Transition

Thursday, January 22, 2009

The final day at Netavim started in a quintessentially Israeli manner: we lined up for the morning flag raising, only to find out that “the flagpole is broken.” There was no explanation, even though the flagpole looked pretty good from my vantage point. In any case, we were sent from our formation directly to the warehouses.

My colleague, Russell (the orthopedic surgeon from Massachusetts) and I continued painting yellow lines on the warehouse floor, and were able to finish our assigned duties before lunchtime (and before we ran out of paint) with only moments to spare. It’s amazing how your standards can change: two American professionals were really proud of the way the painted lines looked!

After lunch we returned our army clothes, blankets, sheets and boots to the quartermaster and then cleaned the barracks for inspection. Happily, most of the items were returned properly (although one of the volunteers seems to have made off with a hat), and the deputy commander was pleased at how clean the rooms were. (Success!)

We then boarded a chartered bus for Tel Aviv, and timed it perfectly in order to hit amazing rush hour traffic. (I choose to view it as an example of how well Israel fits into the modern world: how many countries can boast of bumper-to-bumper expressways?).

From Tel Aviv we arranged a sherut, a shared taxi that took us to the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem. Continuing our “planes, trains and automobiles” adventure, we then got a cab – and a chance to bargain with that unique band of thieves known as Jerusalem cab drivers:

“Palatin Hotel.”

“Thirty shekels.”

“Put on the taxi meter.”

“No. Twenty-five shekels.”

“Put on the taxi meter.”

“No. Twenty shekels.”

“OK.”

Once inside the cab, the driver wanted more money to carry the luggage. Then he decided he wanted to turn on the meter after all. I declined both invitations, and he was not a happy camper. He continued to complain bitterly about the amount of traffic he had to negotiate, and then stopped at a building on Agrippas Street which, he claimed, was the address I had given him for the hotel.

I got out of the cab but couldn’t see a sign for the hotel. After repeated protests, the driver asked someone for directions and learned that, in fact, we were nowhere near the hotel. I was happy I stood my ground.

About a mile later, we reached the hotel and I gave the driver 20 shekels. I’m not sure whether he was unhappy about having to go further than he thought or about having gotten outbargained. Probably a bit of both. My companion, Ellis, told me he was proud of the way I dealt with the driver. I let him know that this was not my first time at the rodeo, and that dealing with cabbies in Jerusalem is something of an art. (I didn’t tell him that my lifetime winning percentage in this arena is still well below .500.)

The Palatin Hotel is a small operation in a 19th century building about two blocks from Ben Yehuda Street, a large pedestrian mall in downtown Jerusalem. After dumping the luggage and changing into “acceptable” clothing, I found a much more accommodating cab driver to take me to visit my first cousin, Alan, who lives in a Jerusalem suburb.

Some background: Alan is my mother’s nephew, and was raised in Paris. (My mother’s family returned to France after spending World War II in Cuba; my mother, who married my father in Cuba, went to the U.S.) Alan became very religious and moved to Israel to raise a v-e-r-y,
v-e-r-y l-a-r-g-e family. In total, there are 15 children, including three sons and 12 daughters. There are 20 grandchildren right now, but that number is probably rising as quickly as the national debt.

When Ellen and I first met Alan in 1982, the family was living in a two-bedroom apartment in the Old City of Jerusalem. The children were stacked up like chickens, and the place reminded me of the stateroom scene in Night at the Opera in which Groucho keeps inviting more people into the room until it bursts.

Things have changed considerably. Alan and his family now live in a spacious 10-bedroom apartment in Ramat Shlomo, a neighborhood of religious families. The neighborhood even features an exact replica of the world Lubavitch headquarters building at 770 Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn. Even though it was nearly 8:30 p.m. and dark, the neighborhood was bustling with people, including hundreds of kids running around and riding bicycles. The community was apparently built for the specific purpose of housing large religious families, and seems to work very well.

Alan is a member of the Breslov sect of Hasidic Jews, followers of Rabbi Nachman of Breslov. (The Breslov Hassidim were traditionally known as the “Totenrebbe Hassidim” (the “dead Rabbi Hassidim”) because they never appointed a new leader following the death of Rabbi Nachman, an 18th century scholar. That distinction has become somewhat blurred because the Lubavitch Hassidim did not appoint a new leader following the death of Rabbi Schneerson in 1994.) Alan continues to make his living translating religious texts from Hebrew into French, and appears to live quite comfortably.

Several of the children have moved away from home, but the apartment continued to be abuzz with Shimon, one of the sons, and at least a half-dozen of the daughters. Next time I visit I’m bringing a scorecard.

Alan and I had a wonderful discussion, ranging from the trials and tribulations of our respective families to whether President Obama is really a Muslim. (Many Israelis and, I suspect, quite a few Americans, still have difficulty getting over his middle name. When I remind Israelis that the Obama’s first name is the same as the last name of Israel’s defense minister, things get a little better … but not much.) The attitude reflects a genuine concern over whether Obama will prove to be “good for Israel” or not. I prefer to believe that yesterday’s speech, and the appointment of Senator Mitchell, are both hopeful and positive signs.

My relationship with Alan remains very special, and it’s the kind of friendship that we can pick up exactly where we left off in spite of the passage of years in between. We exchanged e-mail addresses and I hope to maintain regular contact, albeit electronically.

David is scheduled to pick me up tomorrow to tour the City of David excavations south of the Old City, and then I’ll have the privilege of spending Shabbat in Jerusalem before returning to the Army.