doubt, get a kick out of Sadie’s. I am long overdue for a face to face tête-à-tête with her.

AC has recently threatened to interview me and I feel I should take her up on her ill-conceived offer. I am in favour of and try actively to encourage reckless behaviour in others and I want to show my support however and whenever I can.

So next time you are in the Bathurst and Queen neighbourhood… or even if you just want to plan a lunch downtown with that special beloved oddball in your life, I recommend Sadie’s Diner.

I’ve never regretted it and I am sure you won’t either.

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Sadie’s Diner & Juice Bar

504 Adelaide Street West

Toronto, Ontario

M5V 1T5

 

416-777-2343

416-77-SADIE

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