הבן שלי בא לבקר

He has arrived.

Eight months after I told my son good bye at the Toronto airport, eight months after moving across the world to Jerusalem, Michael came to visit, or as I've been saying in one of the Hebrew phrases I've mastered, "הבן שלי בא לבקר"



I've been anticipating the visit so long, so keenly, that I made myself sick; headache, anxiety, tears, obsessive cleaning. Yet when he came down the walk, smiling, cool as a cucumber, I relaxed completely.

He was completely relaxed, though tired from traveling after a day that would have sent my anxiety meter soaring.

How did I get such a great -- thoughtful, calm, kind, sweet, easy-going -- son?  What a blessing!
What else would get me to sit down and "blog"(a practice I dislike)?

Yet my sense of gratitude, of wonder, of love is so great that I must put proverbial pen to paper.

It's 8:45 Friday morning in Jerusalem, and I have not rushed off to the pool and the farmer's market, my usual pre-Shabbat routine. Instead, I sit outside and muse, because Michael's here.

Look -- up on your screen: It's a cat! It's a screen! It's a blog post!

Yes, I know, it's been six weeks since I posted; six weeks of living my life. It's surprising how quickly the new and unusual has become routine.

Today is nothing but routine. It is Yom YaAzmut - Israeli Independence Day. The modern state of Israel is just 68 years old - not that much older than I, and look what this tiny country has accomplished.  Even in the midst of my daily routine, I look around me in wonder at the beauty and harmony in which we live.  Yes, we are surrounded by enemies. Yes, we are the most reviled state on earth, yet life here is so sweet, so joyous, so united.

So on this day with no ulpan, I sit on outside with my iced coffee, my laundry drying, my flowers blooming, and oh! I got myself both a passion fruit plant and a honeysuckle and am at last creating
my dream terrace.
 

Last night, I heard the Jerusalem Symphony Orchestra play Hatikvah, the Israeli National Anthem, and I my heart swelled. Don't misunderstand - it's not a fairy tale. Yesterday was Yom HaZikaron, when we remember those who died for Israel, and in the afternoon I sat with a friend whose son was killed fighting that we might live.  She wept.  His loss, even after all these years, filled the room and I thought about all the empty spaces left by the 24,000 who died for us.

24,000 - just that we might exist.
I stand with Israel.

This week

"Where've you been, Susie? Your brother was worried."

There's an 8 hour time difference between Jerusalem and East Texas, home to my brother, Andrew, and his family. They are early to bed and early to rise, leaving a narrow window for FaceTiming: 2-3pm Jerusalem time.

Not once was I home at that hour.

One day, I had study group. Twice I was at the pool.

Another afternoon I spent waiting for a routine test at Hadassah Hospital.





(Waiting - the universal language).








Another afternoon, I went bed shopping.  Friday afternoon, I visited a sick friend, then rushed to prepare for shabbat, which had been delayed by the Jerusalem Marathon.

So, not home.  Not in danger. Not ill. Just busy, which is good.

The most important thing I can share this week is by Farhana Rahman, an American Muslim, who describes the miracle that is Israel. Farhana, take it away. 

The lay of the land

Shalom chaverim - Hello friends

Three and a half weeks since I arrived and I am still busy, busy, busy.

The daily challenges of being an immigrant -- I can't say that it's a steep hill to climb. It's more like a rocky path that winds through craggy hills. You're up, you're down, there's an unexpected ravine, a steep slope, a U-turn, then suddenly a meadow.

Monday night, I smelled something burning.  Not the hotpot. Not the stove.
Last summer, the same burning smell meant that Arabs were burning the forest. This time, they were burning part of East Jerusalem

My musing about the smell and the unreported destruction was interrupted by a phone call from Macabi, my kupat cholim (HMO). They had scheduled a next-day appointment for me with the rheumatologist, making me as giddy as kid with a new toy. As some of you know, I have a chronic illness -- a well-managed chronic illness. I need to keep it well-managed and I was only able to move to Israel because the specialized care I need is available.  Last week I'd been informed there was nothing available until mid-May and here was manna from heaven

One hill climbed. Another lay ahead; my late-in-life claustrophobia which rears its head on crowded buses (the preferred method of travel to Tel Aviv).
Next day with Bach's Rescue Remedy under my tongue, I made it to Tel Aviv safe and sound, and found my way by city bus to the clinic.

There I took a number and waited, anxiously. Given the language barrier and my anxiety, the appointment went well, and I came back to Jerusalem with written (in Hebrew) orders for a slew of tests.

With help, got those booked, and got back to the business of full-time ulpan.

I-N-T-E-N-S-E. Working so hard to recognize every letter and every word. To read fluently. To write accurately. To speak correctly. To keep up with the class. To find your place, in class, on the street, in Israel.

This morning, at the post office, I saw a hand-lettered sign on one of the windows and slowly sounded it out: "Sagur". Closed.

The meadow. I'd reached the meadow.

Like clockwork

Every Friday, like clockwork, the blessing of Shabbat. Work ceases, devices are turned off, and we have a real day of rest.  In Minnetonka, I celebrated Shabbat with rituals, both religious and social; but there was no sea change. Life went on, uninterrupted.

In Jerusalem, everything changes. Work stops. Offices close. Stores are shuttered and roads are empty.  Even here, at Bayit Hatsfera, things have quieted down. No ulpan today - and it's a different ulpan this week.

I switched from Ulpan Morsasha to Beit Ha'am, the biggest, oldest Ulpan in Jerusalem. Word on the street was that Beit Ha'am was too academic. On the contrary, I am finding it livelier, more engaging and practical than Morasha. My classmates, all new olim, are from Colombia, Brazil, Argentina, Ecuador, Ethiopia, India, Ukraine, France, Kyrgystan, Russia, Belgium, France, England, and South Africa.  Jews from Colombia, Brazil, Argentina, Ecuador, Ethiopia, India, Ukraine, France, Kyrgystan, Russia, Belgium, France, England, and South Africa.

Mind-blowing.

Ulpan is four hours a day, five days a week, and there is no getting around it -- it is a haul. Yes, learning is fun, but there is a ton of new information coming at you for four hours each day.  Just sitting on your behind for four hours is a haul.

In addition to which, I've continued my olah hadasha bureaucratic tasks. So many hoops to jump through, so many tasks to complete. So, yes, I was glad today was Friday, erev (the eve of) Shabbat.

House, clean. Dishes, washed. Flowers, on the table. To one and all, near and far, Shabbat Shalom.

Company

A key part of my vision for my life in Jerusalem was company - family and friends coming to visit. That's why it was so important for me to find an apartment with a real second bedroom, not a tiny afterthought.

And this week, I had my first company.  My brother, Marc, and sister-in-law, Debbie, were in town for a convention, and I was delighted to see them here.


They didn't stay with me as they had already booked a hotel and I've not yet bought a bed for the guest bedroom. Nevertheless, it felt so haimisch to have them here.

Debbie came back the next day while Marc was in meetings. We sat and talked, looked at family pictures, and simply enjoyed the day, even as the sounds of drilling and repairs by handymen in the apartment swirled around us. 
We never had the leisure of these one-on-one visits, away from children and work, in Minneapolis or Milwaukee. But over 60 in Jerusalem - apparently this is the good life.

Erev Shabbat

I raged. I wept. I prayed. I asked God, "Why?"
Then I mopped.

Yesterday, 21 year-old Tuvia Weissman was stabbed to death buying dessert at his neighborhood grocery. Shopping with his wife and baby, he and another shopper were attacked because they were Jews by teenage Palestinian terrorists.

How am I supposed to react? What am I to do with my rage and sorrow?
So after praying, I mopped. Shabbat is coming, and regardless of what happened yesterday, must be observed.

When I went out on my Shabbat errands, I saw a city full of people doing the same: picking up challah and flowers, greeting friends at the shuk, enjoying a half day of blissful sunshine. The coffee shops were and markets were full, the playgrounds filled with children and families. The joyous hustle and bustle that proceeds Shabbat in the city of David stops for no one.

Until 2:00pm when the shops close and families go home to prepare.  Now it's quiet and I, too, have come home - הביתה;-to write, to muse, to prepare for the Shabbat Shalom we wish for Israel and the world.

I'm in

The new place. The permanent place, the at least-two-years-with-an-option-to-renew place. It's two-level renovated place in the old building with the blue windows and door. Mine, for now.



You approach through a blue gate and amble down a walkway of Jerusalem stone to my blue door. Inside is peace and quiet and a mess, as I unpack my clothing and belongings. Rubber bands and plastic bags, the detritus of packing, are strewn everywhere.



Yet the miracle is that 22 hours after moving in I am sitting here writing. WiFi is connected, devices online. I've paid my realtor, enrolled in my  kupat cholim (HMO) - I've even done a load of laundry in the mysterious European washer and dryer.

Without ice trays, there's no ice for iced coffee, and due to some mechanical glitch, there is no hot water. There are ice cube trays at the hardware store just 3 blocks away* and the handyman has been summoned.



Tomorrow, I'm told, the new sofa arrives, so ulpan is delayed another day.
לאט לאט   Slowly, slowly, as we say in Hebrew.



*I've already been to the hardware store twice today, once to buy my granny cart (how we transport groceries in a walking city), and once for lightbulbs.


And, naturally, a postscript: Just met a neighbor on her way to a new apartment around the corner who explained why I heard Pharrell Williams "Happy" loud and clear both today and the day I first saw the apartment.  It is used as the bell for the school around the corner. (To think, I was worried I had a bad neighbor.)

Monday Monday

So good to me.

Started the day dashing to Ulpan Morasha to have my Hebrew evaluated.
A day early, as it turned out.
But no problem. Places to go, forms to fill out; so, hand-in-hand with my best friend, google maps, I headed back to the Ministry of Absorption for formal intake with my Absorption counselor, Avigail, who told me about additional rights and benefits as well as additional forms and ministries that will require time and visits.  Ah well. Onward and upward.

From there I fumbled my way to the nearest Macabbi Clinic, my kupat (HMO) of choice. So proud to have found the right place with the right paper in my hand, I accepted with a sigh the news that I needed to come back tomorrow to get myself in the system.

From there to the Central Bus Station to get a Senior Citizen mark on my Rav Kav card, entitling me to half price public transportation and all kinds of discounts. (In the U.S. 60 may be the new 50, but in Israel 60 makes you a senior citizen. Take the discount and run.)

A quick lunch followed by a return trip to the bank where I walked right in and told the banker I was there for checks and a credit card.  "OK," she said.  Ha!

Then, with a wee bit of anxiety, off to my new apartment for final lease signing, walk through, and what turned out to be a lovely exchange. With my realtor translating, my new landlord told me about the beautiful new sofa - with fold-out bed - he'd ordered, as well as his plans to make the apartment as beautiful and comfortable as possible.

After bussing back to my temporary digs,  I got a phone call from the bank telling me MY MONEY HAD ARRIVED!  YAY! HOORAY! YEE HAW!

I stepped outside on the balcony where my neighbor, folding laundry, told me about the dangerous drive to her in-laws and added, "It's dangerous here, too. Aren't you scared?"

And just like that, I was. I caught it like virus. My mood plunged and I stepped back inside to collect myself.  I decided I had to go outside, so I walked purposefully to the Shuk to buy bananas. I did not want the fear to defeat me.

It didn't. I'm ok. I called a new friend who reminded me there is danger  -- of different kinds -- everywhere. I was comforted and calmed.

And to return to my theme of Monday being so good to me, I finally got connected with the Internet company who will come to install it Wednesday morning.

Here is the hamsa above the door of my new home where I will be safe and protected.

So today - a glorious day of 70 degree sunshine - I'm riding home on the bus from my day of new immigrant tasks (visits to multiple ministries, hour long waits, bureaucracy up the wazoo, setting up accounts, signing documents, additional banking snafus) when a series of emergency vehicles race by. First one, then another, a third, a fourth, a fifth. I gasp. A terror attack. It must be, because there's not a fire truck among them, just police and Mogen David Adom (Israeli Red Cross).

Nothing on twitter. Nothing on The Muqata (the Facebook page that tracks terror here). I return to the unending business of paperwork, phone inquiries, language barriers, impenetrable websites.

Just now I checked The Muqata and there was, in fact, an attempted stabbing in the Jerusalem neighborhood of Talpiot. Thank God the victim was unharmed.  But I was right. The sirens meant there had been an attack. That's life and sometimes death here.

You don't know about it because you don't hear about it. The media doesn't report it.  All you hear is unceasing vilification of Big Bad Israel, most evil nation on earth, apartheid home of oppressors who must be boycotted, sanctioned, stabbed and, yes, driven into the sea.

That is the recurring message of the Palestinians; in their schools, in their media, in their homes.

You don't see that. It isn't reported, because you've been BDS'ed (Bamboozled and Distracted, Shamelessly) by the most successful propaganda campaign in modern history.

Ah well.  Life goes on here. Except when it doesn't. But I have Hebrew to review, internet to install, and paperwork to do.



Ministry of Immigration

Shabbat

And peace begins to descend over Jerusalem.
A week of hustling in a new city, a new language, a new culture. Seeking housing, banking (don't get me started on trying to transfer money here), buses, connections: all those small battles have left me weary and in need of the peace promised by Shabbat.

When you live here, you begin to take the Shabbat cycle for granted. "You mean every city doesn't revolve around the day of rest? Chicagoans, Latvians, Chinese don't gleefully race about Friday morning doing Shabbat prep?



The 'Shabbat shalom!' greetings that begin  Thursday? The bakery tables loaded with challah and shabbat delicacies? The Saudis, the Vietnamese, the Irish do not have this? The Scots, the Dutch, the Minnesotans don't ease peaceably into the start of Shabbat as buses and noises and hub-bub stops?"

No. It only happens here. It is lovely to sit at a sunny window overlooking this beautiful, eternal city; to be a part of my people in the one and only Jewish country in the world; and, to ease peaceably and blissfully into the peace of Shabbat.

Coffee and dessert

Every day is a blur of new experiences, words remembered, exchanges fumbled or finessed.

A troubled sleep last night in my lumpy bed wondering whether the apartment I saw was "the one"; whether to jump or hold back, whether I'd live with regret or happily ever after.

Nevertheless I went out to face the day, walking on Jaffo in search of a place for coffee with wifi. Having found it, I ordered my Cafe Americano gadol (large black coffee) and read my news feed. As I walked home, I decided to solve the coffee dilemma in my temporary digs. Every home I've seen here has an electric hot pot to boil water for coffee.  Every home but this one, which lacks even teapot or microwave to boil water. So I stopped into an electronics store to price hotpots - 80 NIS ($20) and up, I was told. Then I stopped into the discount store, Max and found this one for 40 NIS.
Tomorrow morning, I make coffee. This afternoon I'll see a couple more apartments with the agent. Yesterday's German Colony renovation will be hard to beat, but I am trying to be smart. At the same time, these chilly cramped digs have me itching for a real home. Here's a snapshot of this building. I'm on the top floor, upper right with the Israeli flags.

תרגם דף זה

See you later. .להתראות (lehitra'ot - leh-hit-rah-'OHT) 
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It is now later and again, the day was so full I am back with a postscript; in this case, dessert.  After seeing two more apartments with my realtor, I returned to the one I saw yesterday and decided that it was, in fact, "the one." We drove to the hair studio of the owner, Ayal, and talked terms, Ayal in Hebrew with my realtor translating. So the charming spot on Hatsiferet Street is mine. I live in the German Colony. 
After that happy conclusion, I met a friend I made last summer in ulpan who save me Chanukah sufganiyot and then we went Israeli dancing. 
A dream apartment, sufganiyot and dancing.  That's dessert. 

במושבה הגרמני

Coming Home

I thought I'd chosen the shortest cycle on the washer; instead, it seems I picked the eternal cycle.

Apt for a woman who has moved to Jerusalem, the eternal city.  Twenty-four hours in, I've had a relatively soft landing. In a world full of refugees and mass migrations, you could call it cushy.

My move was planned, carefully plotted, with step-by-step assistance from Nefesh B'Nefesh. And I was coming home to the land of my ancestors.

Day One passed in a blur, flying with my mound of luggage from Minneapolis to Toronto, where I had a sweetly emotional lunch with my son. Then 10 hours via El Al to Jerusalem. Processing for me and three other olim at the airport relatively painless - that's what a year of paperwork preparation will do. 

Going to bed in the chilly flat heated only by a space heater seemed to me a bad omen, yet I awoke sufficiently refreshed to start the day; coffeeless, though, as there is no coffeemaker and I don't understand how to start the portable burner. Nonetheless, I went about town, ordering coffee-to-go in Hebrew, loading my Rav Kav card for the month, picking up an Israeli sim card for my phone, adapters for my computers, a cake for my neighbor, and bananas for my cupboard.

I popped in the laundry, fed myself, set up voicemail and recorded my welcome message including the number in Hebrew. Big deal? Yes, for me.

Now I sit in the sunshine with the view of Jerusalem - and look -- my laundry, too.  I am home. 

Post-script: Discovered I had left my IPad somewhere in my wanderings. Retraced my steps through the shuk, where the bakeryman told me to kiss it goodbye. Found it waiting for me in the hardware store. Miraculous.