warm ocean, barack obama (the coffeeshop) and fresh juice

School started up again this past week, and after two very relaxing weeks off from learning Hebrew intensely, I'm back to the grind. Last Sunday, the day before everything started, I took a trip to Tel Aviv.

I have a lot to say about Tel Aviv, much of it interesting historical information about how the city went from being a sand dune in 1908 to a huge cosmopolitan area in a very short time frame. About how the international community still recognizes Tel Aviv as the capital of Israel because the status of Jerusalem is somewhere between disputed and occupied (depending on whose side you fall). And that there is more Bauhaus architecture in Tel Aviv than anywhere else in the world; hence it is on the UNESCO World Heritage list. I could go on and on about these dorky thing. Rather than bore everyone, I figured I'd just post four vignettes with photographs.

Until I put my toes in the Mediterranean Sea, I had never in my life been in a warm ocean. It's a little alarming at first to be expecting Gulf of Maine cold, and instead feel salty bath water. Actually, it's really alarming. When it comes to bodies of water, I associate cold with clean and pure. I associate warm, with stagnant puddle. I didn't exactly get over that sentiment, but managed to swim anyway. Turns out there is something to be said for the ability to feel one's appendages when one departs the water.

This is a photograph of a little cafe I walked past. This cafe has, appliqued to it's window, a large image of Barack Obama. Above Barack's face it says Brucim HaBaim, which means something along the lines of Bless those who come. It's a formal welcome, the kind of saying that ends up on doormats and Hotel Brochures. Under Barack it says something I can't decipher and Obama 08.

Tel Aviv has a hundred little storefronts that sell juice. Jerusalem has a good many as well, but in Tel Aviv, every little corner store has an old lady or a young man (no one in between) who will squeeze or juice anything you want. I had Mitz Gezer VGinger (Carrot Ginger juice). It was delicious for $3.50. It was spicy and sweet.

Finally, lest any of my swine obsessed friends (you know who you are) worry about visiting me and forgoing the salty succulence that is pork for a week, know that it is available here, at the Palace of Pork, in Tel Aviv. Just don't plan on cooking it in my kosher kitchen.

Tonight is Shabbat and I have a lot cooking to do. I am making brisket, my grandmother's recipe. Buying the brisket was exciting. I don't know the Hebrew for First Cut Brisket. "Brisket." I said to the butcher. "Ma [what]?" He said. I pointed at something that looked like brisket, and said "Brisket," again. The butcher looked at me and said "Steak." "Lo lo lo [no no no]," I replied. "BRRISS-KIITTT," I sounded it out slowly, because language barriers don't actually exist. If I just speak slowly and loudly enough everyone will understand my English. The butcher did not. I was at a loss. Finally my years in the professional kitchen came to my rescue, and I remember trying to explain where different cuts of meat came from to our Arabic speaking dishwashers. I gestured to my upper ribcage, where on a cow the brisket is. "Brisket." I tried again. The butcher smiled. "AHHH," he said. I got my brisket, it wasn't that expensive, and it smells delicious in the oven right now.

I'm also making something of a ratatouille because we have kilograms of eggplant (so far as I've learned about the metric system, a kilogram is roughly 2/3 of a mile) and piles of basil from our farm share. Ilana, my roommate is making a mixture of roasted butternut squash and locally grown organic sweet-potatoes. There will also be a large salad, much humus, much wine, much Challah, many rugelach, and eight guests. Oy.

Shabbat Shalom