Lesson Well Learned

The fact is that giving up land is a lazy and easy way out. Every other nation on the face of the Earth would fight tooth and nail to keep its borders secure and its territory safe. There is no such thing as painful concessions; they lead to death and destruction. Use history as your lesson. And what applies in the larger scheme of things applies here and now.

My daughter looked down, somewhat despondent, somewhat confused and somewhat lost for words. I on the other hand had taught her the most important lesson of all, protect what’s rightfully yours and remember that appeasement usually returns to bite you on the arse (or ass, not the animal.). And so our family was able to relax around the swimming pool, with plenty of space, sun loungers for all and even a coveted small plastic table that wasn’t covered in ketchup or cigarette ash.

To say the pool cafe was packed would be an understatement. We sat with the family somewhat squashed into our little corner. Move the table kids, I ordered and we all stood and lifted the table to make more space for our little family. The very English tourist (we love tourists etc etc etc) on the table nearest to us carried on regardless, and as I did my brash Israeli thing, (still a bit of English in me so I didn’t ask him to move his table) his upper lip got stiffer.

“Look here”, he suddenly blurted out, “this isn’t some bloody land grab, move back to where you were”. My wife looked at me and shook her head, my kids looked at me and shook their heads, but I couldn’t resist. “What do you mean, land grab?”
“Well its what you Israelis seem to do best and while I’m at it I might also say that it really embarrasses the rest of us, it costs a fortune to come to Israel, we try and support you and in return you bombard villages and steal land for ‘security’ purposes, I could go on but I’ll stop”.

The now more diplomatic people would have backed away, let him have his five minutes, but not me, I had a nation to defend, so after a few words about how he was an uneducated, self hating BBC Jew, I threw his Crocs into the swimming pool thinking it would be a harmless yet effective message of don’t mess with the natives. I hadn’t accounted for the fact that concealed in the end of his Croc was his wallet.

“Oh dear”, he commented, actually it was a bit more brazen and a bit less stiff upper lipped. Bugger, I thought, as the scenario of having to explain to my wife where all our cash and more had gone in reparations for this, as he would desribe it, unprovoked and disproportionate attack.

I jumped into the pool to retrieve his Crocs and now very soggy wallet. Nothing inside was ruined or missing so a heavy sigh of relief from my side but eyes still blazing on the other.

“Wait a minute, I know you. My goodness it must be twenty years, don’t you recognize me? We were in school together, don’t you remember?”

I did and we spent the rest of the holiday reminiscing, kids playing together and wives chatting like long lost friends. The latest Israeli war long forgotten.

The moral of the story? Well I can only think of one. We need to remember who we are where we came from and where we’re going.

Confused? So are they.

Jewish and Israeli Blog Carnival "Haveil Havalim."

I have been included in this week's Jewish and Israeli Blog Carnival "Haveil Havalim."

Please click the link below

http://simplyjews.blogspot.com/2008/05/haveil-havalim-164-no-names-edition.html

Thanks

JC

Fat George

George was a huge monster of a man. Fat was not the word, obese paled into insignificance, mammoth maybe, gargantuan seems most appropriate. We called him Fat George, because gargantuan George was, for want of a better phrase, to much of a mouthful.

George, how on earth he got that name remains a mystery, was a Bedouin tracker. He could tell whether an Ibex had recently been nibbling on a bush, where it was now and what its ID number was. He was very good. He'd been decorated by the army for being so good. But now he was contented to lead tour groups across the country's southern deserts and eat. The nimble and agile George of yesteryear was replaced by the lumbering and wheezing giant tour guide of today. Was he happy, you bet your crown jewels he was.

Why was George so happy? Well he was doing what he wanted to do. Walk about in the open air, meet nice people, eat and get paid for it.

Now why am I laboring on about the fact he was so huge. Well, as with many people, I am little insecure about the fact that since getting married all those years ago, there isn't a chance I could ever fit in to my wedding suit. But George was so blissfully happy with himself it made me sick and jealous. The only thing that kept me going was the certainty that he wouldn't fit into my suits either.

So I made the resolve that if George was happy with his temple then I should be to.
At home, biscuits and crisps are more or less banned as we all try and lead a healthy lifestyle. So I decided, why deny myself; and went out and bought cookies, chips, bisli, chocolate and anything that would ordinarily be taboo.

For the first few days it was a feeding frenzy. Before meals, after meals, mid morning and mid afternoon snacks. I felt good, not denying myself anything, touching the realms of hedonism, feeling Greek and Roman all in one, with a touch of fat Bedouin.

And then the fall. Preparing to go out one evening, something didn't fit my wife the way it used to only a week ago. Fear struck me as I was the target of her frustration.

"Why did you have to buy all that rubbish. Why didn't you stop me eating it. Now I have nothing to wear and it's your fault!"

"But look, it's not so bad, I mean just be happy with yourself." In retrospect maybe that was the wrong thing to say. But of course like most men, we don't know when we are digging ourselves very deep holes and so I continued with my analogies with Fat George the Bedouin tracker.

"So let me get this straight, your idea of support is to compare me to an overweight former Bedouin tracker turned tour guide called George, Fat George?"

The cull in the kitchen went on all night, destroying all evidence of anything vaguely tasty and anything with more than 1% fat.

The next time I saw George I asked him why he was so happy and what his wife thought. "My wife doesn't tell what to do, what to eat in fact she doesn't tell me anything at all and so I go through life, my own man, blissfully following my own path."

"Wow, you have a very understanding wife." Jealousy rising, biting back the resentment, knowing that in reality all men need a wife to keep them in line.

"Actually I never married!"

Cynical, moi?

Checkpoint Charlie

The traffic had built up along the 443 towards the Jerusalem. The reason was a second security check. They were looking for somebody. The boarder guards checked each and every car before letting them travel another kilometer to the official check point. In this day and age it is of course a sad reality that these checks are necessary, but you accept them because they could potentially be the difference between life and death.

I say accept them, because that’s what we should be doing, unless you are some loud mouthed American tourist who doesn’t realize what the purpose of these checks are for.

The traffic had come to standstill. So I did what any self respecting Israeli does and left my car to go and chat with a group standing by the central reservation. See if we could find out why there was this particular check and what we should do about the ‘matzav’.

And then the voice of calm and reason (sarcasm) blurted out from a nearby hire car. “I’ve got a wedding, why are we stuck, don’t they realize that I am going to be late.”

Well, we ignored the ranting and carried on our conversation, this time about school and what we were doing with our kids the week before Pesach which they had as holiday.

Then the delicately measured words of Mr Hire Car thundered out again, “if this country cant sort out its security maybe they should take a lesson from the Americans!”

If I hadn’t heard that with my own ears I would never have believed anybody could have said that. Was this worthy of an answer. Well we thought it better to ignore him than to enter into a debate about Iraq et al.

Then the comment that broke the camels back. “If they just expelled the Arabs ordinary folk like us wouldn’t be subject to the degradation of army checks and we wouldn’t be made to be late because some sub-humans are firing rockets and blowing themselves up”.

I am proud of the fact that I am not left wing, I have my own private views on how the country should deal with the situation, but my own personal philosophy is that instead of complaining, try and make a difference.

Before you say ethnic cleansing a mob had descended on Mr Hire Car. At first they started shouting at him, shouting obscenities and rocking his car a little. Realizing he may have overstepped the mark he locked the doors of his car and rolled up his windows. His wife who had thus far remained quietly supportive, started screaming.

The traffic started edging forward and we returned to our cars. The traffic stopped again and so I left my car only to see that my group had reformed and I noticed a great deal of laughing.

Now I have seen some surreal things in my life but this was just plain weird. On one side was a car load of Arab kids blasting out some very load Arabic dance music and on the other side was a woman using a breast pump. In the middle, eyes straight forward and looking very bewildered was Mr Hire Car. In front of him, just to add some variety was a large trailer with some sort of tank on the back, the canon facing Mr Hire Car’s windshield.

But I suppose that just about sums up the madness of the ‘matzav’.

The Boundaries of Reason

I am a great believer of 'if you don't live here, you can't have a say'. I mean I made the ultimate sacrifice, left my land the land of my fathers. This is my home. I don't tell you how to live, what you should be doing, so why should you have a say about me and my home?

My neighbor just looked at me, "I am only saying, if it would be possible to ask your builders not to start making so much noise between 2 and 4pm it would be appreciated."

This is my home. They say an Englishman's home is his castle. So this is my castle. Safe, impenetrable and sometimes, when the heating works, warm.

There is an unwritten rule about my home. If you are not a permanent resident like it the way it is or keep your thoughts to yourself.

Sense any anger? And by the way I am not talking about parents and in-laws who feel they need to impart some of their great life experience and who inevitably know better. By the way, I am still looking for a word that describes the white noise that enters your head when a parent tells you how to run your house correctly and the subsequent expulsion of any advice even it is helpful, and finally the return from obstinacy town, to act on that advice.

Anyway, I am talking strangers, and more to the point native strangers, those beings that cant keep their mouths from blurting out their thoughts. First there are the nice comments like 'I like the way you've done this and that', to the 'that's nice but I think I would have done it differently', to the 'oh I would have done this instead' and finally 'no I'm not sure I like that.'

Just shut up and smile, nod and agree, keep it in. Do you really think after spending every penny we earn on a house I want to hear you saying you don't like something or you would have done it differently? You're supposed to be sensitive. You always care about the kids, if they are too cold or hot. You never miss the opportunity to tell me I should have wrapped by kids up warmer. You never miss advising me what vegetables I should be buying and force me to buy rubbish I don't want.

I am asking you just for once, shut up and leave me alone. I don't want your comments; don't care however friendly and helpful you are. I don't tell you that you need plastic surgery, that your bum looks big in everything you wear, that you have awful taste in clothes. I don't ask you why you dyed you hair red, wear tight sweat pants and silver trainers. I don't ask you why you feel the need to make your eyebrows and lips pencil thin. I don't ask you why you bother buying diet juice and forty bottles of malt beer and a box of bamba. So listen to me lady, leave me alone.
Obviously this attack is against one particular person although you are all imagining someone in your life like her.

Truth is that Israel is all about talking to strangers. In reality we are not strangers just one big family where every woman is a proverbial Jewish mother and that's great, to a point.
But secretly and not to burn any bridges I do appreciate your comments even if I cannot admit it.

The Grapes of Wrath and other Hangovers

It was once claimed that there was one pub for every ten Englishmen. Obviously the source of this claim was in the pub at the time. There is actually 1 pub for every 820 UK residents who are legally able to drink.

Pub culture is England.

Every soap opera is focused around a pub. Every village and small town centers its life around the pub. Like the Eskimos have countless names for snow, the English have countless names for the pub depending on its menu and services; local, inn, ale house, boozer, tavern and hostelry. And like snow for Eskimos, pubs are an integral part of UK life, culture and where you live. The pub is forever England and England is forever in the pub as Hillaire Belloc said so succinctly "When you have lost your inns drown your empty selves, for you will have lost the last of England!"

We are a nation of drinkers and not just beer, whisky but wine too, as W C Fields put it "what contemptible scoundrel stole the cork from my lunch?"

On Friday I realised I had run out of wine so I decided on a expedition to the local wine shop. It’s actually a nice place and reminds me of my local 'offy' that is an Off Licence shop or a shop in England registered to sell alcohol to be consumed off the premises, 'Offy' for short. Wood panelled and reeking of wine, you get drunk just breathing in (by the way the English have more words for getting drunk than they do for pubs).

The shop assistant staggered over to me; glass in one hand, the other holding on to the shelves of wine.

"Yesh sir, my names Yitz, have you been here before, how can I help yoooo?"

"I'm sorry can you repeat that?" This guy was flammable. He had obviously been drinking since the shop opened.

"I would like 6 bottles of Golan merlot and six Golan semi dry white, please."

"Ha ha ha ha ha, thash really funnily, cos the lasht man alsho wanted that."

"Can I have it too?" This was going to be a very long shopping trip. He walked - actually staggered - back to his desk, took another swig of red wine and then walked to the back of the shop.

"What did you want again?" he called.

I walked to the back of the shop. "I would like 6 bottles of Golan merlot and six Golan semi dry white, please".

"OK, so I need to find the red wine and then the white wine, mmmm, now where is the wine?"

"Yitz, do you need help, I mean it might be quicker".

"No, no, I'm fine just wait here."

I found the wine I wanted while my drunk assistant started chatting up some savta, telling her that with surgery she would look fantastic. The other patrons of the shop shuffled nervously past him.

I managed to get all my bottles to the front of the shop and placed them on the counter.

"Yes sir, how can I help you?"

"I want to pay for these bottles please."

"What bottles?"

"The ones here on the counter, the six red and six white."

"Oh those ones, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, didn't notice them,” he chuckled and took a swig from a bottle of white fizzy stuff.

"You Israelis really cant take you drink can you," I challenged him, as he was struggling to find the keys on the cash register.

"We can, I have had two glasses already, and Yitz at the back has had a least one maybe two full glasses too."

He managed to swipe my card and finish the transaction.

"Can I have a box for the bottles?"

For fifteen minutes he struggled to construct a cardboard box for my wine. I wished I had a cam to film him; it was great entertainment, especially the car hooting in the background, until I remembered I had left the family in the car, which sobered me up.

Boxes made and wine safely stowed in the car, I ran back in to get another flat box just in case.

As I walked in a familiar smell overpowered me and Yitz came over, arms out for a big hug.

"Yesh sir, my name's Yitz, have you been here before, how can I help yoooo?"

The Carousel of life

Godzilla eyed me suspiciously as I waited by the luggage carousel in Ben Gurion's Terminal 1 arrivals halls. After a few days in Eilat, I was relaxed and contented, but in an instant that changed. The kids were tired, our luggage was bound by the laws of Sod (or Murphy) to be last and to make matters worse I had Godzilla standing next to me, arms out by her side to make sure no one encroached on her four meter fly zone. She had marked her territory and although you could have parked 3 trolleys next to her, no one dared.

Godzilla, stood, dragon-eyed by the luggage carousel wearing a large green poncho, flared green trousers and a red T-shirt. Oh, and she had a green and red hair band. She was, in the opinion of this beholder, ugly as sin, scary as Freddy Kruger and she frankly unnerved everybody within a very wide radius. I decided that as the hall was packed it would be my duty on behalf of the other Arkia and Israair customers to ask her if she wouldn't mind moving a few centimeters so I could get closer (on a temporary basis) to grab my luggage.

Godzilla threw me a look even before I approached her. I know her don't I? I asked myself. New tactic, I thought. My youngest was struggling to break free of the constraints of her stroller, gnawing on the straps and struggling like a fish caught on dry land (thank you Sting). Idea number two; the best way to clear a supermarket line, government office or doctor's waiting room is to parade around with an overtired screaming kid. Not even Godzilla would be able to stand that.

Godzilla flashed her a look that Medusa would have been proud of, and the screaming stopped. Bloody marvelous, I thought. I turned to my wife and she laughed, "maybe we should offer her a job", she called. Godzilla stared at her, and my wife fell silent. "I think she just passed the interview", I laughed back. My wife flashed me a stare and I shut up. Whose turn was it to stare and laugh, I was confused.

Godzilla was getting as impatient as we were. The other two kids were causing havoc claiming boredom and hunger. Tempers were fraying. Godzilla started rocking from one foot to the other. Now with my kids that’s a sure sign of a full bladder and bathroom trip. Maybe she would have to leave her spot and I would have a front row poll position. She continued to rock. Oh go already, I thought, or I thought I thought, but I didn’t think - I said. Another black look. "I was talking to my kids" I said, sheepishly smiling, cheeks as red as Godzilla's shirt.

Godzilla was feeling the strain. I knew she would have to leave. Now I had hope. Hope of seeing my bags emerge from between the plastic stripped curtains and not have to wait until I saw them go past over Godzilla’s shoulder. I was excited. I could see Godzilla was struggling. I called for extra ammunition. A bottle of water was passed to me. My youngest could be trusted to the do the rest. I waited for her to spill the water, but for the first time in her short history she drank from the bottle and didn’t spill a drop. The luggage continued its journey around the carousel towards us.

Godzilla stopped rocking. Two reasons I thought, I hoped the second reason, that I was wrong about her needs, was correct. The cases continued coming. Then I saw a case and I had renewed hope and vigor. A green case with a red sash. Must be the mythical, fire-breathing, Japanese dragons. The case came nearer. I could feel myself standing in her (hopefully dry) spot. She began to rock again, she's getting ready for what I term 'the holiday's finally over' syndrome. That feeling, when you heave your case off the carousel and you realize that finally you are going home and the holiday is truly over. It’s a long lonely walk to exit. But before she could grab her case someone else did. She looked at me, smug and satisfied, she knew what I was thinking and that I was wrong and she was staying.

Godzilla, rock solid up until this point, started talking to herself and then she started cursing and then she started talking very animatedly to the guy next to her who pointed to the electronic information board, and then she started backing away from the carousel. But it all happened to quickly. Godzilla had been standing all this time at the wrong carousel, as she backed away I had to move further back and Darth Vader moved into her spot before I had little time to awaken my lightening reflexes. I cursed, my wife cursed, my youngest then started crying and the kids continued their moaning and complaining.

Godzilla had left the hall, Darth Vader walked off with his massive suitcase, wheezing into the night. Our luggage still hadn’t arrived. The hall was emptying out. The kids had long since been bribed with ten million packets of overpriced Bamba and chips, bumping off the walls as the E numbers took their toll. I was on my fourth coffee, tongue burnt to a cinder, and my wife had resigned herself to sitting on the trolley. Our youngest was asleep. Then the carousel stopped and our bags still hadn't appeared. Dejected, tired, emotionally and physically worn out, and really, really angry, I turned to walk to customer services. At least, I thought, I'll get some decent compensation. And then I saw a green poncho glide across the hall to the exit.

Godzilla heaved her case out of the hall. It suddenly occurred to me that there were so many flights from Eilat maybe just maybe..................Whatever Godzilla had mumbled to herself, cursed out load and shouted to her neighbors around the carousel was nothing to what I shouted as I realized that I did know her. She was on my flight. I rechecked the electronic information board, and then checked my ticket. I had been standing waiting for 81 and my tickets last numbers were 18.

Godzilla turned and saw me schlepping my cases off the stationary carousel, her gaze met mine and she smiled. I smiled back. She wasn't so frightening after all. My wife noticed us and put two and two together. She smiled. "She's definitely hired", I called to my wife. Well a three second smile is better than none at all.