Another new day, another surprising Israeli phenomenon. Today’s is the Apricot Pit Game (I don’t know the Hebrew name yet). The kids save up apricot seeds, dry them out, and play a game where you throw them into a box with holes cut out in various sizes and shapes. Each hole has a point value, based on the difficulty of tossing in an apricot seed, from 3-4 feet away. The shooter gets back a number of seeds equal to his point total.
The boxes range from the very basic – shoe boxes with holes punched in the top – to the very elaborate. One of our neighbors’ sons has one with an electric-turned wheel (pictured at right). Word is that the other neighbors’ son has an even more elaborate setup.
During recess, the front of Yitzi’s school is like a carnival. No, more like a casino:
There are a few things about this phenomenon that I find particularly difficult to understand:
C’mon, c’mon, papa needs a new pair of … apricot seeds.
It’s all about apricot pits. That’s it. No other seeds/pits/etc. are suitable. It is a mystery why apricots were honored with this tradition.
At no point are the apricot seeds redeemable for anything of real value. Yet they are highly sought-after.
Even though the pits used have been saved for some time, even years, the game is only played in its season. It seems Opening Day was yesterday. There was no ramp-up, or early smattering of boxes; everyone shows up on the appointed day ready to go. It isn’t clear yet how long the season lasts, but I’m guessing it will be over long before the concurrently-commencing MLB campaign.
UPDATE: We have a new entrant into the apricot seed casino biz:
We get asked a lot whether we’re planning on making aliyah and staying here. Especially by everyone here – and I do mean everyone: friends, neighbors, rabbis and students at the yeshiva, people at shul, our cleaning lady (who helpfully offered us a book explaining the religious obligation of every Jew to move to Eretz Yisrael), the nurse at the HMO, the checkout clerks at the store… It seems that the only thing that all Israelis can agree on is that the Shmiklers should stay.
There’s a lot to be said about this topic, and I hope to follow up with some of our thoughts. But, for now, suffice it to say that we have not changed our plans to return in August.
Although it is now well after the fact, I wanted to put up at least something about Purim. Truth be told, it felt a lot like in Chicago – only more so. In West Rogers Park, especially since Purim is usually on a weekday, even the minority of Jews in the neighborhood can make it feel full of costumes and revelry. So it wasn’t such a big change to have the Rova teeming with costumed, mishloach–manos-toting revelers.
Yitzi displays some of the lucre sent from America, where the streets must be paved with nosh.
Shalom with some high-quality European treats sent to Israel by friends in the USA.
Speaking of mishloach manos (a.k.a. “shalach manos“), it was much less hectic this year. Baruch Hashem, we have lots of friends in Chicago, which means preparing and delivering a lot of shalach manos. It can be pretty tight, fitting in hearing Megillas Esther in the morning, getting the shalach manos delivered, daveningmincha, eating the Purim meal, and fulfilling the mitzvah of “ad shelo yada” (drinking enough that you don’t know the difference between “blessed is Mordechai” and “cursed is Haman”), all before sunset.
A member of the community, name withheld, who certainly fulfilled his mitzvah.
Having been here just a few months, we had considerably fewer shalach manos to worry about, and could focus instead on ad shelo yada. Through the magic of the Internet, we did send a few to people back in Chicago (er, if you weren’t one of them… I’m sure it was a computer error!). A couple of thoughtful friends even sent us some serious booty here, which was very touching.
Our neighbor needs to stay in the largely-pedestrian Rova, safe from points-hungry drivers.
One big difference was that, being in Jerusalem, we observed Shushan Purim. Okay, that one doesn’t actually feel like much of a difference, as it turns out, except that you celebrate Purim the day after seeing all the Facebook posts from your friends… just as Mordechai and Esther intended.
Oh, something else that’s different about Israeli Purim – fireworks. It is part of the overall fixation of Israeli youth on incendiaries, and the lax attitude of the adults to the activity. Kids were throwing “poppers” for weeks before and after, and fireworks-related injuries are common in Israel this time of year. Yitzi reported that some boys at his school were reprimanded by the principal because they made a big fire for Purim. Needless to say, we’re dreading Lag B’omer.
When Adar enters, it is traditional to put up on your door a picture of a woman with hairy arms.
The “Purim season” really begins with the first day of the month of Adar. The Babylonian Talmud instructs, “mishenichnas Adar, marbim b’simcha” (“When Adar enters, increase [one’s] joy”) (Ta’anis 29a). You put up happy signs on the door or in the house, and start getting into the Purim spirit. Shalom’s class all dressed up as wine casks. Debbie saw them all tottering out of their classroom, and was nearly overcome by the cuteness.
Approximately 1/33rd of the irresponsible dosage of adorableness that was unleashed on the streets of Jerusalem.
We had a very satisfying Purim. The yeshiva’s shpiel (show of Purim skits & videos) was held on motzei Shabbos, “regular” Purim. (The quality of the videos stunned me. Not only were they of virtually professional quality, but they were actually funny – a real rarity.) On Shushan Purim, we heard Megillas Esther at the yeshiva, evening and morning (both Yitzi & Shalom were able to sit through it – a milestone!), delivered our handful of shalach manos, received our modest rake of same, and had plenty of time to make our way leisurely to the group meal on Har Tzion, next door to the purported Tomb of King David. I did not shlep either of my traditional Purim costumes to Israel – my ape suit that scares away the kids, or my purple suit that scares away my wife – so we had to come up with something new. In keeping with our minimalist (read: “lazy”) approach to our stay here, I picked up a sea captain’s hat, put on a blue blazer, made Debbie a name tag that said “טנאיל,” and hummed “Muskrat Love” through the Rova. We never did find anyone both old and American enough to get it, alas.
Don’t worry – the ages of the kids watching add up to nearly a teenager.
The meal was among some of the families of the yeshiva who live in the Rova, and was an enjoyable, laid-back affair with lots of wine and booze (only 30 days to get rid of chametz before Pesach!), and more food than we could eat. Oh, yeah, and fireworks.
Har Tzion is kind of a weird place. The Diaspora Yeshiva is there, along with the aforementioned asserted Tomb of King David. But there’s some sort of odd, hippy vibe on Har Tzion that I can’t quite describe or explain. Anyway, we had various randoms wander into our meal and ask for wine and food, which we supplied. I kept waiting for them to ask for a “miracle ticket.”
I’ll sign off with a video snippet from the raffle that concluded the Purim carnival at Yitzi’s school, held in the square near our apartment (Kikar Batei Machase). Warning: contains zany jeep noises.
It is surprisingly easy to get blasé about living in the Old City. Even in the shadow of the holiest place on earth, day-to-day routine takes over. Omnipresent tourists and what-should-be-surreal surroundings don’t prevent the Rova from becoming the neighborhood. Two-thousand-year-old column fragments are just another place to stop and tie your shoes. The local shtiebel, where you can easily grab a minyan, also happens to be the over-700-year-old Ramban synagogue.
So you have to keep your eyes open for chances to really take advantage of the location, and remind yourself where you are. Although I usually don’t do my davening at the Kosel, on Erev Pesach, I specifically went there for mincha. After mincha, I stood at the Wall and recited the Order of the korban Pesach (consisting primarily of the mishnayos that describe the procedure), a little overwhelmed at the thought that, if the Beis Hamikdash were standing, I would be only a short distance away, up on Har Habayis, with my korban.[1] Jewish cultural memory is very strong. We haven’t brought a korban Pesach in 2,000 years, but it feels like we stopped yesterday, and are ready to resume tomorrow.
Although our seder went well past midnight, I decided to drag myself out of bed for the vasikinminyan at the Churva synagogue. I enjoy davening there, but the reason I dragged myself out of bed after about 3 1/2 hours of sleep (services started at 4:54 a.m.) was the post-shacharis “aliyah leregel.” There is a mitzvah in the Torah to go up to the Beis Hamikdash in Jerusalem on three holidays – Pesach, Shavuos, andSuccos (the “shalosh regalim“). Today, when there is no Temple, the mitzvah is not operative, but the Zilbermans (who run Yitzi’s school and, effectively, the Churva) organize an outing in remembrance of the mitzvah on each of the regalim. After the vasikinminyan, a group of us gathered up and (with police escort) walked into the Muslim Quarter, to a shuk that ended in steps up to a huge double-door opening onto Har Habayis, facing where the Kadosh Hakedoshim (central, most holy part of the Beis Hamikdash) stood. The doors were closed, but a smaller door-within-a-door was open. At that time of the morning, the shuk was closed, making it an empty, dark tunnel. We walked into the shuk, continuing the on-and-off singing since we’d left the Churva. Striding along towards Har Habayis, singing “Ki Va Moed,” with literally a bright light at the end of the tunnel, was a spine-tingling taste of what we hope is soon to come.
The police let us approach in small groups, go up the steps, and peer through the door. All you could really see was a courtyard and the base of the Dome of the Rock, but it was amazing. As each group finished looking, they joined the rest in a huge circle of singing and dancing in the dark shuk. I made my way home and crawled into bed for a few hours more sleep before lunch.
Footnotes (↵ returns to text)
In the times of the Beis Hamikdash, the afternoon of the 14th of Nissan (i.e., Erev Pesach), was when Jews would bring the korban Pesach. They took it up to the Beis Hamikdash, where it was shechted (slaughtered), certain parts were taken for the altar, and then they brought the rest back to roast it and eat it at the seder (we now eat the afikoman – an extra piece of matzah – in its place).↵
Here it is, almost the end of Pesach, and I still haven’t put up a post about Purim. I also have pics and thoughts about Pesach preparations. But the first thing I would up writing was a post about some interesting Kosel & Har Habayis experiences, so I think I’ll put that up shortly rather than wait until I get the other stuff done. I thought being bein hazemanim would mean plenty of time for blogging, but other things (Pesach prep!) have gotten in the way. Also, blogging is a lot harder than I thought it would be, so it gets pushed down the list.
Today was a different kind of Rova day. When I discovered something had gone wrong with our transition to the government system (Betuach Leumi) paying for our health care I was not feeling a surge of enthusiasm for this country. The woman who had romantic notions of nobly making the ultimate sacrifice yesterday was now completely stressed and put out to have to sacrifice time, effort and pride to unravel the mess. Somehow dealing with forms and miscommunication doesn’t feel so romantic and noble.
So today I salute (and am in awe of) all the olim (immigrants to Israel) I know. These brave souls spend years being the greenhorns battling gaps in language, culture, and influence. They are not running from pogroms and the army like my ancestors did when they came to America. Instead they leave behind comfortable lives where they generally know what is going on to jump into a world where feeling foolish and incompetent is normal.
Today was sort of the classic Rova morning, so I felt I had to share…
So, in the morning, while the older boys were in school, Mo and I were in our favorite makolet. I was not only shopping there, but was meeting a friend who had rented a car for the week and who had agreed to take my sheitel (wig) with hers to be styled for Passover. Meanwhile, it’s even more than the usual balagan (chaos) in the makolet, as they’re working to flip it over to Passover products. The two aisles are full of boxes to be shelved which meant that Mo in his happy green stroller was often in the way.
I’m in line waiting to pay, behind a very large order, and a nervous looking man comes up who only needs a loaf of bread. He’s late to work, so we let him in. Then comes a little boy, maybe 5 years old, buying lachmania (the classic rolls that the kids here all eat) and that cheese/yogurt stuff that Israelis have for breakfast (they often drink it, I use a spoon). The cashier is a terse but kind Russian woman who never loses sight of this boy. While juggling other customers, she makes sure he has his change, and his food, and is okay.
In the middle of all of this, a bar mitzvah passes by the open doorway. They are a regular, and loud (horns and drums), part of Mondays and Thursdays in the Rova. This is a big one, with a mix of more modern-looking types together with some long peyos (side-locks), all wearing cute matching Che-like t-shirts featuring an outline of the bar mitzvah boy. Other than me, no one in the makolet pays the passing procession any mind.
When I go outside, the little boy with the lachmania and cheese is there, looking anxious. I ask him if he needs help. He doesn’t want to talk to me, but eventually shakes his head. He’s too busy watching everyone go by. I am not the only one fascinated by the street scenes of the Rova.
I walk along towards the ATM, appreciating what a classic Rova day this is, and feeling happy to be here. Walking through Churva Square, with all of the disparate groups of Jews, I start thinking about the political situation and where I would fit if I lived here. A group of soldiers pass by, and I think about whether I would be willing to risk my life for this country. I’m startled that, in that moment, I think I would. A tear comes to my eye as I rumble along the stony square, feeling connected to everyone around me in a new way.
At the ATM on this sunny spring day (it was 80 degrees today!) I am still captivated by this feeling. It has been a dark dreary winter of colds and flus and little inspiration. I am so grateful and excited to feel inspired again. Then I realize: Wait, I’m right here! I can go down to the Kotel right now and channel this feeling into a spiritual experience. I look at my watch – yes! – it isn’t chatzos yet, so I can still daven (pray) shacharis (the morning service). Oh no, but I don’t have a siddur (prayer book). I’ll find one at the Wall – problem solved! I aim Mordechai’s happy green stroller down the road, dodge the bar mitzvah, tourists, and other mommies and look for the shortcut stairs that Dan says all the locals use. I bump the stoller down one flight and suddenly I remember: I bought yogurt. And it is among the first of the warm days. I can’t let Dan’s yogurt spoil just so I can live out some romantic notion. My prayers will also be heard from my house two minutes away, and I will have done something nice for my husband.
Back up the steps, through the crowd and homeward bound. Of course, I could theoretically still daven shacharis, but now I’m home. The baby is not interested in letting me salvage what’s left of my high, and there’s lots to do.
Now that we’ve been here for six months, the health care system considers us quasi-insiders, and it was time for us to upgrade our Bituach Leumi status to non-paying members (thanks again, Israeli taxpayers!). This required a truly staggering array of forms and documents. We even had to get a copy of our marriage license, which turned out to be more expensive than difficult. (In an only-in-Israel touch, they would also have accepted a copy of our kesubah. I briefly considered asking our renter to take a digital pic of ours, which is hanging on the wall of our dining room in Chicago, but decided I didn’t want our health insurance riding on his unproven photographic skills.)
Among the documents we needed was confirmation from the Misrad Hapanim (Ministry of the Interior) of our comings & goings from Israel in the past 6 months – to show we’d really been here the whole time, earning our new status. Of course, this had to be done in person, by both of us. One government bureau may not consult the other directly, for some reason. We packed up Mordechai on a rainy morning, and headed over to the closest office, a short walk from the Old City.
No dramatic stories here, but it was amusing. There was the mix of Jews – charedim, chilonim, black, white, brown, Anglo, Russian, sabras, etc. – that is utterly typical here, but still can be dizzying for us chutzniks. One of the larger windows turned out actually to be a sliding-glass door opening to a tiny balcony on this 3rd-floor waiting room. So a guy wandered over, fiddled with it until it opened, and hopped out on the balcony for a smoke. This would never happen in America, because (1) the building would be totally, hermetically sealed; (2) even if it were physically possible, opening a window/door in a government office 3 stories up would trigger alarms; (3) smoking anywhere near the building, including on an outside balcony, would draw immediate sniper fire; (4) anything not expressly permitted by omnipresent signs in a government office is not only forbidden, but is potentially a felony; and (5) it would never occur to anyone sane that you could do such a thing. I pointed the guy out to Debbie and she just shrugged. The wife’s gone native!
You don’t want to see the non-express line.
When it was our turn, the very pregnant clerk was super-nice. Before we got down to business, there was first the fuss that needed to be made over Mordechai. (“Chamudi! Ben camma hu?” – “Sweetie! How old is he?” – with the appropriate baby faces.) She printed off our forms, we wished her b’sha’ah tovah, and we were on our way. Still, I couldn’t resist taking the snarky shot at the right, which was from a different department.
On the home front, it was a a chaotically mellow snow day. I (Debbie) was a bit surprised to wake up and find our back patio decorated in snow since I had been quite skeptical of all the hoopla running up to it. Quickly I shared the news with the kids and we were all a twitter with excitement as if we had never seen snow before.
Shalom’s school had already been canceled the day before. But what about Yitzi? There is no automated number to call for snow day info at his school. And I am certainly not high on the list to receive phone calls. So, since we live one minute from school I bundled him up, packed his snack, and sent him off into the white wilderness to find out.
Shalom was mad to get out into that snow, and put on his boots and jacket faster than I had ever seen before. He showed amazing patience for a four year old as he waited for me to finish breakfast, bundle up Mordechai, and bundle myself up.
Finally we made it out and all the neighbors were out playing in the snow, gawking, and smiling. It was this beautiful white slushy stuff great for packing together and building. Snow forts, snowmen, snowballs…
Yitzi came out to the square for recess and set to work as well. Turns out only half the class showed up that day, but they did have school. One mother came during school and brought popcorn for everybody, and the rebbe made steaming cups of tea to warm the boys up.
Shalom, Mordechai, and I were in and out all morning. Shalom got soaked and cold and would warm up and be back at it again. I just rolled with the day. Really, I had been wanting to get out of the Rova all week but stormy weather and sick kids had kept me in. Today I didn’t grumble about it. That’s the beauty of a snow day.
Everything here has ground to a halt as Jerusalem got the most snow it has seen in over 20 years. They said it was 20 cm in the city center (near us), and even more in outlying areas. I still haven’t quite mastered the metric system, but I’m pretty sure that 20 centimeters is about 4 feet.
The orange tree around the corner from our apartment.
The boys are totally delighted, even though this would be routine back in Chicago (albeit not lately). They’re caught up in the excitement of the rest of the kids, who are absolutely beside themselves.
The local attitude is mostly to shrug, smile, and take the snow day. The schools are closed (except Yitzi’s school, Zilberman’s, which isn’t so surprising if you know anything about Zilberman’s), as are virtually all of the stores, restaurants, etc. Starting last night, they made the buses and train free in Jerusalem, to discourage people from driving. But then they suspended service on most of the buses, and the rest this morning when it really started to come down. The city does apparently have some snow removal equipment, but it’s clear that this will all be melted away shortly anyway.
Our sugya, with a demonstrative aid.
At my yeshiva, those who live outside the Rova weren’t able to come in the morning, and there was a festive atmosphere for the rest of us. Instead of our usual Thursday schedule (review of the week’s daf, followed by a test), the whole yeshiva is learning a sugya on snow (at the bottom of Niddah 17A). Some guys brought in snowballs for inspiration.
Some more photos I took this morning are below. Enjoy.
The square near our apartment, where the local kids were getting to work.
In front of the Churva synagogue, doing a little Sefer Yetzira work to make the minyan.
Looking down Rechov Hayehudim.
Looking the other way down Rechov Yehudim.
More foliage-weather incongruity.
The snow is major news here, as is this snowman, apparently.
The Cardo.
These guys are having a long-distance snowball fight with guys below the Cardo.
The Yehudim/Cardo area from another angle.
The snowman made by our friends, the Weisses.
The Weisses’ snow fort (occupied by some random guy who is not a Weiss). Our boys helped make this.
The snow fort made by one of our artist neighbors, Rivka Deutsch, and family.
Another new day, another surprising Israeli phenomenon. Today’s is the Apricot Pit Game (I don’t know the Hebrew name yet). The kids save up apricot seeds, dry them out, and play a game where you throw them into a box with holes cut out in various sizes and shapes. Each hole has a point value, based on the difficulty of tossing in an apricot seed, from 3-4 feet away. The shooter gets back a number of seeds equal to his point total.
The boxes range from the very basic – shoe boxes with holes punched in the top – to the very elaborate. One of our neighbors’ sons has one with an electric-turned wheel (pictured at right). Word is that the other neighbors’ son has an even more elaborate setup.
