The Holidays Are Over

Finally! The questionably normal pace of life is back on track now that Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur and Sukkot are safely behind us. Although the holidays were intended as a source of joy the non-stop cooking, endless overeating, hoardes of Israelis crowding the tourist sites and the round robin of teenagers alternating between the couch facing the television and the computer can certainly test one's ability to celebrate.

Jerusalem was overrun, as usual. Benny and I took advantage of the single quiet day on Yom Kippur to go for a bike ride. Keep in mind that Yom Kippur is national bike riding day in Israel thanks to the complete absence of vehicles on the road during those hallowed twenty-five hours. As soon as the last crumbs have been wiped from the chins of those feasting on the final meal the streets fill up with kids on roller blades, skate boards, scooters, bicycles and anything else with wheels that parents forbid kids to ride in traffic. Since I rediscovered the bicycle this summer my husband was excited to introduce me to the daily ride he usually takes to work, along one of the few bike paths in Jerusalem. He warned me that the way there was mostly uphill but that we would coast back on the return trip. We set out in the appropriate gear and pumped along a decent incline until we reached the Monastery of the Cross.

After a brief respite via Sacher Park we mounted the last low hill through the backstreets of Nahlaot, cutting over Jaffa Road towards the tv building. Concentrating intently on managing my energy for those inclines, I didn't realize Benny was leading us straight into Dosland - one of the ultra-orthodox neighborhoods adjacent to his office. Breathing heavily, I suddenly found myself, in sleeveless black spandex, penetrating a gaggle of frum women and children congregated on the sidewalk. If the intrusion of two indecently dressed heathens wasn't insulting enough, my thoughtful husband rang his bell - after all, he didn't want anyone to get run over. I waited for the insults or the stones to come raining down on us but surprisingly, no one said a word. I suppose that on Yom Kippur, all is forgiven.

During Sukkot I escaped to other venues. A friend and I spent a day in Tel Aviv, wandering some of the original neighborhoods of the city, a subject which intrigues me more and more. We learned about the founders of Tel Aviv, mapped out a touring route, discovered some local artists and lunched on dim sum. The pulse of Tel Aviv is impossible to ignore, throbbing everywhere with people eating at outdoor food bars serving exotic fare, walking the boulevards and just keeping rhythm with the pace of the city. The average age of the people on the streets is more characteristic of a college campus than a large metropolis. It's a wonderfully exhuberant city but the humidity spoils it all. One is never without a sheen of sweat, twenty-four, non-stop hours a day. The one thing they can never take from us in Jerusalem is the weather. We returned home wistfully but resolutely.

Our other jaunt was a visit to a dear friend in Shoham, a small town started from scratch about fifteen years ago near the airport on obsolete agricultural fields . Conveniently situated in the suburban sprawl of Tel Aviv, the town has served as a magnet for up-and-coming middle class Israeli families and has grown rapidly to about 25,000 inhabitants. However, it still retains a small town atmosphere and our friends invited us to the annual Muses of Sukkot festival, held in the large public park. After waiting a quarter of an hour at the entrance to the city to go through security we made our way through the crowds towards a free performance by a well-known Israeli dance troupe. A relatively short distance, it took ages to reach our destination because our friend kept stopping to chat with people she knows along the way. The dancers were young and, well, not terribly inspiring. We moved on to a small tent to find places for the circus acts performance, which promised to be exciting. Twenty minutes early, we procured excellent spots on the ground right in front of the stage and proceeded to wait while the tent filled up with over-achieving, bourgeois Jewish parents determined to ensure an unobstructed view for their whining, bratty kids. The family next to us had a pizza delivered to the tent and we looked on enviously as they ate with gusto. Finally, the palm of a hand appeared from behind the curtain and a clown emerged to begin the show. The music was great but somehow, the only thing that got moving were the vertebrae in our spines as we contorted our bodies to relieve our aching backs. Benny threatened to walk out in the middle and my teenaged daughters, who didn't exactly come along willingly, informed us that we were done for the evening. I was the last person who would argue with them.

Our final outing was to the beach. We ended the holiday with our toes in the sand after bathing in warm, gentle waves and watched the sun go down over the Mediterranean. Life is back to normal, including my morning access to the computer that I missed so much. But alas, it may not be over yet. The teachers are threatening a three-month strike, starting tomorrow (they had to go back to school today - otherwise they wouldn't be paid for the vacation). I can't say I'm excited about having the kids back at home again. Where is the state responsible for educating my children? Visit me next week to find out what desperate measures hundreds of thousands of Jewish parents will take to keep their kids in school. Meantime, pray for us...