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.
