April 6, 2013
The Good, The Bad, and The Chag
The Good, the Bad, and the Chag
HaTov (the good)
HaRah (the bad): a series of misadventures
Flash forward to my third evening back in the holy land. I am at dinner with Benji and his good friend, Adi Davis (no relation). My wallet is somehow stolen from an inner pocket of my bag which lies tight across my body. I am impressed by how professional some Israeli thieves are. Annoyed, but impressed. Who’d a thunk? Since Steve is minister of documents, the incident is duly reported to him and he quickly restores my credit cards, but not my California driver’s license, nor the 40 shekels in cash, nor my beautiful Anne Fontaine wallet.
And finally, like something out of an old sit-com - one morning my wonderful, adoring (and amorous) husband thinks he might get lucky by breaking the bedroom door handle and inadvertently locks us in the bedroom. A bit claustrophobic, I notice that not only can we not use the door, but the iron grate on the only window is padlocked. I consider calling my daughter, Gaby, who has a key to the front door of the flat but remember that most Israeli apartments require a key to lock them from the inside and that most Israeli’s leave the key in the lock on the inside making it impossible to insert a key from the outside to open the door. Fortunately, I am able to reach our very good-natured landlady who sends over a locksmith immediately. Needless to say, the situation is hardly conducive (at least to me) for romance!
HaChag (the holiday)
A rousing Pesach Seder with our long lost, of no relation, Davis cousins of Kokhav Ya’ir. Wouldn’t you know that both of our families sing the same goofy American parodies of the four sons? A week of family, good friends and amazing food - now that we eat kitniyot!. Benji and I spent the end of the chag with his former family at Kibbutz Sa’ad. While driving there, I told him that I had a small gift for Safri, the mother of 7 and an amazing Yemini cook despite her Ashkenazi upbringing. The gift for the kitchen was none other than a silicone pot cover which Benji thought was a dumb idea. We walked into their home to the incredible smell of rice and Yemini chicken soup just as someone laments that the cover to the pot has just broken! In Israel, there are no coincidences, only miracles.
Next year in Tel Aviv (and also Jerusalem).
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