Israeli President Shimon Peres will move out of his official residence in Jerusalem following flooding and infrastructure failure throughout the complex.
The changes in the Diaspora community.
When my father informed me he had scheduled a business trip to Los Angeles and was taking my mother with him about a month after I moved out here, his timing seemed less than coincidental. Both of my parents had been anxiously phoning me on a daily basis since I left New York. The real reason they were coming was to make sure I wasn't living in a crack house, or at the very least had the decency to choose a Jewish crack house.
When I accepted a job to transfer from New York City to Los Angeles, I figured October would be the ideal month to move. Just as bone-chilling winds began sweeping the East Coast, I'd be basking in year-round sunshine on the other side of the country.
Greg Pritikin's film takes place in a sort of every-suburb America of tract houses with manicured lawns and two-car garages, and is utterly devoid of anything to place it in historical time.
We leave well before dawn and as we speed through darkness I keep asking myself how it is that I'm now the parent of a college student -- I can still remember vividly the details of my own freshman year almost 30 years ago.
Not long ago, we were invited to friends for Shabbat lunch. They'd recently moved into a new apartment, in more or less the same neighborhood, and over the course of conversation, someone asked them how they liked the new location. Our hostess, a refined and relatively private person, said that she liked the new location much better. She mentioned a number of reasons, following which she added that from the new apartment, they didn't hear as much of the shooting at Gilo during the night. "And in the old place," she added as a kind of afterthought, "I just couldn't stand making love to the sound of gunfire."
When I last wrote this column for The Jewish Journal several months ago, I had no idea that my mother would soon be living a short bike ride away. Or that her relocation to Los Angeles would take over my life. But transitions, while challenging and stressful, thankfully don't usually last forever, and I'm glad to say that Mom is finally settled in, and I'm returning to my status as a fully functioning human being.
If you're looking to move into a new home in Los Angeles, good luck. Last month, the median sale price for an L.A. home jumped 10 percent to $213,000, setting an all-time record for L.A. County.
For the last two years, I've dreamed of a simple thing: I've just wanted to be able to say, "I'm in the other room."
After months of debate and deliberation, my husband and I decided to trade in the ocean breeze and proximity to the brand-new Starbucks on Lincoln Boulevard for the clogged air and congested streets of Pico-Robertson. I had toyed with the idea earlier, and had even lookie-looed my way into a few open houses, but this time, we were lookie-loos no more. My kids were eager to be near their school friends and within sniffing distance of the kosher pizza shops. I wanted to walk to the bakery, where the proprietor still calls little boys boychikel and where I could feel slightly more justified in buying the shop's obscenely rich chocolate custard cakes for Shabbos since I would be walking home with it. (That is, whatever still remained by the time I got home.) I could even brush up on my Farsi waiting in line behind all the Iranian women in the cramped little markets along Pico Boulevard.