This Year in Jerusalem (well, almost)

On the plane from Kiev to Tel Aviv I sat wedged between an elderly Ukrainian woman and a young curly haired Israeli in Tie Dye responding to an e-mail correspondence asking what my favorite part of my favorite city, New York, was. Saved as a draft awaiting an Internet connection, I almost immediately rewrote it by the time I settled into my bed last Sunday night. Perhaps the fact that I have spend the last three months surrounded by monotonous Soviet buildings or the cold weather of the Caucasus (or the fact that no one here has questioned what ‘being Kosher’ means) is to blame, but Tel Aviv has inched its way closer and closer to New York’s exalted place in my mind. Of course nothing will replace the feeling of leaving a Yankee game high fiving people I don’t know or grabbing a slice of the pizza and sinking my teeth into sweet sauce and savory crust. Yet, Tel Aviv is an incredible city. Each section, much like New York, has its own distinct personality. Neve Tzedeck, where I have spent this past week with relatives from France, is an old neighborhood with richly renovated flats lining the narrow stone streets that overhang with lushes gardens. Its main arteries are clogged with petite Parisian cafes serving up a modern mixture of sushi, falafel, and gelatos, Israeli fashion designer shops with quirky crafts and run way cature, and art galleries filled with sophisticated canvases of old men in Kippas.

 Only a few blocks away is a restored district of Bauhaus houses, known as the White City, built in the late 1920s and 1930s by both local architects and immigrants from Europe. Stark white washed facades line the wide promenade with geometric faces and functionality in the smallest of details. Walking in the opposite direction one happens upon Jaffa, the original town as ancient as civilization’s history (the solitary rock that stands among crashing waves off the port is said to be where Andromeda was chained in Greek mythology). The olden rocks intertwine to form a maze of walls, hidden arched doorways, minarets, and gardens of bright orange and purple flowers. Even the more urban parts of Tel Aviv seem beautiful with parks and monuments penetrating the corporate towers. And, finally, all this moves towards the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, which completes the utopia with crystal clear waters, sandy (and free) beaches, and a boardwalk lined with fruit juice stands, parks, and even a lane for bikers (a far cry from my summers at Belmar, though to be honest wading through the waves did make me long for some DJais cheese fries and the porch of a certain 19^th Ave apartment).

But what really puts this city in the running with the Big Apple is the people. For the first time in months I see bright colors (no, not my current hue of red but in local attire) and diversity: the single ethnicity that crowds the streets of Tbilisi and Yerevan save for a lonesome foreign diplomat is replaced with men and women of all races and religions. There are Ethiopian Jews and Philippine Christians rollerblading, a male couple sitting together on a bench overlooking a serene sunset, lubavitches in tall fur hats buying water next to a tall girl with pink hair and a tattoo across her back. And, in contrast to those Caucasians I have left behind, when I smile on the streets people smile back, and I even make a friend with an Arab environmentalist who also enjoys a run at seven each morning.

Prying myself from walking the streets and absorbing its energy, I spend my first pesach in Israel, finally making Next Year in Jerusalem a reality (well, almost). We join twenty other fellow Frenchmen in a private hotel room for our first seder, done entirely in Hebrew. Though I miss wearing a Boston hat for the Wicked son and answering questions for ‘I’m an Egyptian, now get me out of here!’ while charocet circles the table, this year’s seder is filled with my cousin Victoria teaching me Who Know’s One in Hebrew and swallowing a long string of bitter herbs (Herrmann family- if you thought our ‘big chucks’ were bad wait till you see the size of what I ate).  Once the four questions were asked and all our hand washing was done we began on the meal, a buffet, and on conversation, in French, about everything from the differences in American and French universities to Justin Beber’s recent visit to Israel. Despite me hoping this is not the last Passover spent in my homeland, these seders will truly be something I will never forget.

While not busy holding a shank bone above my head or hiding a piece of matzah in the hotel I find my way to the Palmach Museum, wherein I took a vivid and interactive journey following eleven freedom fighters of the Palmach from 1941 to 1948 through desert battles, celebratory camp fires, and sobering grave visits. The Palmach was the elite fighting force of the Haganah, the underground army of the Jewish community) during the period of the British Mandate of Palestine, and though the stories told are of fabricated soldiers the emotions one leaves with are very real. I also visited the Tel Aviv Museum of Modern Art, where I found halls filled with wonderful Degas and a large collection of Chagall combined with a rarely impressive exhibition of contemporary figurative paintings; a few days later I biked North to the Eretz Yisrael Museum, a large outdoor expanse of archeological sites, Jewish folk dress from Morocco to Uzbekistan, Roman mosaics, wine presses, an Israeli postal history and coin museum, and even a planetarium- in essence an entire Smithsonian within in one city bloc. Friday morning I accompanied my cousins to the shook, or the market place. The narrow street, hidden from the sun by awnings, is flanked with everything anyone could possibly need: fish heads lay on ice next to a mountain of fresh strawberries and passion fruit as vendors yell their prices; the sweet aroma of spices flow from enormous bowls of blue, red, and yellow seasonings while all of Tel Aviv frantically scans the stands for a few last minute dates or avocados for tonight’s feast. 

As Shabbat fell onto Tel Aviv, extinguishing lights in lofty apartment buildings and halting the busses that usually bustle along in bright yellow, I found myself looking out from a balcony at a breathtaking view in Jaffa, in the oldest part of the city. The sea rushed calmly onto invisible rocks beyond the sand colored city walls as distant hotel towers stood solemnly against the blackness, leaving an ominous neon reflection in the dark waters. Looking below, I watched a single candle being lit through the darkness of a church window. One by one, pious faces came into sight lit by a warm glow until the entire interior was basked in a dance of orange and yellow flames. As the figures took their seats in the pews, the bell tower sprang to life with a droning wail, soon to be joined by a nearby Imam calling from an unseen minaret. “Even the sounds are fighting each other.” My eyes peel from a little girl bowed in prayer towards the host of the evening, our Kiddush cup and Matzot waiting for us just behind the ajar door. I watch as he too looks down at the church, listening to the bell echo off the Imam’s melodious chanting.

If asked what first came to mind when reading about my runs with Mohammed, surely the first thing for many is that he is an Arab and I a Jew; the fact that we are both environmentalists with pessimistic views towards a comprehensive and multilateral climate change mandate is at best a second thought. Either by society’s nudge or our own human characteristics we tend to highlight differences rather than similarities; the media is perchance the guiltiest of this practice. This past Thursday hundreds of demonstrators took to the streets of Tel Aviv to sign a declaration for an independent Palestine. The media broadcasted footage of those against the demonstration holding signs with ‘traitors’ and ‘Jewish Nazis’ screaming against white cardboard as men and women marched peacefully in the backdrop. What they failed to mention was the diversity of both groups: artists, soldiers, Sephardics, Ashkenazis, Arabs, and all else in between were present, pushing aside their vast differences to rise in unison. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict may be as distant to a peace accord as an understanding on environmental initiatives is between Green Action and The Patriot at Lehigh. And yet, I cannot help but find some hope in the cooperation I see between individuals I thought could not possibly find even a favorite food in common. The Do Touch theatre in Neve Tzedeck brings together those who see the world through their fingertips and those through their eyes for a common vision. The Israeli PETA stands at the corners of Yitzack Rabin Square, both Arabs and Jews with pamphlets in hand. Even the soccer game broadcasted on the beach of Real Madrid against Barcelona brings English, French, Hebrew, and Spanish speakers together to scream at a missed goal. If we open our eyes a bit wider, perhaps we will realize that in a region seemingly overflowing with disagreement and differences, similarities, and collaboration, are actually all around us. Bundling my scarf around my neck and turning towards the Shabbat table I respond to my host’s comment. “No, not fighting. They’re in harmony.”

            

Pride and Preconceptions

“Does anyone know Farsi, or Arabic?” is not the welcome phrase I was expecting to receive at the border of Armenia after taking the eerily long walk in no-man’s-land between the Georgia checkpoint and Armenian territory a few hundred yards further down a remote dirt road. And yet, as I neared the post, clutching my passport tightly, I was met by a British couple frantically searching for help as they motioned to two confused Iranian travelers. Pushing my visa papers to the side of the counter, I took the pen and began to translate (rather roughly) their form into Arabic and managed stumble through a conversation on their names, vocations, and reasons for travel until the paper was filled with crossed-out scribbles and (hopefully) the right answers. Thanking me, I parted the Persian pair and boarded by marshuka for the remainder of my six hour tightly packed ride through the mountains of the Caucasus towards Yerevan. 

Breathing for what seemed like the first time in centuries, I embraced the city air, found a taxi, and took in my first impressions of this vibrantly ancient nation.  Yerevan is at once both more European and more Soviet than Tbilisi. The winding and haphazardly placed cobblestone roads of my old home have vanished and been replaced by wide, paved avenues reminiscent of Parisian boulevards with shops and cafes lining the sidewalks. The city is absent of dark underground walkways, but instead has traffic lights (I believe I counted six in the entirety of my time in Georgia) and pedestrian crosswalks where traffic actually stops for walkers rather than speeding up.  The large patio surrounding the Opera house is littered with outdoor cafes and magnificent fountains, where one can find both young and old enjoying the spring weather. Nonetheless, the enchantment of time gone by is missing in this urban jungle; there are no jewels of 19^th Century verandas or ornate doors leading to long abandoned buildings here. Instead, the bland social realist architecture and Soviet apartment blocs overpower what little structures are left of the years years ago.  Where Russian store signs in Tbilisi have been repainted with English letters many fronts in Yerevan still hold testament to what this quaint city once was.

Though walking through the streets reminded me more of a mixture of a modern European capital and the grit of the Bronx with an uncanny touch of big brother, the palaces that hold the treasures of the past have given me a vast and brilliant view of Armenian history from the first civilization up until their last political election.  A visit to the National Armenian History Museum my first day provided the foundation for the excursions to come with highlights ranging from the first leather shoe all the way to the folk crafts and traditional dress of Abstract Expressionist Arshile Gorky’s home town. Likewise, listening to ancient tales, medical remedies, and discoveries of medieval astronomers from our guide at the Matenadaran, an ancient manuscript library, created a rich world of Armenian society from parchment and ink letters. As always, finding comfort in the aesthetics of canvases and marble I made my way to far too many art museums. Sauntering the galleries of the National Gallery of Art, I was surprised to not only find Armenian artists but also works of Caravaggio and other grand masters that had made their way into the recesses of this hilly expanse. Discovering the masterpieces of local artists like Sarian and Paradjanov, imbued with the dignity and ingenuity of this great people, gave me a further appreciation of this new culture. The first’s museum, hidden behind large, metal doors on a forgotten side street, was filled with bright palates and bold compositions evocative of Gauguin or Manet, while the latter was a quirky house adorned with collages of Soviet dolls, broken glass, and faded plastic bottles, in essence windows into a tormented and dramatic life of movie-making, oppression, and prison. Eventually, I happen upon an abandoned factory turned Contemporary Art Center, where I marveled at life-size Lipton tea bags, photographs of countrymen with no teeth, and an immense pacman-like ball of crumpled newspaper until I found someone who spoke English to interview about the center’s and Armenian contemporary art’s remarkable narration. My museum trekking concluded underneath a windy plateau just outside the city. Growing up reading Night in Hebrew School and forever conscious of the number on my grandfather’s arm, taking in the starkly dark pictures and unsettling government letters of another nation was, peculiar. There were no video clips or artistically choreographed lights that lit up the towns affected by the Armenian Genocide. Rather, pictures hung modestly on concrete walls accompanied only by the number of lives, villages, and churches stolen before their time. As I ascended back into the light of day, gazing out over a breathtaking view of Mount Ararat forty Kilometers inside modern Turkish territory, I realized that though the names and faces may appear foreign, the emotional toll was the same as my trips to the Holocaust Museum in DC or Yad Vashem.

My educational excursions were supplemented by an evening at the Opera watching grandiose hieroglyphics come to life on the notes of Aida and an afternoon in the presence of abstract figures festooned in fantastical donkey heads and stretched pieces of tie-dyed fabric at a pantomime performance. I have, quite obviously, packed a tremendous amount into a mere week in Armenia, and plan to do the same in the weeks to come as I make my way to Morocco. Exhausted from the day’s travels, I search Internet blogs or flip through Lonely Planet guides attempting to see and do everything that is physically possible. As I bored each plane/train/marshuka to reach my next destination (often running to make it in time complete with pajama pants flailing and backpack breaking- I would do well on the Amazing Race), I muse over the monuments and manuscripts that await me. However, as I gave my last teary-eyed hugs and looked down at the drawing I had been given this morning, the Cascade and Republic Square were the farthest thing from my mind. My week in Armenia was not incredible because of the paintings seen, nor will I look back on my time here with fondness because of the olden khatchkars piously solemn in a country church. Instead, my host family, exceptionally gracious relatives of my Lehigh professor, is what made Armenia come to life.

Walking the city streets with Anahit and her friends Anna and Sona, eating Gelatto, talking about the difference in American and Armenia traditions, and explaining everyone from Mashtot to Tomunyan are the memories I will cherish forever. Learning how to say ‘nose’ and ‘I love you’ in Armenian from little Sona and playing charades (I still think that my tree looked much better than the act of camping) have given me friends that I know will withstand an ocean. The conversations that accompanied Armenian herbal tea, sweetened strawberries and apricots, and countless other traditional dishes, though the latter surely put on a few pounds, gave me something I could have never received from labeled photographs or crafts behind dusty glass. The day before my departure, we took a trip to my Professor’s parent’s village. There we ran through rows of just blossoming trees, ate Barbeque with lavash in the smoke-filled yard, and listened to passionate and loving toasts to each member present. When most of us travel, we often focus on the ‘big’ sites underscored by the Travel Channel or in guidebooks, or at least I certainly did as planned these next few months of exploring. Too often we view a vacation as a destination of museums and ruins, forgetting that it is a still living place bustling with a dynamic society that offers arguably more cultural insights and meaningful experiences than any designed exhibition. Thus, as I look towards the cities still unchecked on my itinerary, visiting the Acropolis or the Western Wall have been replaced by enjoying the company and friends to be made at the top of my list. 

Great Expectations

The term ‘going native’ is defined as when a non-local takes on, fully or in part, the characteristics of their current environment in terms of attitude, dress, accent, or other cultural traits. One would think, or at least I did as I left my father and sister at the airport three months ago, that such a short time in a foreign country couldn’t possibly merit the attainment of that phrase. In earnest, I have lived in Bethlehem for the past three years and have certainly not taken on a Pennsylvanian drawl (although Sara and Kate you both have accomplished infiltrating my perfected Jersey accent with hints of Chicago and Long Island) nor did I take on the DC attitude when I called our capital home for three months last summer. I landed in Tbilisi in January with an opened mind and a sincere yearning to immerse myself in all that Georgia had to offer, but I was realistic in that three months could only afford me so much of a cultural experience.

As Friday night descended on Tbilisi with rain clouds and a chilled wind from the distant mountains, I sat impatiently in the back seat of my taxi, eyeing the surrounding traffic with irritation; I questioned why my driver wasn’t cutting off the car in front of us, or crossing into the opposite lane as a car continued to drive at us head-on, to get around this build up and get me to my destination quicker. Leaving my frustration in the holes of the frayed backseat, I briskly found the closest underground tunnel to cross the street. Though entirely black save for a dim light at the other end and despite the sounds of indistinguishable figures eerily reverberating against the graffiti walls, I walked with ease and without fear down this now familiar path. This time choosing the right door at the Pantomime Theatre (though I was tempted to go back stage again just to see if they remembered me), I took my seat to a silent performance that proved to be just as awe-inspiring as the last.

The play told the story of a Christian and Muslim hunter who befriend each other in the mountainous region of Svaneti in a time as old as the hills of its backdrop. The actors leaped into action as animals of the hunt and men swayed rhythmically to the sound of beating drums as the rocks of cliffs or the walls of a hut. The Muslim invited the Christian back to his home village, where the neighbors soon ascended upon his hearth and brutally beat the guest for his Christian community’s actions towards theirs. Their arms struck with such elegance that only the gruesome expressions of their victim reminded me I was watching torture rather than a performance at the NYC Ballet. I watched as the guest was hung on an invisible rope and left to be picked at by bird-like men; the host too fell victim to the prejudice of his elders, as did his wife after a compassionate plea for tolerance, in a moment of sheer theatrical ecstasy. As I began my walk home, I thought of how the aesthetically striking themes of religious strife and territorial integrity seemed far too relevant in the wake of my travel plans to Israel.

Despite the rain’s crusade on the city throughout the weekend, I hiked up a close-by hill to Tbilisi’s Ethnographic Museum to explore the cultures of regions my adventures failed to take me to. Each house I visited was an authentic building brought from that specific region and furnished accordingly with a guide to help visitors along. I marveled at the architecture of each home, intricately carved from wood to form ornate patterns and religious icons, and learned from the various objects inside what life was like according to specific regional traditions. I explored an ancient basilica and the catacombs underneath to discover elaborate tombs of stone horses and forever solemn knights. Each guide told us stories from that village, but also about their own history. We were told stories of the Soviet black market, of attitudes on President Saakashvili, on their trips to America, and even an anecdotal tragedy of a cat, a restaurant owner, and a shotgun. I was able to supplement the tour points that didn’t translate into English to my companion with information that had become second hand in the months that I’ve lived here. I related how this region is famous for this type of cheese and how that region is primarily Islam and its history of Turkish invasion.

The rest of my weekend was filled with wondering the streets of Tbilisi for the last time. I visited my favorite bakery down below an abandoned building where I no longer need to tell my order. I strolled along the Dry Bridge where vendors of everything from Soviet gas masks to fine china sets are carefully sprawled out on blankets. I went to my last performance at Rustaveli Theatre, a monologue play by Camus entitled Le Premier Homme (perhaps fitting as I look forward to spending my summer in the Maghreb). I visited my newly made friends at art galleries, contemporary art centers, and the Academy of Arts for one last cup of tea and emotional goodbye with promises of keeping in touch and, perhaps, one day meeting each other again (which, surprisingly, one friend is spending two months in Bethlehem this summer!). I ordered my last Khatepuri at my now local eats with those friends I have made during my stay, and for the last time met the familiar faces of the wait staff at my favorite café who know me as the girl with the pink laptop who they hope will return.

It seems strange that the next time I sit down to write my next post I won’t be sitting at my desk looking out over the city scintillating with orange lights under the guard of distant mountains, with the sweet smell of burning garbage and the symphony of stray dogs and fruit sellers floating through my opened window. I remember my first time driving down to Old Town, frightfully clenching the fabric as I watched the taxi swerve in terror, or struggling to remember the word ‘stop’ in Georgian. The first time I stumbled upon a dark underground passageway with uncanny old women with veiled faces I practically sprinted to the other side as if I was still running suicides in tennis practice. My time spent here in Tbilisi has been too inspiring and incredible for these mere words to do it justice. The memories I have made toasting to strangers in a three hundred year old wine cellar in the countryside and looking out over a cave monastery after a two hour desert hike will be cherished forever as some of the most extraordinary, and surprising, experiences of my life. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed Georgian food, and how much I will miss Khachepuri as I eat at the UC next fall. I was surprised at how much I have learned about not only Georgian politics and economics, but art, attitudes, culture, and all else in between, and how I undoubtedly will question why my taxi driver in New York won’t be driving up on the sidewalk to get around traffic.

But perhaps the least expected surprise came last Friday as I visited a small village to show an American film and give a speech in a deteriorating school building. As they stared at the first American they had met with wide eyes, I began to speak about America. Without realizing, I began to make more and more references to Georgian culture; with each mention of something they could connect to, their timid expressions soon faded away into smiles, and even laughter. Taking my seat next to a fifteen year old boy to watch the movie, he suddenly turned to me and said in English ‘I like you talk with funny Georgian Telavi (a movie reference). Thank you.’ Three months may not be enough to pick up an accent or to suddenly change my wardrobe to include traditional dresses, but then again maybe that all elusive phrase that I dismissed at the onset of my journey doesn’t necessarily require me to say ‘Geeorgeeiaah’ or be adorned in a tall sheep herder’s hat. As I watched Night at the Museum surrounded by an audience more interested in me than the screen, I realized that three months has been enough for me to, in my own way, ‘go native.’