Among the Modern Pilgrims

08/08                     23:30                                     Hotel in Rennes

Mont St. Michel is the site of a millennium-old Benedictine abbey in western France. In visiting, I thought of pilgrims.

Pilgrims are a logical object of thought when visiting an abbey. Mont St. Michel has long been a site of pilgrimage, both as a destination and as an early stopover on the way to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. Key elements of the site have been built or altered with pilgrims in mind.

I thought of pilgrims the day before when getting off the train in Dol-de-Bretagne. Backpackers and sack-laden bikes were legion on that train. One German my age stood out; he had a red goatee tufting off his chin and a fedora-like hat, and he asked in English at the train station how to get to Pontorson, one stop away on a different train or a short bus ride away, the town closest to Mont St. Michel. He bore the burden of his green backpack well, but not doubt grew tired of it at times.

I thought of pilgrims again at dinner that night. A table away at the crêperie sat a British family. The white-trimmed father plowed away with his French in ordering for the table, dictionary in hand, while the two university-age sons played an actor guessing game, and the mother and older daughter looked on in faint bemusement. Much English was to be heard on the train to Dol, as well as on the streets of the small town. I was now on the north coast of Bretagne, hardly a ferry ride away from the UK, so it stood to reason. The main site in the area, of course, was Mont St. Michel. Pilgrims.

Pilgrims came to mind on my bike ride to Mont St. Michel in the morning. Gîtes and chambres d’Hôtes advertised their proximity to the site. In one intersection, I passed a troop of backpackers. “All their lives on their back and all their hopes in front of them.” There were not many on my side path, but they could be found, in German-plated cars or on bikes.

The historical pilgrims and the modern pilgrims share more traits than it seems at first. Both come from distance, near and far to experience a form of bliss and escape from everyday life. Both are inspired by thick books with solid information and dull prose that speak of strange feats and mystical places. Both get on the nerves of locals but also fuel the nearby economy. Both pack away their lives and carry them as penance for the journey. Both smell bad.

Pilgrims discomfort me. The historical ones are more interesting and more honest in their faith, but the piety and closed-mindedness that usually carried those pilgrims on their path would make me uneasy. The modern pilgrims move like herds with their babble of languages and their incessant memorialization of the present. The expectations for a site rise when modern pilgrims are afoot, and fall because of the presene of those same pilgrims. When I see the packs of modern pilgrims, a part of me tenses up. That part twists over itself even more when I remember: I am one of them.

***

The French verb “dominer” is not quite a false cognate with the English “dominate, but it doesn’t have quite the same meaning either. Dominer is to look over, be higher than, or in a sports context, to lead. There is not the strong sense of power and the judgment of force that the English word holds. The French states a fact, plain and ungarnished.

Mont St. Michel domine and dominates the surrounding area. I approached on bike from the southwest through les polders, open wheat fields just short of the salt marshes in the Baie St. Michel. It was a flat, peaceful route, with only the rare tractor, hiking family, or foreign-plated car to be seen. Also a dog, whose sudden barging run startled me enough to send me crashing in a ditch, head over handlebars, cursing furiously in English and French. I hate dogs.

I made a turn east and now ahead of me the back of a sign. “Great, I thought,” I can make sure I’m on the right path.” Then I by chance looked up to my left and cried, “Oh!” I halted in my pedaling.

If you click on this picture, you can see MSM in the center backgronud.

There past the fields stood Mont St. Michel, dominating the landscape. The abbey stood like a bauble castle, on a rock in the bay and fitting in with nothing, yet fitting with everything since it, the castle, the fortress, the abbey, dominated the landscape. To come on it all of a sudden, to witness its power and splendor in both comparative and absolute senses, is to understand how, why Mont St. Michel is a site of pilgrimage. Awesome, that much-abused word, fits this first sight, some 1300 years on.

***

Mont St. Michel was first conceived, the story goes, by Bishop Aubert after the archangel Michael came to him in a dream and inspired him to build a sanctuary on a rock standing out in the curve of the French coast, on the modern-day border between the regions of Bretagne and Normandy. This was in 708. In 966, it became a Benedictine abbey, though much of the current structure dates from the 12^th or 13^th centuries. The abbey was constructed with military might and held out during the English sieges of the 100-year War, unlike the rest of north and west France. After the French Revolution, the anti-ecclesiastical current turned the abbey into a prison for about 70 years, before at last it became the historic monument it remains today.

There is only one road leading to Mont St. Michel, leading due North from Pontorson 10 kilometers away. One can also reach it by crossing the bay when the tide is out, but bikes ride poorly on wet sand. I joined the Pontorson road about halfway up, knowing I had arrived by the sight of my fellow travelers, picnicking or walking north, undeniably from elsewhere. French families and Spanish speakers, large tour buses of Asians and elderly, bebaseballhatted Americans, German groups and Italian individuals, a few Brasileiros, a melting pot of strangers seeking to behold the abbey, the castle. Pilgrims.

The stream of people approaching the site could not diminish its majesty. We walked on the 19^th century causeway across the bay – one the French are replacing with a bridge to allow the bay its traditional tide and to flush out those salt marshes – and the abbey grew to its full might and stature, a power pictures cannot capture. The hour or so I spent between first espying the Mont and finally reaching the site was among the best parts of the visit.

Indeed, once entering the little town at the foot of the abbey, the majesty is shrouded. We came too close to see, and the pilgrim wave overwhelmed. I walked through the street leading up to the abbey. The street was narrow, four people wide, with the upward flow constant and slow, the downward varied and hurried. Souvenir shops, hotels, and crêperies lined the street, seeking to ease and add to the pilgrim’s load in equal measure.

I arrived at the steps at 13:00. The line, or so I heard, was shorter an hour or two before my arrival. When I left two hours later, it was shorter. I waited, treading slowly up the stairs with limited achievement – shade, indoors, at last a ticket – for about 45 minutes.

And for all that, the abbey itself is the least impressive part of the visit. Not that it lacks highlights: the first staircase is grand; the terrace offers fine views of the dominated landscape; the oft-cited cloister is pretty; the audio guide informs in a restrained manner; and a few quiet corners of green or brownstone beauty can be found. It’s not that the site isn’t impressive, but it is on the order of similar medieval churches, abbeys, and the like. For example, I would rank Mont St. Michel’s abbey, known as “La Merveille”, the wonder, higher than the monastery/castle in the Lisboa suburb of Belem, but lower than the more bewitching, wondrous Alhambra in Granada. What sets Mont St. Michel apart is its setting, and on the site that can be perceived only in passing.

One of those hidden green corners.

 ***

There is another way to appreciate the Mont and its setting: encircling the rock on foot, when the tide is out. The tide was out when I reached bottom. I stripped off my shirt, socks, and shoes, lathered on sunscreen, and took off barefoot.

The dark gray tidal sand rippled beneath my feet, caking my toes in mud, which left over puddles would wash. A small child played naked in one of these puddles with his swimsuit-clad older siblings, parents not plainly in site. Maybe a hundred people in total walked on the sand, including a large group led by a guide and an Asian fellow my age, with glasses and a camera, mud snaking up past his calves. He pointed out a piece of my bike helmet strap which had fallen.

To the north of the Mont, a large rock or a small island stuck out as an afterthought. Above us, the Mont regained its majesty, sundered from the wider landscape by our limited perspective but mighty in its absolute sense, alone. The bay offers one views from all sides, pictures dotted with ant-like pilgrims, a final, sustaining image.

The bay crossing comes with risks. My guidebook talks of the massive tidal variation and the tidal return racing like a horse. I did not see this, but I felt the sands shift beneath my feet. In crossing a large pool of water to complete the circle round the Mont, I picked a path I thought shallow and safe. Just shy of the “shore” I suddenly found no ground, my leg plunging into water mid-thigh deep (only about mid-shin for most people, but still). I worried for a moment of my backpack getting wet, even of quicksand, of becoming an example for why one does not cross the bay alone and unguided. Another foolhardy step, another mid-thigh plunge. I changed direction, kept relatively calm, and found slightly faster than normal but not quite quicksand. I pulled myself from the water, half my shorts damp but no further damage taken.

My feet were fully caked in mud now, and the mud snaked up to my shin. I carried my shoes in hand and walked back on the causeway, sneaking glances over my shoulder at the receding Mont. I smiled at passers-by who gave my muddy feet once-overs ranging from sneering to curious. I heard comments about them in several languages.

My day and, in most senses, my trip were at end. My bike, a short flat ride, a brief train journey, and a hotel in Rennes awaited me. My backpack dug into my bare shoulders and the afternoon sun worked from the South to even my biker’s tan and dry my mud. I was tired, hungry, dirty, barefoot, and mostly satisfied.

I was at journey’s end. I was a pilgrim, turning for home.

A Series of Ordinarily Extraordinary Events - The Red Bike Rides in Bretagne, Pt. 3

02.08                      23:00              Hostel Room in Quiberon

Weather: The sun overcomes, the wind still blows fierce

Distance biked: 75 km yesterday, 45-50km today

Jeff was the 3^rd most extraordinary thing that happened to me today. He approached me as I sat at a table in a bar. The bar was not crowded; five to seven locals joked around the bar, and I sat alone, half a floor away. I sat crouched over this very journal, finishing yesterday’s entry. My bike helmet sat on the table in front of my beer. I wore my “civilian”, non-bike clothes, but no doubt still stank. Beneath me lay my bursting backpack. As always, I must have cut a strange figure.

“Where from?” he asked me. He had been walking back from the bathroom. I told him, in French.

A simulation of our linguistic struggles

“Who you?” he continued in English. I don’t mean to brag in saying it, but I will: my French was better than his English. Certainly more fluid.

“Je m’appelle Daniel,” I said.

“Oh, I’m Jeff.” We shook hands. He had long curly brown hair and bright blue eyes and facial hair all over.

He asked me what I was doing, why I was in Bretagne, and where I was staying. He stuck to the English. Rarely am I out-stubborned over which language to use, but I had to hand it to him. I ended up throwing some English in.

“You’re going to Quiberon tonight? Do you have number?” He meant phone. He proceeded to offer me a place to stay at his house. He wouldn’t be there that night, but his girlfriend would. He then told me to see the Côte Sauvage and take pictures (he mimed taking pictures with his hand). By the time we ended our conversation, he had told me work was good in the tourist season – the summer – but not for the rest of the year, that he was from Nantes, and the Breizh (Breton) word for “see you soon” at our parting (Something like Quenavoohoo). We also exchanged a second, more elaborate handshake.

I don’t know why they always come to me, but they do.

(I was not bold enough to take Jeff up on his offer).

***

The fourth most extraordinary thing today was biking through Elven. The town was nothing special, but its name is Elven! (An Elven in Breizh. Vannes is Gwened in Breizh. Pretty cool).

As I said, Bretagne has Celtic roots. Breizh is related to old Celtic languages, with lots of gw, q, k, and ac sounds – the most familiar Breton name to Americans I Kerouac (also Bretagne – Brittany in English – is related to Grande Bretagne in French – you guessed it, Great Britain).

For me, Celtic roots mean nerdy fantasy worlds I ate up as a kid. First Lloyd Alexander’s Prydain Chronicles, then of course Tolkien’s books. I was not terribly sad about missing Merlin’s tomb, but if you told me where the village Beren and Luthien passed the end of their days, I’d be there yesterday (that’s a Silmarillon reference, uber-nerdy Tolkien stuff). 

If the shoe fits...(though really, I'm more hobbit-like)

Part of the excitement and majesty of this trip for me is to explore a related setting. I trek through forests and wide wheat fields, past mysterious ponds and quiet stone hosues, over hills and to windswept coasts. The interior of Bretagne enchants, and towns named Elven only add to the fun.

Not all of Elven was fun, however…

***

The most dually frustrating and positive thing today was that I bought a map. The map kept me on track – no zigzagging today. The only diversion was when I found a bike path that took me along the canal between Nantes and Brest. This was great, and I only wish it could have been more on my way to Vannes. Biking on flat, quiet bike paths by water is hard to beat.

The frustration is twofold. First, when I have a map, I look at it. A lot. Like every time I come to a significant intersection or a new town. My memory is good but not for pictures, and doubt is strong in me. Most often this is seen in the many photos of me traveling, with a backpack on and my nose in a book. It’s usually a guidebook, and I’m usually checking a map.

More physically frustrating was that my map showed no topography. I had no idea when hills were coming. The ride through Elven felt like one long uphill with brief flat pauses and the rarest of dips in the road. I pride myself on being tough, but 100 km in two days and hill after hill is enough to knock the tough out of me. One of my cycling maxims (I’ve at least two) is that every uphill is rewarded and every downhill paid for. It sure didn’t feel like I was rewarded today. Only on the last 10 kms did I rediscover my gumption and gut it out. A few downhills helped.

***

A few pettily extraordinary things:

-          I’m staying in a hostel. The only thing I don’t like about hostels is sharing my room with strangers. I’ve not done so in a long time, maybe four years. Still, for this trip I thought I could deal with it. What the hell, I want to go cheap. Them’s the breaks.

I showed up at 21:30, a half-hour before reception closed. I got placed in a room with four beds. Alone. Hot damn.

-          I showed up so late due to finally conceding on the train front. I had to take the train one stop before transferring to a train for this peninsula. The earlier train that went was a TGV, the one where you have to pay.

I could have said fuck it, snuck on, and hoped I wouldn’t have to deal with anybody for the ten minutes before I changed. Instead? I took a ticket for a later regional train and went for a drink and dinner in Vannes (meeting Jeff in the process). Maturity, I guess.

-          As mentioned, the sun came out. Ruins my joke that the one thing in my backpack I could do with out is the sunscreen. I did wear my long-sleeved shirt tonight.

-          I kept my Olympics streak alive, watching the women’s gymnastics tonight in the common room. I don’t think I’ve ever watched them so much, at least not since I was a kid – in ’08 I had just moved to Israel (no tv), in ’04 I worked two jobs, etc. Growing up, the Olympics were just about the only really-approved sports programming in our house. My mother liked the gymnastics, swimming, skiing, and figure skating.

-          While writing this, I finished my survival pack for the day – bread already gone, I ate an apple and finished my bar of chocolate. The chocolate only had half a row left. “Who’s been eating my chocolate?” I thought. I always eat it row by row, and the only way I would have left it like that is if I had been interrupted.

I checked in my back pack. There on the bottom was the rest of the chocolate, broken off. Good thing I checked.

***

The second most extraordinary thing I came across today was the beach. I’m staying in a hostel just north of Quiberon, on a narrow peninsula (Jeff described the people here as close-minded, “Quiberon for Quiberon” types, saying that 15 km out in the water, the mentality is bizarre). The beach is right there. So after checking in and claiming my room, I threw on my long sleeves and walked over, hoping to catch a glorious sunset.

There was no sun to be seen, though at 21:35 it was still light out. Plenty of other things demanded attention. I reached the sand and saw little white specks jumping all over. I thought at first that they were specks of trash blown about that looked like bugs. On further inspection, they were bugs. Leaping little whit erratic maggots or something. They popped left and right and up and down like excited gas molecules, with only rare periods of considered crawling. Barefoot and otherwise, I found the buggers all over my feet and ankles. They covered the whole dry sand area, especially congregating around seaweed and such clumps.

The wet sand area was the biggest I’ve seen. Wide as a football filed, the smooth sand was covered with a slim layer of water, not enough to stick up your nose or drown in. It represented a large tidal variation.

I walked barefoot out to the water’s edge. The water chilled me though gulls braved it. I skipped a few stones before my weak shoulder ached. The ocean roar drowned out my singing. Down to my left, on the south of the peninsula, a few lights shone, Quiberon’s agglomeration. Two couples sauntered on the wet sand. 

And then I turned around. Rising above the tree line, not visible closer to the shore, was the full moon. Orange and ripe like the whiffs of stinky cheese I bumped into en route, the moon hung over as if ready to swallow the peninsula. With such a narrow base and 15 kilometers out into the water, with all this as normal, it’s hard to imagine how the locals could have anything but a bizarre mentality.

The most extraordinary thing today? That breath filled my lungs, blessings my life, and that I was able to take part in all of it. And that I have another day to tackle tomorrow.

And now for some Poetry, Dutch and Deutsch style!

The following is some slightly more artistic writing that I did, inspired by the Netherlands and Germany. Dig in. (And yes, there is product placement in the poetry, of sorts. Call it the new post post modern.)

Two Ends of a Bridge
Focus on the sun, the warmth on your eyes,
burning through the fall goosebumps breeze
See the blue dot behind your eyelids
Rising just out of view.
If the two ends of a bridge don't meet
It's probably to let a sailboat pass through
Unless the bridge over the river Drina has been blown in two
Think of Isidora's gift and her friend in Hamburg
Think of how amazing life is, or how
awful it can be, as in the genocide book
How life is often (always?) both

Untitled (06/09)

The mind craves change, but so much is the same

We are more attractive when with someone

When home, moving seems better

When away in a god place, everything feels like home

Just because I want something different, rarer

does not make me better

Just because i want someone to change does not

mean I must not accept them now.

Down at the Beach

Photo courtesy of Benjamin Chang. Check more of his photos here and here.

5x2 trampoline area. Yellow padding over the springs, green/purple/yellow/blue trim on black mats. A 12-year old boy jumps alone, tentatively, unimpressively. A girl steps on the second mat from the left, row farther from the sea. She is 16-25, probably towards the younger side, light brown hair in a ponytail, brown tank top, blue shorts. Her hops begin, probing and testing, never wasteful. She goes from corner to corner, lightly. Then she flips backwards. Her form is perfect, with straight legs, an unmoving upper body, and arching arms. When I do gymnastic movements, I achieve movement through force; short, explosive contortions or circles that signify power but cannot be pretty in observation. I land in spite of myself. She moves through grace, suggesting only the barest exertion. Her legs appear powerful from my stairway perch, but more as a result of her movement than as a tool to achieve that movement.

She spans the whole mat, perhaps 2mx4m. She flips forwards, she flips backwards, she lands on her butt and then twists off the bounce before landing again. She stands on her hands. Her training must be as a diver or a gymnast. Or as a trampoline artist. She disappointingly jumps a pedestrian 720 rotation. She atones by landing a backward flip with a twist, and again forwards. She may realize she is being watched.

The younger boy is off by now, outgunned and outshined. An older boy, abotu 25, the younger boy's brother for sure, blond, and long like a swimmer, dressed only in thigh low swim trunks and tall man musculature, rises from a chair nearby next to a pretty girl in a red bikini, and steps onto the mat two over from hers, on the same row. He briefly warms up and launches his body into back flips, front flips, and a double back flip, which he does not quite land.

Undoubtedly, he is also very skilled, and his grace is far greater than mine. But power infects his movements as well, allowing him more revoutions but robbing him of her elegance. He looks like a diver, and he appears to be showing off or competing in a way that she does nto. I am projecting, of course.

She steps off. The younger boy returns and emulates his brother, attempting a front flip. She is now on the sand, by two wooden bars; I realize the fenced in section of beach they are in holds a nearly full array of gymnastic equipment: rings, bars, and so on. She tries to do a one-armed cartwheel on the sand. She does not quite succeed. I can do a one-armed cartwheel (though maybe not on sand). I think this proves my point. She puts on sneakers, walks over to talk to the bikini girl, and then leaves the gymnastic compound.

The older brother continues for a couple more minutes and then sits and stretches. The little boy continues for a brief time alone before growing bored. The sea laps at the sand, unchanged, and the wind gusts, unchanged, knocking over my plate of fries so as to stain the concrete with sand-specked mayo and ketchup. The scene ends.

This, at least, is how I remember it.

Tyranny of the Next

The tyranny of the next

Release yourself from expectation

Detach from plans and schedules and details

Accept that the essence is the same

The company, the air, the direction.

The details are just details

The tyranny of the past

But I am just as at fault as any

And on the road, the blame is needless

Useless, in the way.

Let the mistakes go. Let tomorrow be.

Breathe. And again. Breathe.

No, I don't do those things!

I've held this posting for a couple of days, both to give time for people to read the previous post and to give time to myself to come to terms with the events described below. Don't worry, I didn't do anything really bad, or anything that the president of the united states must have to do sometimes (which doesn't really mean anything good, but whatever).
In the past, my propensity for going along with the flow and listening to people has led to interesting stories, both good and bad. I'm never afraid to test my boundaries, you could say, and I do it all for your entertainment. So, I'd tell you to try to withhold judgment on this one, but I didn't really do anything wrong. As a warning, graphic elements are suggested, though not depicted. And I wouldn't recommend trying this at home. Or anywhere else. Unless you're into that sort of thing.
As an added point, I'd like to say that one of my fellow new teachers here says that the first time she saw me, she thought, "Que fofo!", which means "What a cutie!" in Portuguese. So my charms are broad and still directed at the right targets.

Things started innocently enough; it was a nice Sunday, so I went to the beach. I didn't feel like dealing with the lifeguards and their restrictions, so I headed north. I had done a little bit of exploring up there, where the shores get rockier and the populations sparser, but nothing in depth. I figured a nice quiet beach where I could swim as much as I wanted would be perfect.

As I drifted below the ruins of Apollonia, the shores took on hiking terrain. I had to weave my way through huge rocks and chunks of stone that once belonged to the wall of a fortress. I very rarely call something unbelievable, but this walk along the sea was unbelievable. Walking amongst these ancient ruins, the sea, and the occasional sunbather or fisherman was a transportative experience.

Which may have been why I didn't blink too much when I saw the old, nude dude. He had a hat on, but otherwise was bare-assed and face down on a rock. I had been warned that there was a nudist beach up these parts, and that it was, like most nudist beaches, populated by those who would best serve society by remaining nude on their own terms.

Now, I've in recent times more and more become a private nudist. Hippie-dippy thoughts about how we're more natural that way pervade in my thinking, and so I act on it, occasionally, when nobody's around. On the other hand, I was getting really tired of looking in the mirror and seeing a tan torso and paper white thighs. And just about nobody was around (there was some other dude in the water). And it was Sunday, so surely nobody else would show up. Right? So why not?

Anyway, things started out fine. I started off on my belly, resting up a little bit; it was a long hike, after all. Then, for fear of burning my back and other rear areas, I turned around. I pulled out my...book and started reading. I was in the middle of a very long chapter, and after reading and sweating for a little bit, I decided I'd try to finish the chapter, then go for a swim, then dry off, dress, and go home.

Things were fine, and with applications and reapplications of sun tan lotion, I felt fine. I was still working on Norwegian Wood, which has its spicier moments, but I managed to control myself well while reading.

As I was there, a guy walked by me. He had sunglasses and a backpack, and was dressed in a black t-shirt and black shorts. He walked by me from north to south, and then again from south to north. I paid him little mind, but what little mind I paid him told me that he had paid me more mind. But whatever, I wasn't going to worry about it, I was just doing my thing, nose in a book and nothing in anything else.

Then with about five pages left in my chapter, I looked up to find him asking me something in Hebrew. He was a tall guy with spiky black hair and sunglasses. He asked me whatever he asked me, and my first response, mumbled slightly, was to say "Я не гомик", or roughly translated, I'm not gay. Then, when I realized he didn't understand me, I said "anglit o russit." And in English, he asked me what time it was.

Satisfied with my response (it was 3:55), he sat down next to me. He was from Tel Aviv, worked in marketing, and really liked the water at this beach. And the fact that it was a nude beach. And he was really surprised so few people were there. "It's Sunday," I said.
"Yes, but it's August, everyone is on vacation," he responded.

Despite all this, I didn't completely freak out or figure him out. After all, there's that homoerotic but still heterosexual European and Middle Eastern quality of manhood that affords frank discussion and camaraderie without any sexual tones. For example, a judoist might offer to wrestle me in his boxer briefs, or two friends in Morocco might walk down the street hand in hand, or two Georgian men might kiss on the cheek when they greet each other. No problems there. Also, I didn't want to jump to conclusions. And I didn't want to be overly rude, and to tell the truth, he didn't bother me that much. In fact, mostly, he annoyed me because this was time alone for me to read and relax, and now I had to talk to someone.

But whatever. We talked a little bit, I finished my chapter, and then went in the water. And he joined me, leading the way, actually. Or rather, I kept him in front of me, for peace of mind.

The water where we were had plenty of rocks in it, so it was tricky walking to get to sand deep enough to submerge even the lower half of one's body. There was the added complication that I wanted to keep my distance from this guy, just in case he tried anything. He swam a little bit more vigorously and said a few times how nice the water was, but other than that, no particulars.

Still, I was uncomfortable with the whole thing, and after five unsatisfying minutes, I walked out. He followed me out, and we went to our respective backpacks. The difference was that he then came back over to mine, where he found me putting on my spandex.

"Oh, I thought you were staying," he said. "You don't do those things?"

"No," I answered. "It was nice meeting you, though." And I threw my beach towel and book into my backpack and walked away with a final wave. He exited stage right, I stage left, and that was it.

The old dude with the hat was still there, tanning. I meanwhile laughed to myself, trying to deal with how shook up I felt over the whole thing. A lesson lived, a lesson learned, I hope. Maybe tanning salons aren't so bad...

What do you mean, we're not moving and it has to do with Russia?

Last night I joined a few other teachers to celebrate someone's birthday. They got me at 7 or so, and in a two car caravan we drove to Neve Tzedek, a hip artsy neighborhood in Tel Aviv. We had left late and anticipated Thursday night traffic, and so were nervous about the 12-person reservation at the restaurant. Still, we figured the 20 minutes of typical driving would maybe double.
Well it took us 20 minutes...to get through a set of lights on the border of the city. And another 20 minutes or so before that. And a few more sets of 20. In sum, it took us an hour and a half. (Don't check my math, since it's only implied and math tutoring starts Monday).
That's all well and good, but there was an unusual disturbance: as we drove down the beach road in Tel Aviv, deciding that would be the most direct route to Neve Tzedek (and scenic, taking us by the Old port area that is newly revitalized, and near Jaffa, the original settlement in the area), we continued to drag ass. Not our fault, of course, as there were hordes of cars dragging ass in front of us. Well, maybe partly our fault, because our driver, the kindly Kevin, would allow cars from side streets to go in front of us, a grand gesture completely foreign to Israeli driving mores, where you as soon let a guy go in front of you as you slow down entering a roundabout, or never. But the few cars we let go in front of us slowed us down minimally, so really, it wasn't our fault.
As we neared the U.S. Embassy, situated across from the beach and next to Mike's Place, an American sports bar, we saw a bunch of people on the side of the road. They were making noise and carrying signs and flags, the flags white with a red cross, and then four smaller crosses in the corners. As the people passed by us and we by the people, we started reading the signs.
In English, Russian, and Georgian, they were signs protesting the war. Specifically, they were Georgians (or Georgian Jews, I suppose, or even Georgian Israelis) demanding that the Russians leave, that the Americans intervene, that Medvedev become president (alluding to the likelihood that Putin is still behind everything), and that we acknowledge that Putin=Hitler (or Gitler; Russian and probably Georgian turn H sounds to G). Of course, listening to the radio station Reka ("The River", a Russian station in Israel), I heard that the same comparisons were being made in Moscow, about Saakshivilii. Seems to me that, using the ol' transitivity rule, that Saakshivilii=Putin, and that we might be dealing with a huge case of schizophrenia, and somebody get Borges on the phone.

On a serious tangent, this war is atrocious if not surprising. I am no better informed than anybody about this (Friday night, when my internet was still balky about certain websites, I got a gchat request from a friend for perspective on the war between Russia and Georgia. "Oh, there's a war now?" I said). I harbor distrust for both governments involved, as well as for the U.S. administration as they heavyhandedly try to make their impact. Also, the behavior here from Russia and the U.S. over the general principle is somewhat contrary to their stances over Kosovo (in that case the U.S. supported the autonomy of a breakaway ethnicity, Russia opposed; here it's the reverse, roughly speaking), suggesting that realpolitik > principles.
I have talked to someone in Moscow who, when not disgusted with politics and people in general, reports great anger at Saakshivilii, and the U.S. for supporting him, which suggests that Russia is getting one side of the story. Seeing that Condoleeza Rice isn't meeting with Russia and that McCain is making bold remarks about Georgia on his mind suggests that another side is playing there. Israel holds an interesting place in this as many immigrants here are from Russia and Georgia. For example, when talking about the Israeli wrestling team, people often point out that they're all Georgians or Russians.
Which brings me to the other personal touch I have with this. When I wrestled at CSKA, I became friendly with a few Ossetians, both South and North I believe, and some Georgians. I remember an owl-eyed kid named Bekah, who left because he had to serve in the Georgian army, and Ossetski Lev, a wide-grinning fellow whose full name was Ludwig. There was a Muslim kid from Georgia who insisted he wasn't Georgian. That area, the Caucauses, is a mix of a ton of nationalities (and a pair of religions: Islam and Russian Orthodox), and at times their differences erupt - Dagestan isn't the safest place, Chechnya had its war day, etc.
As was pointed out to me in a lecture by an American professor at Tel Aviv University when talking about the Middle East, the decline of empires and rise of self-rule makes it difficult to assess who deserves rule, and everybody wants a piece. That is to say, during the Soviet Union, Georgia and Ossetia and all these other nations and nationalities were subsumed in part of the larger country. They were equal in their misery, so to speak. Now, with unclear national boundaries and the supposed freedom to choose where they stand, these countries and peoples are obviously struggling. So while I don't have enough knowledge or facts on this situation, and I think that both sides are in the wrong here and assessments are hard to make, the war is inevitable. And inevitably crappy.

Just like Tel Aviv traffic, which finally receded after we passed the protest. We finally made it to the restaurant, where our table was still reserved, and had a jolly evening. Though the puff pastry stuffed with liver, onions, and pear sauce was a bad choice. Seriously, I blame the pear sauce.

The traffic's abatement was temporary, however: the ride home took about 40 minutes. That, at least, was the double time period.

So the nature of traffic is pretty bad here, though of course it's pretty bad in New York, or Sao Paolo, or Moscow. What about inevitable things particular to Israel?

Security
Everybody wonders about whether it's safe here. "Don't get blown up" I heard not a few times, or "Don't blow us up!" which was a bit of a confused sentiment. The news says bad things happen all the time, that ceasefires are temporary, illusory agreements, and that the whole country is in danger.
Which it is, probably, to some degree. But day to day life is pretty safe, beyond the threat of Israeli drivers. Arab minorities and Jewish majorities live together in peace, from what I've noticed to date, and the existential threat felt on the geopolitical level doesn't really enter into your thoughts. Especially when lounging on the beach is involved.

There are a couple notable exceptions, though. Security becomes a natural part of life, to a higher degree than it would be in the U.S. or Europe.

When we drive to school, we have to pass through a gate to enter and to leave. A security sticker affixed to our car allows us in. Nothing too fancy, but an added check.

There's a different check when you go to park at the mall. As you descend into the underground parking lot, a queue forms at the entrance. One car at a time enters the parking lot, after a security guard gives the ok. The guard gives the ok only after checking your trunk to "make sure" nothing fishy is going on. I'm told there's very little that they do to check, just a quick eyeball. Also, sometimes they'll ask you if you're carrying a gun on you. Your word is bond there, unless you're visibly packing.

Related to these security concerns is the national predilection to overreact. For example, in between Herziliya Pituach (the beach part of the city Herziliya that I more or less live in) and Herziliya proper is a set of train tracks. Since I have consciously tried to go into Herziliya, starting last weekend on foot, I have not once crossed these train tracks without having to stop and wait for a train to go by.

A high frequency of trains going through Herziliya? Maybe. But more significant is that the gates come down at least a full 90 seconds before the train is in sight. Apparently, once in recent times a car waiting for the train to pass got rear ended straight onto the tracks, and those in the car were subsequently killed by the oncoming train. So now, the 90 seconds of wait time is a mandatory facet, with an attendant who sits in a booth with a cell phone, ready to call the train if there's any sort of problem. And once the train at last passes, they raise the gates and the traffic flushes through the tracks.

This same sort of reactionary philosophy (and really, with a country full of Jewish parents, what would you expect?) is apparently why they're so restrictive about swimming space these days at the beach; a few weeks ago, a couple people drowned due to storms deep in the Mediterranean or something. So now we get to know our neighbors and their tighty-whitey "swim suits" a little too well. (As an addendum, I was told yesterday that there are people who water the grass in their tighty-whiteys around here, or even ride a bike around. Mmm.)


Weekends
Today is Friday, which is of course the start of the Shabbat, at sundown. In Israel, it's the weekend. A little inconvenient when we work on an American work week, except that Sunday, a work day in this country, is a free day for us. Empty beach, public transportation, and I assume less crowded streets in Tel Aviv.
So, this is my weekend to explore Tel Aviv. Pictures, stories, and amusement will be here soon, I hope. Oh, and school starts Monday. Hmm...


But before you go, some pictures from the beach I live five minutes from! Yeah.

The old mosque next to our beach, known as Sidnya Ali. Once a place where the Phoenician raiders would store their loot. History is everywhere here, eh?

Walking down to the sunset and the water. It was very nice to swim at this time. What else would it be?

No questions, no words.

Initial Impressions In Irreverent Israeli Indents

So if you'll recall the post "This Place Kinda Souks...", you'll see that I already established the freedom on my blog to talk about places and experiences outside of Europe. You will further find on the heading above these words a change in Blog title. It was necessary, and it was time.


Having spent about 5 and a half days in Israel, I've already come up on a batch of things to do and tales to tell. Mainly, they're related to these foreign concepts of "having a job" and "working with others." Foreign for me, that is, and probably familiar to you. So while I may marvel at waking up to an alarm clock set before 9 in the morning, or talking with more than five different people over the span of a day, you won't find it so interesting.

Instead, I'll talk about Hebrew, by way of French. You see, the first time I went to Montreal was in the fall of '05. I was fresh off the first excitement of traveling from that summer in Eastern Europe, and the prospects of exploring thrilled me. I got in my recently purchased Honda Civic and drove the 4+ hours across the border and into Quebec.

All was well and good, except that I failed to appreciate the fact that the official language in Montreal and Quebec isn't English. Of course, I knew French was the official language. I just didn't think about what that meant: that all the signs would be in French, and that most of the people would speak French. Most spoke English too, but somehow that didn't matter. I went into shell shock, called home with fear in my voice, and only calmed down when I met somebody in a sports bar who had at some point wrestled at Duke. And I still left the city Saturday night instead of Sunday afternoon.

While everyone, or almost everyone, speaks English in Israel, they do it as a second language. In fact, in English and Russian I have the #2 and #4 languages covered in the country (with Arabic a co #2), and so I shouldn't have any trouble with language barriers. In theory.

In practice, many signs and reading materials are only in Hebrew, a language I can sort of guess at from 8 years of Hebrew school; by guess at, I mean I know the letters but am hamstrung by the lack of vowel signs that we used in my youth, so if I know how a word sounds already, I can "read" it. Not much help.

Also, people speak Hebrew first, which leads to the always mildly humiliating even if completely understandable moment when you have to ask if they speak English. I have learned how to say I don't speak Hebrew, though I can only write it in transliterated English: Ani lo medeber ivrit. This helps, but only a little.

Then there's my cell phone, a nice piece of work that completely befuddled me for a day and a half with its eternal Hebrew-language options, until I finally compared with another new teacher's phone, already switched into English, to take care of the change. Which still left a Hebrew-language display of whatever network I'm on. And if I try to make certain phone calls, I get Hebrew on the other end telling me that this won't do. I think. And I'm not sure what company my cell phone is with, or what everything costs, and so on.

But enough of that. In the week I've been here, I've also encountered Tel Aviv (well, not really, but it's close by); Jerusalem (great for the 4+ hours we were there, except for the commodified Western Wall, but I'll save those thoughts for a future Jerusalem visit/post); work; and the weather - very nice though not any hotter than a hot Boston summer day. The difference is that there's no variation or thunderstorms; it's 90 degrees Fahrenheit and sunny every day, at least so far. I was hoping it'd be miserably hot, if just because that portends for a nicer October. But we'll see.

The coolest, most worthwhile thing I've encountered so far? The beach. And so, without further ado...

Down on the Beach
To get to the beach, I exit my 3rd floor apartment, walk down the stairs, and turn left. Immediately, I hit the main beach road, Golda Meir St. I walk about 20 meters and turn right on Yigal Yadin, the street that runs to the beach. It's a small asphalt road, leading to a parking lot and the Mediterranean. There's a slight uphill and right hand turn at the end of the street, and while the steady stash of crashing waves is audible as you walk, there is almost no sea to see. The most impressive visual feature on the approach is an old, unused mosque that overlooks the landscape.
Then you get over the crest and go down to the sea, and well...

Mind you I haven't taken my camera to the beach yet. Once I do, this picture will be much better. Yeah.

On the left is a tall, sandy brown bluff, the sort of overlook that would serve as a great setting for a movie finale, where the two antagonists throw down, until one crashes to the beach below. On the right the mosque's tower is still visible as I descend. The sea is now visible, the mighty Mediterranean.
The beach itself is small, with no more than twenty meters space from the edge of the sand to the water. There are five gazebos in a line at our beach, providing shade for those who foolishly decide a year or two increase in life span is worth more than a nice tan. A lifeguard's tower aspires to the bluffs on the right, though it comes nowhere close to their height or majesty.
So looking out at the sea is rightfully beautiful, but so is looking away from it. Those cliffs reveal layers of sand and stone, like something out of a Magic School Bus book, teaching about sedimentary rocks. There is the mosque, there are large buildings further to the south, and a little bit to the north there's some sort of housing structure built into the cliff. Add in sunny skies with littered clouds and a few assorted hang gliders, and it's all something to see.

There are a few intriguing differences about the beach here, compared to other beaches I've been to. First of all, a few judgments based on two hours or so: this is the closest I've ever lived to a beach, and this is the best beach I've ever been to. I'm not a typical beachgoer, but this was really pleasant. The water, for example, is clear and warm, so that there's no need to plunge in and adjust to the temperature. I waded out to the strong waves (there were many surfers out there today) and soaked in the splashes with nary a shudder. Actually, there were some whistle-induced flinches, but I'll get to that.

Also, while everybody says this, it bears repeating that this is indeed the land of milk and honey. That is; the people here are beautiful. Yes, I include the males; though I'm not checking them out particularly, they strike me as handsome dudes. Or almost as handsome as me, anyway.

Israelis, we were warned, tend to be more permissive about standards for acceptable clothing. Actually, there wasn't anything crazy from most of the guys there, dressed in long bathing shorts, and the women were in bathing suits, same as anywhere. But whether from European or Russian influences, there were a few men, mostly middle-aged or up, in thongs and the like. One old guy was in just tightie-whiteys, which became quite transparent as he bathed. Mmm.

Needless to say, when in Rome, so I hiked my spandex up just a little bit. Mmm.

The way the beach and swimming works is also a little strange. For one, the already limited beach space is restricted by barbed wire fences a few meters away from the cliffs. "Danger, Landslide" read one of the two types of signs posted along the beach. The other one says "No Swimming Allowed". Whether due to fear of undertows, crazy tides, or jellyfish, the authorities rule out much of the coastline around our beach from swimming. Black flags are posted periodically along the shore, marking not the band or anarchy but no swim zones. Each beach I stopped at today (that is, two of them) had an area marked out by red flags where one could swim. And black flags stretching farther out were the absolute boundaries.

To enforce these rules, the lifeguards blew whistles. Once their subjects' attention was earned, the lifeguards would gesture. If necessary, they'd get on the speaker system and announce their concerns. Since I don't really get the rules yet, and can't understand Hebrew, I was frightened every time I heard the whistle blow, until finally I realized they weren't going to arrest me for walking along the surf. I think.

So those were the limits to the beach trip. Considering the cleanliness, warmth, and company that the beach provided, those limits are trivial. And maybe if I sneak over there at night, the limits and company will be gone, and I'll be free to frolic in the sand and surf as I please. Which is to say, if I ever become a full-fledged nudist, Israel will have played its part. And on that note, I'm signing off.

I plan to post frequently if not regularly. And I am now experimenting with posting these "notes" on facebook. Ugh, I know, but I like readers, or the potential of having readers. So welcome!