Grace.

I am hungry (female) = Ya ga-lod-naya

I am hungry (male) = Ya ga-lod-niy

I am bored = Mne scku-chno

I don’t understand this life = Ya ne po-ne-mayu etu zhi-zen

I want a cookie = Ya ha-choo pe-chen-ya.

Help me = Po-mo-gi mne

Give me love (informal) = Dai mne lu-bov

And beer = Ee pee-vo

Forgive me (informal you implied) = Prosti menya

When I was in 9th grade, I decided to dress up and go trick-or-treating with some friends. I put in the effort of picking out a costume, waited until it was dark out, and set off on my journey.

My friends and I were having a great time, trying to ignore the fact that this was probably going to be the last year we would get to go on this ritual. I was prepared to say goodbye, but I needed this one last time. Like a junkie needs his one last hit.

Of course, somewhere along the way, a woman opened her front door and in response to our polite "Trick-or-treat" request said, while looking me squarely in the eyes, "You are TOO OLD to be doing this. And it's 9:00 PM already. That's just inappropriate."

I felt crushed. This woman had to force me out of my childhood with a swift boot to the backside. What difference did it make to her that I was a full-grown adult-looking teenager who just wanted to hang out with my friends in a continuation of a ritual that I had very fond memories of since first grade? And is 9 PM really that late to be trick-or-treating?

I should have said, "No. You are being inappropriate. And you know what? I don't want your candy anymore." Should've, would've, could've. I almost started crying on her front steps.

My friends and I realized that what we all felt at that moment (felt, but didn't say, since we masked our emotions with incredulous remarks of, "What a bitch!" or "What crawled up her ass?") was a profound sense of loss. It really stung, and that surprised me.

These types of things sneak up on you. One minute, you're taking family New Year's Eve parties at grandma's for granted, and the next minute, you're missing them like a chopped-off appendage.

That woman has stayed with me all this time. Little did she know at the time, but with that comment, she seared herself in my memory like a car accident that I walked away from, but saw coming from a mile away.

I knew I was "too old" but I went anyway. And now, I wonder why I didn't tell the woman off--put her in her place, if you know what I mean. I just wasn't that sort of teenager.

Sometimes change is gradual. And sometimes, you're pushed out of the litter against your will.

***

From Richard Ford's Independence Day:

"My qualifications for a new undertaking were, first, that I was not one bit preoccupied with how things used to be. You’re usually wrong about how things used to be anyway, except that you used to be happier—only you may not have known it at the time, or might’ve been unable to seize it, so stuck were you in life’s gooey-ness; or as is often the case, you might never have been quite as happy as you like to believe you were."

I've been neglecting this blog the last few days. On the one hand, I'm sick of whining all the time. On the other hand, that's sort of what this space is for.

You know that dumb after-school-special commercial that says, "You are what you eat"? Well, I'm starting to think that you are what you say.

Skip Major and I have talked in the past about how you aren't necessarily what you write. Especially in blog format. Skip was more forgiving of the blog experience as an exploratory process that can't be taken literally.

But what if you are what you write? Or when you throw a tantrum and scream at your boyfriend, but explain it away by saying, "I'm sorry. This isn't me. Really." And then you do it over and over again. At what point does it become you?

I've been holding back on here because I'm worried about what people will think of me. Strangers and friends alike. Which makes me wonder...

If I wasn't my writing, why would I care about what people thought of me?

Being introspective and contemplative is  exhausting. It's even less pleasant if you're doing it in front of other people.

I leave you with one final thought: muppets. They make me happy.

You know how when you’re not feeling well, all you can think about is yourself? If you’ve got the sniffles and a headache, you’re not in the mood to worry about other people’s well being.

The same is true for when you’re not feeling well emotionally, and I’d say that the quarter-life crisis (QLC) brings out the self-absorption gene in all of those who are passing through this life phase. It’s rather embarrassing, because instead of sympathizing with a friend who says, “I broke my arm skiing,” the QLC-driven response is to say, “I have a paper cut. On my soul.” As you proceed to rip open your chest and expose the fermented, pickled mixture of the rotting you that once used to shine like a spankin’ new quarter, you’re forced to reveal the not-so-great side of your character that you always shied away from in other people.

At first, it’s hard to see that you’re doing the “me-me” approach to relationships because, on the one hand, you’re still reaching out and getting together with your friends; meanwhile, they’re still inviting you out once in a while, or calling. But on the other hand—and this is the hard thing to admit—friends who once used to call you regularly because you “used to be fun” or “always had good advice to give” no longer call as often. And when they do call, they spend more time saying “uh huh” than adding anything substantial to the conversation. That’s because you’re boring them to tears with the same monologue about how you just don’t know where your life is going and how you got to be in this state of utter confusion, especially when you used to be someone that other people looked up to, and you could’ve sworn you were going places. They’ve heard it from you a thousand times already, and frankly, unless its your mom on the other end, they just don’t want to hear it anymore.

Your friends have been able to figure out their own lives and find new ways to amuse themselves. They don’t want to call you just to brag about how well their lives are going, how happy they are with their boyfriend or girlfriend, how they just got engaged, how the new house is still not furnished, but the walls are freshly painted, how they’re expecting their first baby and they’ve picked out the nursery furniture. These friends care about you, and that’s precisely why they don’t want to bother you with their successes and accomplishments—they don’t want to hurt you any more than you’re already hurting.

Maybe on some level, they also see that you aren’t able to be genuinely happy for them, that you’re somewhat jealous, that you just don’t understand why it’s a big deal that the milk-pump is the right brand, or the hardwood floors aren’t pre-fab. They’d rather share their happiness with someone who can appreciate these issues and can sympathize, more than anything. Sympathy, unfortunately, is not a side-effect of the QLC. Withdrawn narcissism and self-absorbed whining are side-effects, however.

The new friends you acquire during the QLC tend to either be in the same boat as you, and hence, aren’t capable of reciprocating any of the minimal efforts you make at genuine friendship, or they are the more worrisome sort, and are generally not good people, but users at the core who will prey on easy targets like those going through the emotionally-draining QLC process. Misery loves company, and users are always looking for a good chump.

I don’t know what the solution is to finding the delicate balance of maintaining good, solid friendships and venting the unbelievably broken-record problems that surface during the QLC. Perhaps the trick is finding comfort in being alone with yourself, or if not comfort, then at least acceptance of yourself as you are. You can imagine that while you’re seized by complete and utter fear at the thought of being alone for the rest of your life, your friends see you as a very unstable person who is slipping into a very sorry state, and they just don’t want to get close to that because secretly, they know that they aren’t that different from you and the truth is ugly, especially when it’s up close.

Fear is a paralyzing emotion, but it has the effect of speed on you. You can’t seem to sit still for fear of sinking into the same mantra you’ve been spinning in your head for god-knows how long: “Where am I going, and why am I having such a hard time with life right now? Why does everyone else seem to have their act together? Why am I the only one who’s not in a loving relationship? Why do I keep finding the losers who seem to leave me in a worse state than in which they found me?” Fear of being alone, fear of being broken, fear of missing out on life, fear of closing doors, fear of fear… it has no end. And I have no fool-proof solution to all of this spinning, panicky madness.

Just breath. Try to sit still and breath.

Know your own self worth, and don’t ever lose sight of that, even in your wandering, aimless state—know that you are not going to be alone forever. That you’re doing the best you can, and you will find your way. Someday, you’ll be proud of who you’ve become, and others will look up to you again. Most of all, understand that you aren’t living a scripted life; you’re making it up as you go, and that’s damn scary. There is no “right way” when it comes to life, and those who claim there is will awaken one day to find that they’ve been sleeping their whole lives and haven’t lived a day yet. And then you can teach them a thing or two about the real world, and how it isn’t so scary anymore because you know how strong your legs are, and that they can carry you through anything.

I checked out Jennifer Weisz's blog this morning, and I swear, she inserted a small probe into my brain (probably through my ear or nose while I slept). I can't believe how accurately this summarizes my life right now:

They call it the "Quarterlife Crisis."

It is when you stop going along with the crowd and start realizing that there are many things about yourself that you didn't know and may not like. You start feeling insecure and wonder where you will be in a year or two but then get scared because you barely know where you are now.

You start realizing that people are selfish and that, maybe, those friends that you thought you were so close to aren't exactly the greatest people you have ever met, and the people you have lost touch with are some of the most important ones. What you don't recognize is that they are realizing that too and aren't really as cold, catty, mean, or insincere, but that they are just as confused as you are.

You look at your job, and it is not even close to what you thought you would be doing, or maybe you are looking for a job and realizing that you are going to have to start at the bottom. That scares you.

Your opinions have gotten stronger. You see what others are doing and find yourself judging more than usual because suddenly you realize that you have certain boundaries in your life and are constantly adding things to your list of what is acceptable and what isn't. One minute you are insecure and then the next, secure.

You laugh and cry with the greatest force of your life. You feel alone and scared and confused. Suddenly, change is the enemy and you try to cling on to the past for dear life but soon realize that the past is drifting further and further away. There is nothing to do but stay where you are or move forward.

You get your heart broken and wonder how someone you loved could do such damage to you. Or you lie in bed and wonder why you can't meet anyone decent enough that you want to get to know better. Or maybe you love someone but love someone else too and cannot figure out why you are doing this because you know that you aren't a bad person. One night stands and random hook ups start to look cheap. Getting wasted and acting like an idiot starts to look pathetic.

You go through the same emotions and questions over and over, and you talk with your friends about the same topics because you cannot seem to make a decision. You worry about loans, money, the future, and making a life for yourself.

And while winning the race would be great, right now you'd just like to be a contender! What you may not realize is that everyone reading this relates to it. We are in our best of times and our worst of times, trying as hard as we can to figure this whole thing out.

Send this to your twenty-something friends. Maybe it will help someone feel like they aren't alone in their state of confusion.

I’ve been thinking about Richard Ford’s quote about intimacy and privacy:

"And by intimacy I mean the real kind, the kind you have with only one person (or maybe two or three) in a lifetime; not the kind where you’re willing to talk to someone you’re close to about laxative choices or your dental problems; or, if it’s a woman, about her menstrual cycle, or your aching prostate. These are private, not intimate. But I mean the real stuff–silent intimacies–when spoken words, divulgences, promises, oaths are almost insignificant: the intimacy of the fervently understood and sympathized with, having nothing to do with being a "straight shooter" or a truth teller, or with being able to be "open" with strangers (these don’t mean anything anyway)."

Intimacy isn’t something that everybody needs–or even perceives the absence of. There are people who are happy sharing the private things in life: discussing jobs and families, planning vacations and future lives, sharing meals and seeing movies. This sort of life is fulfilling on many levels. In fact, it can be enough. Or 99% enough. And that’s good enough, for most.

It’s not enough for me. Don’t get me wrong. I want all that other stuff too, but I need something else. I want to find a person who has a need for intimacy, and understands that he’s missing it in his life.

And that sets me up for an interesting predicament. I could be looking at a lifetime of solitude because I’m not willing to compromise on that one thing. It’s possible to be happy with someone without the sort of intimacy that Ford describes, but I know that I’ll be living a happiness of various shades of gray, and it will not be enough forever.

I’d rather be alone than be comfortable. I want the whole fairytale.

I’ve been wanting to write a long entry about what this trip has meant to me, but I think I’ve felt that doing so would be like squeezing out the last gunky, droopy smudge of toothpaste from a mangled tube. I have some time to write now, since I’m about 1 ½ hours into an 11 ½ hour flight back to the U.S., and about 30,000 feet above Istanbul. I’ll try not to draw any sort of wide sweeping conclusion here (I’m not that sort of person anyway).

As a totally random side note, I’m wearing a T-shirt that says "I’m a Pepper" on it, and it actually smells like Dr. Pepper. I don’t know how that happened, but who am I to question such things? The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

When I set off on my trip two weeks ago, I sat at Newark Airport, figuring out how to use "my" "brand new" iPod Shuffle ("my" is in quotes because it’s actually my dad’s winnings from an office picnic raffle, "brand new" because the technology is practically obsolete–my dad had to pool his coworkers’ tickets to win the iPod and felt guilty about taking the spoils, so he let the iPod "spoil" by sitting on the kitchen table, unopened, for months.)

The first CD I downloaded from iTunes was The Cure’s Disintegration. It’s the CD I tried to reclaim (with minimal success) from its former association with a man who I think could have loved me, if only I had showed him who the real me was. Instead, I let the moment(s) pass me by, and in the process, I acquired a knee-jerk reaction of feeling pangs of nostalgia and grief every time I hear not only Disintegration, but the entire sound of The Cure, and by direct association, The Smiths. If onlys are poison.

I’ve listened to Disintegration half a dozen times on my trip to Israel, which is about as inappropriate a soundtrack as Marilyn Manson or Motley Crue for such circumstances. Moody, anguished songs don’t fit well with sunshine and desert shades of beige and orange. They also don’t mesh with BBQ picnics on the Mediterranean.

Last night, I went on such a picnic, where I met about 20 members of my extended family. They’re all from my maternal grandma’s side, and I was told repeatedly that "this isn’t even half of us. If all of us were here, there’d be about 60 people." Running around, yelling, laughing, collecting sea shells on the beach, filling me in on the family history, asking me about my life in the U.S. Twenty people was certainly plenty for a first encounter–I had no less than three plates of food in front of me at a given time.

I’ve always told people that I had a small family, but I see that that’s not really accurate. Keeping in touch isn’t hard anymore. Email, Skype, instant messenger, cheap long distance calling, who knows what else, those are all vehicles for something that has to be there from the beginning: A desire to connect with someone, to share your life, to find commonalities across cultural lines, to reconcile happenstance.

My fourteen year old cousin, Nomi, was my tour guide last night –a cultural attache to the rest of my family. She speaks Russian at about the same level as me. She also knows conversational English and soap opera Spanish, besides Hebrew. Between those four languages, she was able to tell me all about my grandma’s sister’s six children, and their children and grandchildren too. All six siblings were at the picnic last night.

***

I woke up this morning around 6:00 AM to the sound of the neighborhood rocket alarm going off. I held my breathe for a few seconds, waiting for the anticipated explosion, and was relieved to find that when it came, it wasn’t nearly as loud as yesterday’s. I went back to sleep pretty quickly afterwards, but in those few minutes of half lucidness, I gauged that the target was a power station several miles away, because to reach that far, the rockets need to arch pretty high. The catch-22 is that the radar that picks up rocket fire can only do so if the rockets climb high enough; it won’t pick up low-flying rockets. That’s why there wasn’t a warning before yesterday’s explosion, and that’s why it scared the bejeezus out of me.

If it seems that the recounting of my activities on this trip has been peppered with very pesky interruptions of "rocket fire this" and "rocket fire that," then you have some idea of what it’s like to experience it in person. I don’t know how long it would take for me to not be scared anymore. If I lived where my aunt and uncle live, I’d probably develop some sort of coping mechanism pretty quickly. I might choose the predeterminst approach to life (whatever happens is meant to happen) or I might go with the depression route (as in "Who gives a fuck, anyway? We’re all going to die some day.").

I developed a very primitive coping mechanism after just two weeks. Once the initial fear subsided (this would last just one or two seconds), I would then feel a very intense burst of seething fury. It’s the same feeling I’d get if someone I didn’t know came up to me and slapped my face for no reason. Slapped it hard. I’d feel that anger for a little bit longer than the fear, but then it, too, would subside, and I’d distract myself with something else pretty quickly (like blogging or listening to The Cure for the zillionth time). Basically, coping became a three-step process: 1) Fear 2) Anger 3) Distraction.

Distraction, however, is more complicated than it may seem at first. That’s because fear and anger are arguably reflex emotions, and there’s little I can do to stop myself from feeling them. Distraction, however, usually resulted in the following thought: "Well, at least I don’t live here." And this led to guilt. Guilt over wiping my hands clean and saying, "Let them deal with this. I’m leaving." Because them is still an extension of me on many levels, since they’re literally (and not) family. Them is my fourteen year old cousin, Nomi, as well as the beautiful man with dark skin and blue eyes that I kept eyeing on the bus ride to Ber Sheva from Eilat.

Maybe there’s a fifth step (if guilt can be counted as a fourth step). Resolve. Resolve to talk about what I saw, and how I felt. Just to tell people that want to know about this topic how things seemed to me, and maybe to compare notes. Just to bear witness to what was happening on a certain border at a certain time.

***

I’m now flying over the Atlantic Ocean, about halfway through this mondo flight. I’ve been reading Richard Ford’s Independence Day (slowly working through the Pulitzer Prize winners). I have to say that there is a lot that I can’t understand in his work. I haven’t experienced enough of life to nod along to some of what he says, and hopefully, I never will. But there have been parts of the novel that have left me pondering his words:

"And by intimacy I mean the real kind, the kind you have with only one person (or maybe two or three) in a lifetime; not the kind where you’re willing to talk to someone you’re close to about laxative choices or your dental problems; or, if it’s a woman, about her menstrual cycle, or your aching prostate. These are private, not intimate. But I mean the real stuff–silent intimacies–when spoken words, divulgences, promises, oaths are almost insignificant: the intimacy of the fervently understood and sympathized with, having nothing to do with being a "straight shooter" or a truth teller, or with being able to be "open" with strangers (these don’t mean anything anyway)."

...And now, I have to go. The Neverending Story is on!

(But tell me what you think of the quote anyway. I’d love to hear your thoughts.)

The band made it through the sixteenth notes just fine. We were sight reading the piece for the first time, and my junior high band director was plowing through the music at a good pace. I was proud of how well we were playing. CrescendoooOOO! BOOOOOOOOMMMMM!

The earth shook for a few seconds. I opened my eyes, and put my glasses on. Several minutes went by as I lay still, thinking about how my band director ended up in my dream, and how close that rocket was, and how it felt like an earthquake.

A few more minutes went by and my mom walked into my "room."

"Are you scared?" She asked me.

"What side was it from?" I answered her.

It was a kassam from Gaza.

"Dad and I can see the smoke from our window. We're going to check it out."

I told my mom to wait a little bit. Lately, they've been sending a few rockets in succession and the rockets have been landing close enough to the same spot to make me worry.

"There's no way a second rocket would fall in exactly the same spot," mom answered.

A door just slammed shut from a draft as I wrote the last line, and I jumped.

***

I was in Eilat for the last few days. It's the southern-most city in Israel, and it's mostly a resort town, since it's on the Red Sea. The first picture below is of the pool at our hotel. I didn't swim in it, since the sea was so much warmer.

The third picture is of the last hotel on the Israeli side of the border. The next hotel (I couldn't find the picture to post) is half on the Egyptian side and half on the Israeli side of the border.

I'd been to Eilat before, but not for the relaxation element. I went hiking in the mountains last time. This time, I was ready to pack up and leave after 1 1/2 days. I can only do the sit-on-the-beach thing for a short time.

My parents and I got to Ber Sheva by bus yesterday evening, and my aunt and uncle picked us up from there. Quickly, the conversation turned to how "loud" things have been while we were away. "You must have a direct connection to God," My aunt said to my mom. "Things were quiet the whole week you were staying with us. But the minute you left for Eilat, the rockets started up again."

My uncle explained to me that there's a pager-type box right when you walk into the house that notifies people of what's going on. If the IDF is conducting an operation, the pager gives a warning so that people living close to the border aren't caught off-guard when the noises start.

I stuck my foot in my mouth when I said, "Now there's another thing to hang on the doorway, right next to the mezuzah."

***

Here's an article from today's Jerusalem Post that discusses some issues of concern.

IDF armored vehicles left unguarded on Gaza border

A Jerusalem Post reporter was able to climb into one of 17 armored fighting vehicles left unguarded barely half a kilometer from a Gaza suburb and half that distance from the border fence - with ammunition and various other military equipment inside - start the engine and move it a few meters without being interrupted on Thursday.

The AFVs, which had taken part in the IDF operations in the northern Gaza Strip, spent the day not in a secret staging area but rather in an open field, in clear view of the main road running opposite Kibbutz Mefalsim and next to the Col. Nabi Meri monument.

The IDF had concentrated large armored forces in the field four months ago, immediately following the capture of Cpl. Gilad Shalit, and had invited the press to photograph the hundreds of soldiers preparing to enter the Strip.

On Thursday, the place was deserted. No one was there to prevent anyone from entering the AFVs, starting their engines and driving away. There were 14 Ahzarit infantry AFVs, two Nagmahon combat engineering AFVs and one heavily armored D9 Caterpillar bulldozer. The vehicles were fueled up and there was no need of a key to enter one or start it up.

This reporter, an Ahzarit driver during his military service, climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine and moved the Ahzarit a few meters forward and back. Despite the engine's loud noise, no one from the small IDF reconnaissance post nearby or the police firing range at the edge of the field came to inquire about why the vehicle was being moved.

The machine guns and radio sets of the AFVs had all been removed, but there were significant quantities of 7.62 mm. belt-ammunition and M-16 bullets lying around inside the vehicles. Some of them had electronic equipment in them, including a jamming device used against remote-controlled bombs and GPS antennae. Judging from food and other equipment left inside the AFVs, it was clear that they had been used extensively within the Gaza Strip a short time earlier.

The Ahzarit is the main AFV being used by the IDF in its incursions into the Gaza Strip and in the latest Lebanon War. The fighting vehicle is an extremely modified version of the Soviet T-55 tank, of which the IDF has captured many hundreds over the years. It was originally designed for use against the Syrians on the Golan Heights but in light of the vulnerability of the old M-113 APC to most kinds of missiles and even to light-arms fire, it was adapted for use against Hizbullah and the Palestinian terrorist organizations.

This is the second such case reported by the media this week. On Monday, Channel 10 showed two AFVs that were left untended near Tel Faher, on the road leading up to the Golan Heights.

This case, however, is much more serious, due to the large number of vehicles abandoned so close to Gaza at a time the IDF units is operating there.

An officer commanding a tank unit camped nearby that was preparing to enter the Strip in the evening said that the way the vehicles had been left was "a scandal, and I hope someone pays a price for this."

The IDF Spokesman's office told the Post that the issue would be looked into.

The source is here.

Please check out the last few posts--I've uploaded some pictures that are kind of interesting (to me, at least).

Today, I spent the day in Jerusalem with my parents and my aunt. I learned how to bargain hard core and bought some beautiful Armenian pottery. I am now very thankful for the price stickers on everything in the US.

Several days ago, as Ruti, Elan and I were driving to the Kineret, I snapped these pictures:

I know. It's funny at first because there are strangely-dressed people riding a tractor in an attempt to hang up some race track flags. But here's the background info so that you can fully appreciate what was going on:

This picture was taken on Friday, October 13th. If you believe in that sort of a thing, then these guys shouldn't have been tempting fate. However, if you're a religious person, like these gentlemen (hence, the outfits), then you would also know that Simchat Torah (the holiday celebrating the completion of the reading of the Torah and the restarting of the scroll) is tomorrow (Saturday, October 14th), so flags are definitely in order. You might also realize that there's no such thing as October 13th-related bad luck. "Bad luck" is the phrase describing the natural state of Jews on a perpetual basis.

I took this picture around 5:00 PM. The sun was setting, and while that is a beautiful image, it also signified that all work had to be completed in time for the welcoming of Shabbat. Perhaps due to this haste, I witnessed the driver of the tractor crash the fork lift into the lamppost. Very gently. And that's when I got out of the car to take this picture.

A picture is worth a thousand words...if you know what you're looking at.  

The Jerusalem Post illuminates on the noises I've been hearing the last couple of days. Note that the article mentions yesterday's attacks on Sderot. Three people were wounded while I drank tea. These were the explosions that caused us all to run inside the house.

IDF completes 72-hour anti-terror offensive in Gaza

Following 72 hours of intense fighting, IDF troops pulled out of central Gaza Saturday night, leaving behind 21 dead Palestinians, killed during Operation Rain Man, launched on Thursday to weed out Hamas terror infrastructure in the Gaza Strip. On Saturday, the IDF stepped up its air and ground offensive and killed at least seven Palestinians.

While the IDF pulled out of central Gaza, Infantry forces from the Givati Brigade accompanied by tanks raided the northern Gaza Strip near Beit Hanoun in a new operation dubbed "Four Species" due to the Sukkot holiday that ended Saturday night. The goal of the operation is to prevent Kassam rocket attacks against southern Israel. The IDF hopes that military presence will deter terrorists from trying to reach the area to launch rockets. The forces were also ordered to uproot vegetation in northern Gaza used as cover for rocket squads.

Defense Minister Amir Peretz ordered the IDF to keep up the pressure on terror elements behind the Kassam attacks. Three Israelis were wounded, including one moderately, over the weekend after two Kassam rockets landed in the backyard of a Sderot home.

At least one Palestinian was killed Saturday afternoon, after aircraft fired three missiles at a car carrying two known Fatah terrorists in the Zietoun neighborhood in Gaza City on their way to launch rockets at Western Negev communities.

Earlier in the day, a missile struck a gathering of six Hamas gunmen in Gaza City. Palestinian security officials said 15 people were injured including two in critical condition. More than a dozen IDF tanks also rolled into the area and took up positions while exchanging fire with Palestinian gunmen.

By nightfall Saturday, the IDF withdrew from central Gaza, completing Operation Rain Man, a 72-hour air and ground campaign against terror infrastructure. "We needed to mow the terror lawn in Gaza," said a source in the Southern Command. "We achieved our goals for now but will return if the need arises."

Signaling further deadlock in efforts to forge a Palestinian coalition government, Palestinian Prime Minister Ismail Haniyeh said Friday that Hamas would never recognize Israel's right to exist.

Hamas will not recognize Israel "no matter for how long," he said, adding that the group will not give up its armed struggle against the Jewish state. "Resistance is a legitimate right ... We will not give up our right to defend ourselves."

Operation Rain Man included targeted killings and a ground incursion into northern and central Gaza where soldiers rounded up terror suspects. On Friday, the IDF set up a makeshift detention center in a military base near the border with Gaza to interrogate dozens of Palestinians detained in the latest incursions.

IAF aircraft also destroyed a house in Rafah that concealed a weapons smuggling tunnel. The occupants were warned by telephone prior to the attack to vacate the premises, and no one was wounded.

Ghazi Hamad, spokesperson for the Hamas-lead government said Israel had "evil plans of a bloody military escalation" in the Gaza Strip. Since the kidnapping of Cpl. Gilad Shalit on June 28, the IDF has carried out a number of offensives in the Gaza Strip against terror elements linked to the ruling Hamas group. More than 200 Palestinians have been killed since then.

Source: http://www.jpost.com/servlet/Satellite?cid=1159193434911&pagename=JPost/JPArticle/ShowFull

I woke up this morning with no intention of going outside for breakfast (the continuation of the party from the night before the resort in northern Israel). Around 11:00 AM, I sat down to eat the leftovers of an omelet, and my mom brought me some tea (with two spoons of sugar, just the way I like it). I hugged her for it, and I let the warm sun wake me up for a few minutes. Soon, an entire caravan of Russians/Israelis was on its way to a pomegranate wine factory a few minutes from our retreat. It's the only pomegranate wine factory in the world.

I bought a bottle of dessert wine and some lovely-smelling pomegranate hand lotion.

My cousin (Ruti) and her boyfriend (Elan), pictured here:

rescued me and a certain furry animal named Santo:

after about an hour. We sped away in a small Honda to Israel's only lake, Kineret. I sat in the back seat, with a drooling fur ball in my lap, listening to Elan's Indian music, watching the rolling hills of Northern Israel, banana fields and vineyards speeding by me, all the while nearing towards a blue mirage of water somewhere towards the base of the mountains.

When we got there, I ate ice cream on a stick (tropical citrus fruit-flavored, the same kind as Ruti), waded in the water, and people-watched as bikini-clad women of all shapes and sizes made their way through the pebble beach and into the water. I was the only woman in a one-piece bathing suit, but by no means the largest woman I saw.

The drive southwards continued, and we eventually made it home to Elan and Ruti's apartment in a kibbutz on the border of Gaza. We showered and changed, and walked across the street to Elan's parents' house for a delicious shabbat dinner. As the meal was drawing to a close, and as we sipped our tea on the porch, telling elephant jokes (I started those), the rocket siren started screaming.

We all ran inside the house after the first rocket exploded, and then sat around for a few minutes, awkwardly trying to ignore that our dinner was just interrupted by actual rocket fire. In the course of 10 minutes, five rockets exploded near enough to the property to remind me that people live under these conditions all the time, and I'm just visiting for a few weeks. The family dog, Spring, was shell-shocked from an explosion that took place yesterday, which hit only a few meters away from where the dog was sitting. The huge animal (I swear, it looks like the dog from The Neverending Story) cowered by the side of the couch after we ran inside the house, and refused to look up at anyone.

Soon after, we thanked Elan's parents for dinner, and then took off to an outdoor Israeli rock concert, which took place at another kibbutz. The performance was great, and the audience was extremely polite--people even got up to smoke in the wings, instead of in the crowd. The singer's name was Ashdot. (I'll post the pictures soon.)

Afterwards, a group of us went out to Elan's kibbutz bar and got fairly smashed to the tune of part-American, part-Israeli music. I heard some more rockets exploding throughout the night, but if anyone else heard them, they didn't acknowledge them in any way. We just sat around drinking and joking around.

I think what struck me most about the evening was that I was, once again, royally frightened by the explosions. This time, at dinner at least, I was asked point-blank by Elan's mom if I was scared. And I was actually told that it's okay to be scared. After seven days of hearing explosions and random gunfire, this was the first time someone has actually sat down with me to discuss how I felt about it all.

People don't want their daily lives to be altered in any way. And they live like this all the time, so I suppose it's easy to forget that other people aren't used to this sort of thing.

I swear, the dinner table was cleared 5 seconds after the alarm went off. The cups of tea and coffee, the carrot cake and the sugar bowl were all brought inside. I wouldn't be surprised if someone managed to wipe down the table with a soapy wash cloth too.

It's a lot to deal with. There is so much beauty in this country, like the rolling hills of the north (they looks like sleeping manatees from a distance). And there is a genuine desire for peace and calm among Israelis, so much so that people ignore the physical reminders of violence to a point of seeming indifference. But people are, by no means, indifferent. They just go on with daily life as best as they can, hoping that one day, things will get better.

***

Interesting tidbits of information: Ruti and I both have strange pointer fingers, we cross our arms with the right one on top, we can roll our tongues into tubes, we can do the vulcan greeting with both hands, and we can't wiggle our ears. She can also isolate the movement of her pinky toes, while I can't. Fascinating, I know.

Tons of pictures to be posted soon.

I know I should write about my return "home," and I’ve been meaning to, but some things have gotten in the way. I’ve laid awake the last several nights, listening to explosions and other noises, which I have deemed "not important enough to write about," but which I would like to mention now, since I have some time. (I swear, I heard what sounded like a cat being swung by its tail last night; the screaming meow could’ve served as a sophisticated form of radar.)

Other things have kept me up at night too. The long term things, like work and family. And of course, the really long term thing: finding that one person who puts everything else into perspective. Last night, I was up at 3:00 AM doing Pilates in the dark, trying to make myself tired. Now, I officially have abs of steel.

I’m writing this at 1:15 AM as I sit in a dark hotel room, about 10 feet away from my trying-to-sleep parents, in a small town in northern Israel. We’re about 15 km away from the Lebanese border. Here is a view of the area at twilight and at sunset:

Today was one of those days that I might remember many years from now, as I lay awake at night, worrying about my kids, my husband and my aging parents. But I’ll remember it in a very nostalgic way, certainly erasing the mundane things that have taken place today, like sitting in a traffic jam. I’ll forgive myself for such transgressions though, because the rose-colored warmth I’ll associate with today is definitely real.

About 18 people from my parents’ childhoods gathered for a reunion. Here are some of them having a "light snack":

Some came directly from Russia (like our neighbor from our dacha/cabin in Minsk), others came from all over Israel. Among the relatives that attended were my aunt and uncle, and my closest look-alike cousin, Ruti.

She and I don’t see each other often–we’ve spent only a few months of our lives together, if you add up the amount of time I’ve spent in Israel from my last three trips here. But talking to her gives me an understanding of myself that no other source can provide me with.

I asked her tonight, as we opened up Russian chocolates, tasting each one, swapping flavors that didn’t suit our palates, "Could you take a year off from everything and just travel around the world without feeling guilty?"

Without batting an eyelash, she answered me in English with a thick Israeli accent, "Of course not. We are the product of our parents," she answered, motioning at our mothers, sitting side by side, looking more like sisters than ever.

I asked to look at her feet at this point in the conversation (we’d had a bit to drink) because I learned yesterday that my aunt Ora, Ruti’s mom, has feet almost exactly like mine. I’ve never met anyone with feet like mine. (I have toes that look like fingers.)

Ruti’s toes weren’t like mine, but we had an identical ridge on the outsides of our feet that I had never even noticed before–she brought it to my attention in a sort of "oh, well, would you look at that" moment.

The evening passed slowly as Ruti, her boyfriend Elan, and I watched the group of ancient friends interact. We also stuffed our faces with barbecued bratwurst, shish kebabs, marinated cabbage, humus, roasted eggplant spread, pita bread, and various drinks, including Georgian wine, Israeli wine and Russian Vodka.

Ruti and I talked about our lives in snippets that aimed to summarize entire years of events, but we’d finish each other’s sentences by saying, "Oh yeah, I already heard about that guy you dated. Your mom told my mom already." It seems we know more about each other than we’d thought, since our moms talk to each other every Shabbat.

Just before dessert, my mom raised her glass of Georgian red to me and said, "Don’t forget that you have family here."

I responded, "I couldn’t forget them even if I tried."

It’s true. There’s something unbelievably understated about all of them, and I feel privileged to be able to see their brilliance. My aunt sat the whole night, talking to everyone while busily knitting a scarf for me (to match the hat she already made for me earlier).

I thanked my uncle again for fixing my Steve Madden sandals, which I was prepared to throw away, but which were fortunately salvaged. I watched my mom play with the ring on her left hand, a ring which my uncle made for her and which she now wears as her wedding band.

I see myself in these people, and I make more sense in the context of them. I quietly watched my aunt dilly dally by the wind chimes for a while, running her fingers along each tube, listening to the distinct sound each one made. I later saw my mom do the same thing, whereas a dozen other people walked right by the chimes and didn’t even stop to notice their potential. The truth is that I was drawn to those chimes, as well–I almost did the same thing as my Aunt Ora and my mom, but I curtailed my instincts and stayed away for some reason.

I want to say that I’ve had an "aha moment," an Oprah Moment, on my trip so far. It hasn’t happened yet, and I doubt it will. But I’m happy to know that there are small, inexplicable details about me that no longer isolate me from others, but instead bring me closer to my family.

My aunt could survive happily on fresh bread and salami, just like me. Ruti plays flute and gets really mad once in a while, like when she bent her flute into an arc by hitting it against a wall on her trip to India. Depression runs in my family, and so does overwhelming guilt. (We’re on a Jewish diet–we eat away at ourselves.)

I might be approaching an age where I no longer want to change with such abandon as I wanted to in the past. I’m itching to plant roots now, to fold up my wings and start my Real life. I don’t necessarily want to build a nest and lay eggs, but who I am now will probably remain fundamentally unchanged. It’s revealing to see myself against the backdrop of my relatives–I’m not as crazy as I thought, and I can actually be kind of interesting once in a while.

I couldn't fall asleep last night. I was thinking about everything from "I'm glad there aren't many bugs in Isreal" to "I wonder if I'm making the most of time here." And then, for the first time, at 3:30 AM, I heard what a machine gun sounds like.

I tried to play the lightning game, the one where you figure out how far away a storm is based on how long it takes for the thunder to reach you. I kept getting distracted. I kept wondering what kind of peace can be built with people who stay up to fire their machine guns in the middle of the night.

I kept thinking, "I'm leaving in about a week, but my family will stay here, dealing with this, for the rest of their lives."

I woke up this morning, around 9:30 AM, to the sound of a half-dozen bombs exploding. I rolled over and went to back to sleep.

More later...

Dude(s). It's almost 3 PM here, and we haven't left the house yet! I did make some bracelets and necklaces, though.

We're very slowly getting ready to go to Jerusalem to check out an art show. Supposedly, there is some really cool glass stuff that gets lit up at night. More later...

As promised:

This is one of the coolest things I've ever seen. It turns out that these glass sculptures were donated to Jerusalem by Dale Chehuly, the same guy who made the incredible glass sculptures for the Bellagio in Las Vegas.

He went one step further with the installation in the Old City--some of the sculptures were made of glass, and some of other materials, but they were arranged as a musical ensemble that actually played music. Very eerie, new-age, multi-dimensional music.

The entire exhibit had a very surreal feel to it, almost like I landed on another planet.

After, we walked through the shuk (the market) to get to the kotel (The Wall). That's my friend Jacob's back side.

Here's a picture of the kotel, where I actually couldn't resist praying (to who, I'm not sure, but it certainly felt like the right thing to do at the time): 

This morning, I was awoken by a bomb going off. So far, I've heard five bombs explode in the last 10 minutes.

I'm staying 50 meters from the northern border of Gaza in a moshav (town) called Netiv Ha'asarah, located 15 minutes south of Ashqelon.

My cousin, Ruti, and her boyfriend, Elad, warned me last night. "You will hear it." They didn't use the word "bomb," but I figured that part out on my own.

To be honest, the first emotion I felt wasn't fear. It was actually outrage. And now, I'm pissed. I'm pissed that this has been going on for the last five years. I'm pissed that people have to live like this. People who draw pictures. People who are kindergarten teachers and arts and crafters. People who make dolls. Like my aunt and uncle, people who create.

I'll keep track of how many times I hear it today, but I have a feeling that I'll stay pissed for a long time.

Tally: 6 its as of 7:16 AM local time.

***

There is a surveilance airplane that flies several times a day over Gaza, monitoring people's activities. Naively, I thought it was a lawn mower somewhere far away until my uncle corrected me.

***

My family and I spent the day in Ashqelon, a rather unattractive town. It's mostly full of religious Israelis and Russian immigrants. Each store we went to had Russian-speaking sales people, so I could communicate without any trouble.

Ha! I'm alive! No problems so far. Didn't sleep on the plane, but at least there weren't any screaming babies. We had a mini reunion at the airport in Tel-Aviv with some of our friends from Russia (who now live in Natanya) and my aunt, uncle and cousin. Here's one of my lifelong friends Jacob (our dads went to elementary school together):

When we got to my aunt's house, we did the whole pressent-exchange thing that we always do. My parents picked up an oil painting in Alexandria, VA for my aunt before we left, so here's a shot of my mom and aunt unfurling it:

I then slept for 6 hours in a fallout shelter (It's a guest room when there is nothing to be hiding from. That's where I'll be staying, more on this later.)

My aunt and uncle's house is covered in art. Here is some of my aunt's work:

I am now sitting at Newark Airport and I just had a plate-full of nachos (with beans) from this establishment:

In about three hours, I will be boarding a plane bound for Tel-Aviv. Am I excited? Not yet.

Honestly, I’m more scared than anything else. I know, I know. Irrational. I’ll be fine. But I’m still scared. My boss told me before I left, "Don’t die." And he looked at me like he was never going to see me again. What’s up with that?

Honestly, I could get hit by a bus or get attacked by a brick-wielding insane person any day, without even leaving my own city.

Or, I could even get beat up on the plane by the passenger sitting next to me. Why? For eating beans.

Currently listening to: Disintegration by The Cure

Note: This album has recently been reclaimed. You know, in the way that music is associated with a person/place/event and you can’t listen to it without remembering that thing. So, I’m glad I’ve saved this beautiful piece of art from the clutches of memory.

Several weeks ago, my friend, John, and I ran into Denis Hastert on Capitol Hill.

John and I were apartment hunting and babbling about how dumpy some of the row houses were, but yet how rent was still astronomically high.

John and I didn’t recognize the gianormous man, but we knew that the three Secret Service agents and a black SUV were guarding someone important, and that someone important was headed straight towards us. Like a mini swarm of bees, the entourage descended on a nondescript row house a few blocks from the Capitol building, a house which we happened to be walking in front of.

"Sir, how was Russia?" I heard a voice ask, as a white-cuffed hand reached around me to shake hands with a portly, sweat-streaked, good ole’ boy.

"Fine, fine," the Elephant replied.

This reunion of sorts took up the sidewalk, so John asked one of the Mr. Andersons if we could keep walking. The response finally made me realize that we were in the midst of someone important, indeed. "If you wouldn’t mind stepping over to the side," Mr. Anderson started to say. He motioned for us to step off of the sidewalk and into the street.

John and I did as we were told, and as the Virginia Ham passed us, he gave two well-rehearsed hand gestures in our general direction that resembled something between a fly-swat and jazz hands. Quietly, he said "Hello," twice, making eye contact with John and I separately.

I glanced at John after Beluga Whale went up the stairs and into a doorway. "Do you know who that was?" Our glances asked each other. Neither of us had a clue. Yet.

I hesitated for a split second before approaching the driver of the black SUV (fully aware that his right hand was firmly holding a gun) to ask him my burning question. "Sir, who was that man?" The Brick Jaw answered half-smirking, "That was the Speaker of the House."

"Thanks," I said. But I still had no idea who the Fatty had been. I relayed the info to John and we both began calling everyone on our calling lists to ask if any of our friends knew the name of the Speaker of the House. A social studies research project, we decided. Oddly, nobody answered.

I had no idea that several weeks after this run-in I would witness a real-life version of the over-the-top political scandal immortalized through a one-sided phone conversation of the Secretary General of a party called "The Union for Moral Order" in the movie The Birdcage:

"Hello?

Speaking.

Oh, my God.

My God.

President Berthier is dead?

In a woman’s arms?

A prostitute?

A minor, no less??

A minor...and he called her 'chocolate'?!"

At the risk of bopping the field mouse over the head one too many times, I venture to draw a parallel to the strangely surreal reality that is now an Icon of... well, I no longer know, since no one wants to have anything to do with poor, poor Mark Foley:

"Dear God! Representative Foley is in trouble?

He sent sexually explicit text messages to a congressional page?

A male page?

A minor, no less?

He’s now an alcoholic and has checked into rehab?

And he was sexually molested as a child?

By a member of the clergy?!"

And he’s gay?!"

I listened to NPR every day this week on my commute to work. I have to say that out of everything I heard, the most interesting commentary was--and I’m sorry to say that I don’t remember the woman’s name–an editorial on what Representative Foley must now be feeling.

I’m paraphrasing here, and please forgive the liberties I may have taken in the retelling, but I believe the gist has remained true to the underlying message. Not a minute has gone by since this scandal erupted that Mark Foley hasn’t said to himself, "I want to die. Please, I just want to crawl underneath that bush and die. Yes, that one right there."

Ladies and gentlemen, if he makes it through the next several weeks–and he certainly is on suicide watch, I think he may emerge as a stronger, more well-centered human being than he was before he went in to rehab. And that’s not saying much.

I don’t write about politics. For one, I’m not as good at it as some people like Helen Thomas, a Senior White House Press Correspondent. On a recent trip, I got a chance to chat with her for an hour at Ronald Reagan Airport while we both waited for our flights. I snapped this shot of her from about two feet away. (Much too close for comfort? I agree.)

However, when our bloodthirsty desire to watch people burn underneath a magnifying glass makes the subject commit suicide (mark my words), well, we should all be a little more mindful of how small we are and how very large the sun is, as well as God’s invisible hand.

I’ve crawled out from beneath the proverbial political rock that has served as my centipede-ridden, but controversy-free home to deliver this public service announcement. Foley isn’t unique. There are plenty more like him, and there will always be people like him. What’s interesting is that I think the public has forgotten that however deranged this Foley character is, he is still a human being. And human beings have limits.

We now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

BBEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPP.

I'll post a cool story later today. In the meantime, I hope this will tie you over.

Literally. Does anyone have any secret remedies for an impending cold? Oh, and sore throat?