Thou Shalt Whistle Whilst Thou Work

Teacher: "Okay, we have nine of the ten commandments on the board. Which one are we missing?"

Circus Ninja: "Sneezy. Everyone forgets Sneezy."

Turkey in a black hat

Teacher: Well, I hope you all had a Happy Thanksgiving.

Overenthusiastic Student: We didn't have Thanksgiving! We had Yud-Tes Kislev!

Tightrope T-bird: That's right. We celebrated the Rosh Hashanah of Chasidis.

Circus Ninja: Hey T-bird, wanna know what we're celebrating next year?

T-bird: What?

Circus Ninja: Thanksgiving.

T-bird: F*ck yeah.

The Grover Ketubah

My friend Tightrope T-bird* and I have been tossing around this notion of the "other" ketubah. A ketubah is the Jewish marriage contract, signed by both parties and their witnesses during the wedding ceremony.

We discovered in class last week that there are - get this - two different kinds of ketubah, depending on whether the bride is a virgin or not.

Not the groom, mind you. Just the bride.

Naturally this led to a) a complete uproar in the classroom and b) me and Tightrope T-bird having absolutely the time of our lives.

We've been going around identifying "other ketubah" situations wherever we find them. A four-year-old dropped his drawers in front of you? Other ketubah. Your boyfriend is a mamzer (child of an adulterous woman)? Other ketubah. You've - gasp! - dated non-Jewish men? Serious other-ketubah issues, sister.

We decided today to color-code the ketubahs according to the Terror Threat Level system employed by the Pentagon. KETUBAH CODE RED! Mamzer Divorcee in Strapless Dress Marries Pork-Eating Cohen!

I remember that my dear friend Andy used to update his website daily with the Terror Threat Level color as expressed in Sesame Street characters. As in "Today's Terror Level is Bert." The ketubah described above would be an Elmo, and good luck getting an Orthodox rabbi to sign it. Or as T-bird put it, "Don't tickle me, Elmo!"

The lowest threat level is green, which we decided would be an Oscar Ketubah. This is your gold-standard, hit-every-wicket, 100% Jewish-virgin-bride-marries-halachically-observant- 100% Jewish-groom wedding contract.

And since it is green, we might as well call it the Leprechaun Ketubah, which should indicate the likelihood of you ever seeing one.

A last word from T-bird:

"I have very simple dreams. I just want to meet a nice Jewish boy, get a Grover Ketubah, and settle down..."

*not her real name

Nafliti ha gamol

Last week's Torah portion, from Genesis, "The Life of Sara":

And Isaac went forth to pray in the field towards evening, and he lifted his eyes and saw, and behold, camels were approaching.

And Rebecca lifted her eyes, and saw Isaac, and she let herself down from the camel.

With the help of our teacher and assorted ancillary texts, we uncovered the information that the line, “She let herself down from...” is widely interpreted as, “Rebecca fell off the camel.”

Here is what happens to a line like that when you toss it around a women’s yeshiva for a week:

“So she saw Isaac and she fell. Falling off the camel must be the same as love at first sight.”

“How was your date?”

“Meh, it was ok. I didn’t fall off the camel or anything.”

Alternate version:

“How was your date?”

“Oh man, it was awesome. It was off the camel.”

And my favorite, which came out of nowhere several days after the camel frenzy had died down, when one of our teachers decided we were too distracted:

“Girls, it’s time to get back on your camels and get to work.”

Bert and Ernie Go to the Mikvah

This weekend I traveled with two friends from school to the suburb of Beit Shemesh, about thirty minutes from Jerusalem. Our hosts were a young couple who, we discovered to our mutual surprise, went to the same university as me and are very close with one of my dear friends. Small world, or at least it is when the ethnic group you like to hang out with comprises only 2% of the global population.

We spent quite an enjoyable weekend with our hosts and their three adorable children. And also their other two children. I won the dwarves over with an improvisational comedy routine disguised as a reading of the storybook, Bert and Ernie Go to the Supermarket.

“And then yellow football head says to orange football head, ‘Oh jeez, it looks like one of our fuzzy blue bathroom towels* has come alive and followed us to the local grocery store. How embarrassing. I wonder how this will turn out for all of the characters involved…

[*cookie monster]

“Oh no, he is following us around the supermarket. Oh dear, he has spilled kosher grape juice all over aisle five. Anthropomorphic Towel, YOU are going to have to CLEAN THAT UP!”

The most-repeated phrase of the trip was, “Mendel, not tznius. NOT TZNIUS, MENDEL!!” This translates as, “Mendel, your behaviour right now violates the Orthodox Jewish Laws of Modesty.”

To be frank, Mendel’s behaviour violated just about everyone’s Laws of Modesty, except perhaps those of the indigenous population of Tahiti.

Am I being too coy? Fine, I’ll spell it out for you: I was sitting on the couch, reading a storybook to the kids. The 4.5-year-old suddenly stood up beside me on the couch, dropped trou, and waved his junk in my face.

I think what I witnessed renders me officially ineligible to be married under Jewish law.

Either that or I have to ‘fess up and request the “other” ketubah.

Gerald Ha-Motsi Levine

Over lunch this afternoon our teacher tells us that there was a baby-naming in her shul this week. “They named the kid, get this, Rachel Leah Beracha v'hatzlachah.”

It means Rachel Leah God Bless and Good Luck.

“She has siblings!” our teacher continues. “Ben David Shabbat Shalom. I am not making this up.”

Ben David Peaceful Sabbath. (imperfect translation, sorry. Shabbat shalom is also used as a greeting.)

Now, those of you who read my Shmone Levenstein post know that when it comes to Creative Naming, you just do not want to get me started. You are giving me no choice - NO CHOICE, I tell you - but to name my imaginary children Morty Exodus of Egypt Roth and David Promised Land Greenberg.

And then - I told you this would happen, People of Israel, but would you listen? - you are all but compelling me to start speaking in a football announcer voice, “Lucky Number Eight Levenstein takes the field, hikes it to Daaaave Prrrrrrromised Land Greenberg…oh, look at this kid run…”

If you knew all that I knew, my poor Jerusalem...

My guidebook describes a phenomenon known as “Jerusalem Syndrome,” whereby visitors to the Holy City become so steeped in Biblical history that they begin to have Messianic delusions. A Canadian woman insisted she was the virgin Mary and she had to get to Bethlehem to retrieve the baby Jesus. A teenager on a school trip became overwhelmed from the stress of his obligation to save the souls of everyone he met.

Jerusalem Syndrome is sufficiently well-documented that the city has designated a small wing of its psychiatric hospital for incarcerating the afflicted. According to the guidebook, Jerusalem Syndrome generally lasts for about a week, upon which the individual “becomes very embarrassed and never wishes to speak of it again.”

In my case, so far the only symptom of Jerusalem Syndrome has been an inability to get the “Jesus Christ Superstar” soundtrack out of my head.

"Poland? I LOVE Poland! What were you doing in Poland?"

Circus Ninja is sad today. She just wrote the funniest post of her career, describing a social faux pas she committed at a dinner party. But she's afraid to put it up because there are well-known Israelis involved whose good name should not be sullied by association with ninjas.

Suffice it to say that Circus Ninja gushed about how great Poland is to an adorable older gentleman who turned out to be a Holocaust survivor and a major Israeli diplomat.

Stay tuned for the next episode, in which Circus Ninja tells Menachem Begin that his corned beef sandwich would taste so much better with cheese on it.

Israeli Bus-Boarding for Intrepid Beginners

Invited to visit Noa's family, I attempt to board the bus from Jerusalem to Golani Junction. “Are you ready for this?” the woman behind me asks. She’s Israeli but speaks excellent American-accented English. “You’ll want to keep your elbows out. Every time I visit my brother in New York I just watch in amazement at the orderly little lines people form to get on the bus!”

I make a pact with myself. No shoving. I will not push ahead of anyone who has been waiting in front of me. But I will damn well hold the line against the people behind me. As soon as the bus pulls in to its assigned slot, I place my hand on its still-warm front window, creating a neat barrier against the black-hatted gentleman to my right. The crowd begins to press forward and I’m well-positioned to mount the stairs. From my left, people begin weaving into the breach created by the less-assertive. I slip my left hand around the large backpack worn by the teenager in front of me. I won’t push ahead of her; I’ve made a vow. But after she goes, I go.

Holding my arms out firmly, now the shoving of the crowd only serves to propel me toward the steps of the bus. It’s working. Just behind my left arm stands a young woman holding two bicycle wheels. I’d seen her husband earlier, carrying the bike frame and using it as a plow to part the crowd. With unbelievable gall, the woman raises a wheel over her head and inserts it in the space between me and the person ahead of me, clearly intending to follow the wheel right on past me. Not gonna work, I resolve. I’ll ride this tide up the stairs behind a bike wheel and a severed hand if I have to.

And I basically do. I hold the line; she can’t insert her body into the space she created with her wheel, nor can she extract the wheel. Not my problem. That was a decision she made. The crowd presses us forward and my feet find the stairs, triumphantly. Shuffle shuffle, shuffle shuffle. She follows on awkwardly, giving me a half-hug, her wheel wedged against my knees. I hand my ticket to the driver, wriggle past the wheel, and take a seat - a good one, in the front, unassigned. Seated comfortably, I prepare to give Wheel Woman a politely apologetic smile, but she moves past me without so much as a reproachful glance.

I guess she’s boarded this bus before.

My neighbor's dog has a bark that is the auditory equivalent of vomiting up a school of piranhas.

Shmone Levenstein Hardware, closed Saturdays

Jacob and his fiancee invite me to spend a day with them at the Dead Sea.

When I was twenty-five, I took an unforgettable vacation across Italy with my then-sixteen-year-od sister. When we got to the Tower of Pisa, I was amazed by this fact: that mo-fo really LEANS. I thought people were just exaggerating for effect when they depicted it in cartoons and stuff. But no, man, it’s sideways.

So it is with the Dead Sea. It’s not just, “Oh, neat, I’m sort of float-ier here.” You are flippin’ FLOATING. It is impossible to drown accidentally in the Dead Sea. You have to really, really want to drown in the Dead Sea. You have to have a will of steel, and a very high pain threshold, to drown yourself in the Dead Sea.

Seeing as how I had, at no point, any intention of drowning myself in the Dead Sea, I used my time floating there to practice my Hebrew numbers.

“Efesssss” I breathed, having trained myself to remember the word “zero” as one long exhale. “Achad”…Jacob joined me, counting out two through five. I rejoined him at six, seven, eight. Shesh, sheba, shmone.

Ah, shmone. Let’s talk about the number 8 for a minute. In my opinion, when you name a number “shmone” you are just begging me to visualize that number as an eighty-five-year-old Lithuanian who runs a locksmith shop on Pine Street. He has sparse white hair and a peppery-grey goatee, and though he only wears a kippah once a year on Yom Kippur, he somehow manages to look naked without it. He insists that he should be called “Simon” now that he lives in America, but no one can bring themselves to call him anything but Shmone.

A casual observer might accuse me of letting my imagination run away with itself, and I suppose I’ll only confirm that when I tell you what happened when I learned the word for the number five: khamesh.

Khamesh is Shmone’s half-Arab grandson, a precocious nine-year-old with thick-fringed eyes so dark they seem lined in kohl. Though Shmone can understand the temptation, he’ll never forgive his son for marrying a Druze.

I suppose you’re going to argue that logically Khamesh should be five years old, not nine. To which I can only say, in your mnemonic for the Hebrew numbers, Khamesh can be whatever you want him to be.

Although presumably in your mnemonic, the numbers 8 and 5 are not a Lithuanian locksmith and his preternaturally intelligent grandson. Because presumably, you are not completely f*cking nuts.

mastering the aleph-bet

You know what, "resh"? F*ck you. You used to be my favorite letter; you were so gently rounded and recognizable. Then I discovered that you are virtually unpronounceable for most Americans. What a snake in the grass you turned out to be.

reader participation!

A poll: buy a plane ticket directly home from Israel for Christmas, or spend an extra hundred bucks to detour to Scandinavia for the six days preceding winter solstice?

I think I know the answer to this one, but it involves investing in some thermasilks and a wool coat. And maybe night-vision goggles.

swimming for grownups

I would like to state that I think the backstroke is just irresponsible when the pool is this crowded.

Just 'cause you're an old lady doesn't mean you have the right to keep hitting me in the face, you know. I'm not above a well-timed reckless breaststroke. There, I said it.

what would Cheapskate do?

Since August 5th, Circus Ninja has been to eleven countries. She has searched far and wide for her fabulously wealthy benefactor, to no avail. No rich relatives have died, despite repeated poisoning attempts. Aware that her spending habits will only accelerate the dreaded day when Circus Ninja has to sit still and get a job, Circus Ninja has created an alter ego: Cheapskate.

(What happens when your alter ego creates an alter ego? If you met in a dark alley, would you recognize each other?)

Many a frivolous purchase has been avoided by simple repetition of the mantra, "What would Cheapskate do?"

Cheapskate would never take the bus in nice weather!

Cheapskate would buy a bag of pita bread and a few containers of yogurt and feed herself for the day!

Cheapskate would make herself a cup of coffee at HOME rather than buying that latte! (This one is a significant sacrifice, as Latte Maker Man is absolutely dreamy. He's interested, too - he really swept me off my feet with that now-familiar pickup line, "Are you Jewish?")

Cheapskate would totally lug that roadside box of free books up to the secondhand bookstore to trade them for cash!

Cheapskate will cover her grey hairs with mascara until dyeing them is absolutely necessary! (Wait. I mean, she would do that, if she had any grey hairs at all, which she most certainly does not.)

Cheapskate will sweet-talk the YMCA into giving her a student discount!

Don't worry, Mom, it's just a game. I'm not depriving myself of fun experiences just to save a few shekels. Bear in mind, Cheapskate was not above dropping a hundred bucks for a hotel in Akko when the only other housing option was a youth hostel that smelled like feet.

SO beautiful, Michelle!

Thanks to everyone for your comments, here and via email.

I hope you all got the punchline to that post, which is to look at it from the Israeli perspective. They invite some American chick to spend New Year's with them. She eats her dinner and then sits there grinning silently for forty minutes, at which point she blurts out, "carrot".

New Year's Eve Memories

Wednesday, September 8th, 2010:

In the evening I put on my newly-purchased long skirt and blouse, and walk the forty minutes down to Noa’s synagogue. She’s waiting for me, holding a Hebrew-and-English prayer book that she has gone out of her way to acquire. Throughout the service, she leans over to flip pages for me, helping me to follow along. At one point she tells me, “If you get bored, you can just practice reading the aleph-bet. See, it’s listed here…”

Noa is a natural teacher - encouraging, patient, sincerely delighted to watch me learn. “I think you know this word…” she whispers, and I sound it out. Mem - lamed - chet. She’s right, I do know this one. Melech. Baruch ata adonai eloheinu melech ha’olam, I murmur. Blessed art thou o lord, master and king of the universe. “Melech means king,” I finally answer.

Noa is unspeakably proud.

After services we walk up the hill to her friend Ona’s apartment. Ona, Yossef, and Ronen are waiting for us. Ronen is Noa’s husband, a lovable bear of a man with enormous blue eyes and an adorable tendency to relate everything in life to a Friends episode. When I compliment Ona on the spectacular meal she sets before us, Ronen declares, “Ona is Monica,” - referring to the Friends character who cooks and cleans for the entire clan.

I have a lot to learn about kosher shabbat kitchens. I see two sets of cutlery and dishes - one for meat, one for dairy, which are never consumed at the same meal - and an array of unrecognizable devices designed to keep food and drink warm during the 25 hours each week when you are not permitted to light fires or turn on electric devices. (You can leave them on, I discover gratefully, making liberal use of the special kettle that keeps water hot for the coffee.)

Because it’s a holiday, we eat a nice meal in several courses: bread with hummus, tahini and red pepper spread; olives and pickles; delicious zucchini soup. Ona serves up soft carrots drizzled in honey, a traditional dish to celebrate the Jewish New Year. Ronen takes the opportunity to teach me a new word: gezer. Carrot. It’s not a harsh, ridiculous-sounding “geezer”, but a soft rolling word that dissolves into the rounded, swallowed Hebrew “r”. Geh-zehhr.

It makes me think of the verb, “to gaze,” and I do, taking in the richly-arrayed table in soft focus and allowing the Hebrew conversation to roll over me in waves. Noa occasionally translates, but I encourage her just to enjoy the evening and not worry about me. There’s a lot you can learn about people just by their mannerisms. Yossef is a little shy but he’s unapologetically his own person. Ona laughs a lot and never seems to say an unkind word about anyone. Ronen is intensely intelligent and interested in absolutely everything. Noa is maternal and kind as well as opinionated and eloquent. Periodically they pause to teach me a new word. “Kichu.” Zucchini. Key-shoe. I stare at my zucchini soup, picturing a key and a shoe. Kichu.

I’ve done this before. I used to train with a trapeze artist named Kito. Key-toe. To remember his name, I imagined a housekey dangling from a string wrapped around his big toe as he perched on the trapeze. And forever after I called him Toki.

Gezer is easier, for some reason. Gezer lands in my brain and stays there, a round peg in a round hole. Gezer is the color orange and crunchy taproots, made soft with boiling. Gezer is not just the word for carrot; gezer is carrot.

The meal before me is so elaborate, I forget that we’re only in the appetizer-and-soup stage, and I barely have room for the rice and chicken and sweet potatoes that follow. There are also ample opportunities for me to practice the Hebrew word for “wine.” Ya-een. Easy to say and easy to swallow. As the evening passes I float comfortably on the sea of foreign speech, letting it wash undifferentiated over me. Ronen liked what I said to him about reading Hebrew: “I want to enjoy it now while it’s still just beautiful drawings. Soon I’ll recognize it as words and I’ll be reading them; it will be different.”

The conversation reaches a lull. In the silence, I realize I haven’t said a word in thirty or forty minutes. I gaze around at my new friends, their faces soft-edged with wine and candlelight. I want to express my appreciation for their company, for the way they’ve made me feel welcome, for how confident and relaxed I feel on this New Year’s Eve in Jerusalem. Breaking the quiet moment, I gratefully murmur, Gezer.

Travel Tips from the Worldly-Wise

Traveling light and paring down is great and all, but try not to leave your laptop charger in Slovenia. Just a thought.

:-) The nice hostel owner in Slovenia is mailing it to me, so we'll be sorted out soon, but in the meantime my apologies for the uncharacteristic silence of Circus Ninja. As soon as my laptop resumes being more than an expensive, shiny brick, I will be MUCH better about keeping in touch, as I miss you all and think of you every day.

I've spent the last ten days exploring Jerusalem, the Dead Sea, and the fortress at Masada. Next week I'll travel north to spend Sukkot with the family of my friend Noa. Can't wait!

L'shana tovah!

Thank you for all of your guesses as to where I'm going! They were inspiring; I found myself thinking, "Oh, I need to go there too!"

When I left the States, I had a vague idea of three places I might like to go - Australia, Israel, or Japan. I figured I'd get more clarity during the course of my trip, or maybe I'd find an entirely new destination, or - I joked with myself - I'd meet someone adorable at Naomi's wedding and just stay in England.

Well, because God has a sense of humor, it turns out I did meet someone absolutely adorable at Naomi's wedding. But by then my mind was made up, so...eastward ho! No time for love, Dr. Jones.

I considered going back to Croatia and learning the language, which as I've mentioned I really love. But in Bosnia we met these Israeli researchers - I wrote about them earlier - who have been so friendly and helpful. So I get to go to Jerusalem for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

Michelle, I figure you especially will have some good recommendations of things I need to see!

(Naomi did as well. The next paragraph will be much more fun if read aloud in a British accent: "You must go to Elijah's tomb. I went there, and I looked at the little hole and thought, 'I could fit in there,' so I climbed in, and I sat there, and then I thought, 'There was a dead person in here,' and I climbed right back out!")

there goes the bride

The wedding was absolutely spectacular. I took photos but I'm on Jane's computer right now so it'll be a little while before I can upload them. Naomi looked like a princess, and she was so happy and calm and serene in all the days leading up to the wedding, right up to the moment she walked down the aisle.

I have so many special memories from the day; here are just a few highlights:

1. I was asked to read 1st Corinthians Chapter 13. When I got to the line, "Love is patient", I looked right at Alan. He fell in love with Naomi eight years ago and basically waited for her ever since. At the next line, "Love is kind", I looked at Naomi, my kindest, most generous friend.

Then she and I both started to cry and I really had to pull it together to finish the reading!

2. The typical pre-wedding bridesmaid "spa day" - facials, manicures, etc. - happened the morning of the wedding. Naomi was like sitting around in her sweatpants until noon, going, "right, then. I guess I should shower..."

3. The day before the wedding, Naomi, Alan, and her best friend Danielle took me up to the Downs, a field from which you can see all of Sussex County on one side, and the sea on the other. It's Naomi's favorite place in the world, and it was very important to her to take me there. We took a picnic of cheese sandwiches and ginger beer. When we got up there, Alan said, "You know, this is where Naomi finally admitted she liked me." It was really sweet.

Her family and friends were so gracious and welcoming, and it was nice to just fit right in to the mix. I felt more like family than like a guest.

And the weather was perfect. Well, naturally - it never rains in England, right?

September 6th, flight out of Stansted to...

if you don't try to guess where I'm going, what will be the fun of revealing it?
:-)

don't think about the exchange rate; just cringe and fork over the pounds

Being back in an English-speaking country was actually a little disorienting, at first! But it's so great to be among friends. Mark and I immediately sat down and starting joking around with each other, and it was the same the next morning - Jane and I had breakfast together, and she is just SO lovely and easy to talk to.
And I met the little guys! I hadn't seen them since C. was just two years old, and now there are four of them, all adorable. We fed cabbage leaves to the tortoise (that is not a weird euphemism for something. That is what we really did) and played in the sandbox that Jane has set up in the garden - it's in a large old porcelain sink; it's really cool!

One exorbitant train fare later, and I was in Hayward's Heath. It's been so great to see Naomi again, just like old times (I sat at her table eating cereal and she came up beside me and said "Ah, you're HERE! And you're eating out of a mug! Nothing has changed...")

Also, I love the Brits; they are so dry. Here's one exchange, let me see if I can do it justice in writing:
[Naomi's friend Donna is making a chicken dish. A neighbor lady is trying to learn how to make it, but she's having trouble - and getting frustrated - because Donna is sort of an improvisational cook.]
Naomi's mom: "See, we're trying to make it the way Donna does, but she doesn't use a recipe."
Neighbor lady: "Well, she DOES. But it's in her head. What we need to do is extract it."

and the Virgin Mary in a tortilla...

That beer bottle was FULL when I left it there an hour ago. The statue drank it! IT'S A MIRACLE!

No Slovenian Public Works were harmed in the making of this post.
It was like that when I found it.

One last Balkan post

I enjoyed my time in Ljubljana, despite my failure to get the memo that summer in Slovenia ends on August 28th at 3pm SHARP. Autumn here is just delightful, though.

Yesterday I rode the bus one hour to the mountain town of Bled (pronounced kind of like "blade"). Although I would have preferred to be a little warmer and less wet, I have to say that the weather actually enhanced the picturesque surroundings: a fortress on a mountaintop, looming over an emerald green lake. The fortress has been there for a thousand years, and in the mid-1800s the lake and environs were part of a renowned spa resort. The castle within the fortress is now a museum with a VERY comprehensive history of the area: I mean, they were dealing in geological time, showing how the mountain was formed and during which eras it was under the sea. I liked seeing the collection of fossilized shells.










Museums in Ljubljana were equally comprehensive. This country has the most impressive museums I've ever visited, and I'll stand under the blue whale at the AMNH and say it loud and proud. I went to the city museum, the ethnographic museum, and the contemporary history museum (I'm a sucker for 20th century European history. I daresay it's why I do all this traveling in the first place). All three were very engaging, and featured sound and video clips along with the artifacts. They really did a lot to immerse you in the experience.

So that concludes "Balkans Bonanza 2010". Since leaving New York on August 5th, I have visited Italy, Albania, Macedonia, Kosovo, Montenegro, Bosnia, Serbia, Croatia, and Slovenia. It has been an amazing trip, truly. Prior to this trip I had been to only one of the former Yugoslav republics (Croatia); now I have been to all seven.

In my amateur assessment, I'd say Slovenia is the most "European", and Bosnia the least so, owing to its Islamic Turkish heritage.

Kosovo was the friendliest because they were so "yaaaay, America! You totally came through for us in the 1999 war!"
(and believe me, "yay, America!" is not a sentiment you hear all that often overseas. Oh well, screw everybody else; I'll always have you, Kosovo.)

Macedonia was the prettiest but we were at a resort town on a 1,000 year old glacial lake so that's kind of cheating :-) Montenegro was absolutely gorgeous, too, as was the Croatian coast.

I think someday, when I'm planning another adventure, I'll come back to one of these countries and learn the language. Croatian-Bosnian-Montenegrin-Serbian-Macedonian are all pretty similar, and it is a fantastic language filled with loads of fun words (see below, "K is for potato"). If I were to choose a place to set up shop, I'd say either Split, Croatia - a happenin' city with frequent ferries to the gorgeous Adriatic islands - or Sarajevo, Bosnia, which is small and friendly and has the richest history.

But I sort of have my heart set on a different adventure this time around. My next post will be from England - if I have time and am not swept away with wedding festivities - and I recently purchased my ticket onward from England to my next destination. So feel free to start guessing where I'm headed next. :-)

Kids these days don't get enthusiastic about ANYthing...

Chick-Fil-A tests out its new ad campaign in a quiet corner of Europe

Scenes from a Museum

Hi.
My name is, um... Bill. I'm just going to chill out in this corner over here while you browse the museum. That way I can scare the ever-lovin' CRAP out of you when you emerge from the exhibit.

Apart from that I don't serve any real purpose, and I am certainly not connected to the museum exhibit in any coherent discernible way.

Have a nice day.

K is for Potato

The drought ends in Ljubljana

Here is how cute Ljubljana is: Ljubljana is so unbelievably charming that it managed to overcome perhaps the worst arrival of this whole trip.

I nearly slept through my stop on the train here from Zagreb. (Funny, I almost did the same thing on my way IN to Zagreb. I really need to remember that these trains are also going to OTHER PLACES. They're not just going to stop dead, flick on all the lights, and yell, "Everybody off! We've arrived at Natalie's destination!")
So I vaulted off the train and exited the station in the wrong direction. Wheeling around, I discovered a) a dearth of bakeries and b) the disconcerting realization, examining the existing bakery, that I am now in the E.U. and bread is a lot more expensive.
I collected a free map from the tourist information stand (manned by absolutely the cutest 20-something Slovenian guy who, when I stood aside waiting my turn, called over to me in fake-stern English, "Please approach the bench!")

Using my map I determined that my hostel was, um, a long way away. No problem; this is why I pack light.
Halfway through the journey, it began to rain. Also, the directions to my hostel sort of tapered off into vagueness, at around the same time that the main part of town tapered off into confusing suburbia. By sticking stubbornly to my directions ("just keep following that street....") I did in fact find my hostel, in a residential building with no sign save for an 8x10 card on the door that read "Confidenti Hostel".

"Confidenti" must mean "confidential."

The sign on the door - on the DOOR, mind you, NOT on my confirmation slip - read "Reception is open from 9-11am. Outside of these hours, please call xxxxx."
I rang the bell anyway. Nothing. I do not have a cell phone.

Fortunately, the door was beneath a small roof, because I sat there for a good ten minutes, staring out at the rain and willing someone to appear. When no one did, I hoisted my bags again and shuffled over to a nearby bar/cafe, where I ordered a cappuccino and explained my predicament to the waitress. She was SO SWEET - she disappeared, returned with her personal cell phone, and dialed for me.

The hostel owner arrived within minutes and was friendly and apologetic. He ushered me in to the cleanest hostel of the entire trip. I want to have a party in this hostel and invite the entire staff and clientele of the hostel in Belgrade and just say "SEE?!"

your guess is as good as mine

the main marketplace in Zagreb, 10am

taken from the exact same vantage point as the photo below,
I swear...note the spire in the distance.

the main marketplace in Zagreb, 6pm

a room with a view

here is my lovely little room in Zagreb, which I had to myself save for two polite British teenagers.


and here is the view from the little deck.

reminded me of Abby...

I'm on the _____ ________

Bottoms up!

I'm on the ______ _______

Fill my cup.

I'm on the ____ _______

ready to crash and burn, I never learn....

I'm on the ______ _______

I love that stuff!

I'm on the _____ _________

And I can never get enough!!

If you haven't figured out by now that I took the night train to Zagreb, then you do not have my permission to call yourself a Guns 'N' Roses fan.

Buenos dias, Hrvatska

5 a.m. is perhaps not the ideal time to arrive in Zagreb, but let me tell you: some people are still up. Walking from the train station past a lovely park, I passed a group of Croatian teens carrying 32-ounce cups of beer. One of them was carrying on in heavily-accented drunk-speak English.

“Why is he speaking English right now?” I wondered. “Is one of his friends English? Or is he just one of those people who carries on in a foreign language when they’re drunk?”

And I’m not saying anything here about my own proclivities except that on the very rare occasions when I do get drunk, it’s helpful to have a Spanish-to-English translator on hand. ;-)

But that won’t happen here. I don’t think I strung so much as two beers together during the whole trip with the guys, and I’m sure as heck not going to drink when I’m here by myself!

That said, I already love Zagreb and think it is on the whole safer, more charming, and more old-world than Belgrade. I don’t mean to slag Belgrade, but it just wasn’t my scene - although the desk employee at my hostel was the sweetest, friendliest guy I’ve ever met. Besides you, of course, Dad.

Zagreb is a city on a much smaller scale than Belgrade and has a higher concentration of green spaces and beautiful buildings. As I write this - nearly 6 a.m. by now - I am sitting at the edge of a white stone fountain, watching the sun rise. There’s a massive cathedral right in front of me, dwarfing the medieval-looking fortress wall next to it. And they just turned the fountain on, so now I have the sound of bubbling water behind me. I love watching a city wake up. There’s a guy unloading a delivery truck, another guy riding past on a bicycle, and a bunch of old ladies in head scarves setting out vegetables in the central market.

There’s also a young blond girl in a party dress and heels, clearly doing the “walk of shame.” This really is an all-night party town, from the looks of it. Those guys emerging from the bakery, tearing off chunks of bread with their teeth - maybe they are on their way to work, but they could just as easily have been walking home from the pub and decided, "Jeez, I'm STARVING."

And of course they would say it in English, because that's what drunk Croatians speak.

The word for “bakery” here, while I’m thinking of it, is “pekarnica.” So it’s a variant of the word in Serb, and has the same diminutive ending we used in Costa Rica to speak baby-talk to Lady (albeit with a different pronunciation). So every time I see it I think it says, “cute little bakery.”

But it no longer matters what the word for “bakery” is, because if I don’t eat something other than bread soon I am going to get scurvy.

Cyrillic for Dummies

First I want to thank you all for your comments, which are funny and engaging and really reassuring. Sorry I have not been good about sending individual emails and postcards, but your presence on the blog has made me very happy. I feel like you are all here with me, laughing at my stories and yelling at me not to hitchike! (oKAY. I only did it because Sam was there; I would never do it alone!)

Today I wandered around Belgrade - it's very, um, urban, and not all that charming. But the people are friendly and helpful. After several tries, I found an adaptor for my computer charger. I told the guy, "You just made my day. Now I can write to my dad again." He seemed to appreciate that.
I also bought a few snacks. Everything in this country costs 50 cents: cup of coffee, pastry, slice of pizza. And I used the free map provided by my hostel to explore a bit. The Nikola Tesla museum was indeed aces, as Andy promised. It's full of model machines he made, operated/demonstrated by the English-speaking guide. Tesla made extraordinary and uncalculable conributions to modern technology, and after wandering through his museum I can confidently say that I still don't understand them one bit. But I saw his ashes; they're in a spherical urn in a spookily-lit room.
I managed to find a few streets that are for pedestrians only, lined with cafes. And at the end of one of them I reached the ethnographic museum, which contained a very charming and thorough display of 19th century Serbian costumes and artifacts from home life. They had the implements needed for several of the major farming industries: corn, grapes, fishing, tobacco, and olives.In the late afternoon I walked up to the park. It was lovely and I'll return there tomorrow to see the old fortress. I was pretty worn out by the end of the day, I think partly because of the walking and mostly because my brain is tired from reading the language. I absolutely love this language; it is so fun to pronounce. I've developed an utter compulsion to read aloud every word I see (Sam spent several days in Sarajevo listening to "Zel-ya-NEET-sa: Spinach pastry. Krom-pee-ROO-sa: Potato pastry. Doh-vih-JEN-ya: goodbye. Mlee-YEH-com: milk. SEER: cheese. VEESH-na: cherry. Bo-ro-NEET-sa: blueberry. Bee-YELL-ee: white. Blash-chee-CHAR-na: Old Town. GAV-ree-lo PRINT-sip: dude who shot Franz Ferdinand and kicked off World War I. ZHEN-ska: woman.")
Here in Belgrade, the word-pronouncing continues, but now it's more challenging because the words are often written in cyrillic. nEKAPA is pronounced PEKARA and means "bakery". And that's just one of the easy ones.
I think if you say it out loud, "pekara" does in fact sound like "bakery," but maybe I've just been here too long.
The baked goods in this country, by the way, are total crap, and I should know because I eat about five of them every day. If you'd like to read about the best loaf of bread in the entire world, go to http://balkanbonanza.blogspot.com for Sam's rhapsodic description. I can't do it justice.

On a final note, I saw a picture of Gavrilo Princip - aforementioned initiator of World War I - and, is it wrong of me to say, homeboy was kind of hot?

Old-school Youth Hostel

From Sarajevo to Belgrade, I shared a train compartment with the most ADORABLE little old lady named Ivanka who, after I established very clearly through hand gestures and blank stares that I did not understand a word she said, continued to speak quite companionably to me in Serb throughout the nine-hour trip. In that time I gathered that a) she thinks my name is pretty and b) she has been to Australia. The Australia trip was sponsored by the number "two" - I DO understand the word "dva" with two fingers held up.

So either she has been there twice, or she went for two weeks. Or perhaps she went there with two people, or visited two cities, or enjoyed two beers.

I would continue this line of reasoning to suggest that she may have seen two kangaroos, but she didn't pantomime any hopping so I kind of ruled that one out.With one hour remaining we were joined by a handsome Serb named Milodrag, and I assure you I am not spelling that right. "New York City?" he said, "America...Red Hot Chili Peppers!" So we hit it off right away. "Faith No More...I hear them, festival, EXIT, in Novi Sad." Andy, I hope you are reading this.

At the conclusion of the trip I helped Ivanka leave the train by carrying her bowling ball collection (I'm guessing), much to the appreciation of her son who met us on the platform. He was very nice to me, and Ivanka and I said a fond goodbye. In all - and this is borne up by my experiences today as well - Serbs are extremely friendly. Andy was right - you find yourself really liking these people, and then you're like, "But wait, they bombed the smack out of the Bosnians for pretty much the entire time I was in high school."

Leaving the train station, I found my hostel very easily. I'm staying in the sort of place that I alone can enjoy. All of my past traveling companions - I'm totally talking to you, SAM. And Andy and Nick. And hell, let's throw in Dan and Sharon and Shaheen and Elaina and anyone else who's ever traveled with me - would shudder in absolute horror at the dorm bunkbeds, the grainy patchwork seersucker sheets, the crowded, mildewed unisex bathroom down the hall, the smoke-and-noise filled lobby. And, ok, I couldn't do this forever. But for 3 nights, I'm happy. There's something satisfyingly uncomplicated about locking all of my possessions into a bedside cubby. I was assigned the bed closest to the air conditioner, so I get to regulate it all night according to my own comfort level...no helpless freezing or sweltering for me. (and there's no one around to steal my blanket in the night, ahem, you know who you are!) The young guys running the front desk are super sweet and helpful. When I checked in, they looked in confusion from my passport to me and said, "Whoa. You look a lot younger than you are." I'll take that any day, thanks.

And being surrounded by the chatter of ten-years-younger travelers of all European nationalities is better for me right now than sitting in a hotel room alone with my thoughts. This was probably the best place for me to go after saying goodbye, one by one, to the guys.The "Balkans Bonanza" adventure of me, Andy, Nick, and Sam is over, but I'm only 1/8th of the way through my overseas sojourn. Mostly I feel pretty great about it - I feel lucky that I don't have to leave yet - but I do miss having the guys around.

I'm only on my own for a week, though, before I arrive in England for Naomi's wedding. (!!!!!)

DATELINE: Belgrade, Serbia    

Author: Natalie      

I wrote a nice loooong entry, but I cant get online from my computer so now im just on the public computer in the hostel. so this is just to let everyone know that i made it safely to serbia and am enjoying myself quite a lot.love and miss you guys, more to come soon i hope. xoxo Nat

A Survivor's Tour of Sarajevo

DATELINE: Sarajevo, Bosnia

Author: Natalie

Normally I am not so into guided tours, but yesterday's was amazing - thanks to Andy for setting it up. Our guide, Mustapha, was a 28-year-old Bosnian Muslim whose family survived the siege of Sarajevo from 1992-1995. The tour really helped me to get a better sense of what went on during the war. We started at the tunnel museum, visited a portion of the front line, proceeded to the hilltop Jewish cemetery for a view of the city, and culminated at the old Ottoman fortress for an even better view of the city. With that perspective, it was much easier to see how Serb forces completely surrounded the city and terrorized the civilians with shells and sniper fire. The first victims were two young female medical students who were shot while crossing the Vrbanje bridge in April of 1992. During the nearly-four-year war, over 11,000 people were killed, 70% of them civilians. That figure includes 1600 children under the age of 12.

The only area not controlled by the Serbs was the airport, a small strip of land in the Eastern region of the city. The airport was under the supervision of U.N. forces and was used to deliver humanitarian aid. Our guide was not so impressed with the quality of the aid provided - canned goods from 1972, he said - nor with the support of the U.N. who essentially did nothing to curb the violence against civilians. The Bosnian forces, with help from civilians, dug an 800-meter-long tunnel beneath the air strip to connect Sarajevo with the free Bosnian territory in the hills far beyond. Anecdotes from survivors suggest that the tunnel was mainly used for delivering weapons from the city to the soldiers fighting in the hills, and especially for bringing supplies in to the city from outside. It also contained an oil pipeline and an electric line, making it particularly dangerous due to frequent flooding. Our own guide was twelve during the war, and he vividly recalls receiving food packages from his father, a soldier. He said that he himself wanted to fight but was too young. He told us that for the first six months of the war, his family lived in a bunker with 80 other families - so, about 400 people total - beneath a municipal building in the center of the city. He recounted how he left his house with his mother and sister just five minutes before it was bombed.

The siege caught the population of Sarajevo quite off guard. "One day," our guide recalled, "My Serb neighbors just disappeared. They had been tipped off that the Bosnian Serbs were planning an attack against we Muslims, and they fled for safety." The tanks and militia began amassing in the hills surrounding Sarajevo soon after that, but the army told the Sarajevans that they were merely there for military maneuvers and practice drills. Then the shelling began, and did not let up for over three years. In all, some five million shells were dropped on the city of Sarajevo. With the belated diplomatic intervention of U.S. President Bill Clinton, the war ended in November of 1995 with the signing of peace accords in Dayton, Ohio.

After the tour, Andy, Sam and I went to lunch and ate a truly obscene amount of bread.

DATELINE: Budva, Montenegro    

Author: Natalie      

Greetings from Montenegro; my new favorite word is "kleptocracy". I miss Nick, but the remaining three of us are enjoying our further travels up through the Balkans, where the women get hotter and the pizza more expensive as we continue north. (Though I predict those pizza prices will dip again in Sarajevo). I haven't been offered anything resembling a dumpling this whole trip, which leads me to conclude that we are technically NOT in Eastern Europe. Andy's post covered our arrival in the coastal town of Budva, so all I will do is reiterate that the bus ride along the coast was ab-so-lute-ly beautiful. The seaside is framed by mountains and lined with craggy rocks. Budva is quite a bit more developed than I hoped - it's kind of a Montenegrin Wildwood - but today I had an adventure on a mellower beach. Andy went off on his boat ride, and Sam and I started out on foot. Based on an aerial photograph I had seen of the region, I decided that we could "hike up to the highway, walk over the ridge, and descend down to the water via this path through the woods here...". Not long into our hot, dry, sunny hike, we decided it was a better idea to cab it. Good thing we did - the hike that I had estimated as 3 miles was more like twelve. And that "path through the woods" terminated in a fifty-foot cliff at the water's edge. So, in conclusion, it's amazing how much you can't tell by looking at an aerial photograph. Sam and I had a perfectly lovely day on the beach, swimming and scrambling over jagged rocks, looking at sea urchins and live sand dollars, gazing at the mountains in the distance, and eating pizza at a little cafe. We've been getting along so well on this trip; it's really nice. I was happy to be there for the second of Sam's major motor vehicle adventures on this trip: last week Nick and I taught him to drive a stick shift in the mountains of Kosovo, and today I suggested that we hitchhike back to Budva, which he had never done before. We were quickly successful, and enjoyed the company of a nice Russian man who spoke not one single word of English. Not one word. Through the use of hand gestures and the occasional unexpected Slavic cognate, we determined that he was a mason by profession, and that he believes Montenegrins are very hard workers except for the ones who do nothing but drink and smoke.

DATELINE: Ohrid, Macedonia    

Author: Natalie      

on renting a car: Natalie: "Just get the cheapest one that's comfortable. It's not like we need spinning rims." Andy: "I think we do need spinning rims in the worst way. You've seen this town; what would people think?"

Take On Me

rockin' out A-Ha style: a photo-booth effects version of a self-portrait taken on the train to Tirana, Albania.

DATELINE: Ohrid, Macedonia    

Author: Natalie      

Side effects of reading your own travel blog while traveling: Andy: "Hey Sam, I read on the internet that you may be carrying a small compass. May I see it?"

Circus Ninja Gets it Right this Time

Back bend in front of the Orthodox Church in Ohrid, Macedonia.

poolside adventures of Circus Ninja

Natalie, showing off long scrape she received while doing a standing back bend into the pool: "See this? Occupational hazard."Sam: "Of what? Being a dipshit?"

Albanian photo shoot

Sam, holding camera: "Guys, you're blocking the donkey."

DATELINE: Durres, Albania    

Author: Natalie      

Question: what can you get in Albania for $1.10? Answer: a large plate of french fries. Or a round-trip train ticket from Tirana to the beach. We're on the Adriatic! We're in a really nice hotel! Food is cheap and beer is free (if you've already paid for nine of them and the restaurant decides you're cute). Funny things that happened today: Nick nearly decapitated himself while trying to get the "scenic view" on the train. Sam ate an entire fish: head, tail, and all. Andy wore jeans and construction worker boots to the beach. Tomorrow we're going to get him on a paddle boat in that get-up.

Meet the ninjas

Balkans Bonanza Dossier

NAME: Andy

CODE NAME: Izzy

ROLE: The Chief

STRENGTHS: Multimedia wizardry. Navigation. Planning ahead.

WEAKNESSES: Compulsion to "cover a lot of ground."

NAME: Nick

CODE NAME: Steve

ROLE: The Bon Vivant

STRENGTHS: Mechanical mastery. If you can touch it, Nick can fix it.

WEAKNESSES: Wine, women, and song.

NAME: Sam

CODE NAME: Axl

ROLE: Devil's Advocate

STRENGTHS: Good taste in music. May be carrying a small compass.

WEAKNESSES: Fussy.

NAME: Natalie

CODE NAME: Slash

ROLE: The Girl

STRENGTHS: Multilingual. Very light packer. Colorful fingernails.

WEAKNESSES: Doesn't know when to keep her mouth shut. Borrows other people's clothing without asking.

And we're off!

I hope I'll be able to manage at the airport

with all my stuff.

packing

Today I amused myself by seeing just how small I could make my luggage.

I'll publish pix of the fully-loaded bags when I have them. Here's the inventory:

BASE LAYERS

1 ballet-pink bodystocking

4 pair boy shorts

3 pair bikini briefs

4 thongs

zebra-striped bra (my "ze-bra")

turquoise bikini

black tank top

white tank top

camouflage wifebeater

lavender floral nightdress

lavender paisley scarf

I have so much cute underwear and no good reason to show it off. Story of my life.

DRESSES

turquoise plaid dress

orange A-line dress

red empire-waist dress

turquoise paisley tunic

blue flowered cotton lawn dress

SHIRTS

white empire-waist tank top

army green tee shirt

red "drama camp" tee shirt

PANTS

black "Jersey Royalty" booty shorts

black cotton long shorts

navy blue jazz-leg unitard

SHOES

silver Birkenstock thong sandals

OTHER

Toiletries and makeup: somehow this category ended up taking up a LOT more space than it should have. But every vagabond needs a good mascara.

Rain poncho.

Digital camera.

Laptop computer (Andy talked me into this. I already have to admit he was right, and I haven't even left the country yet.)

Earplugs, sleep mask, and travel pillow.

Wallet with photos of my niece and nephews.

Hebrew flashcards. Naturally.

Pouch full of lavender seeds. I travel in style.

Circus Ninja gets a new lease on life

This blog will henceforth be an account of my overseas adventures.

August 5-23: Albania, Macedonia, Montenegro, Kosovo, Bosnia

August 24-31: Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia

September 1-8: England for NAOMI'S WEDDING!!!

September 9-November 23: to be announced ;-)

a peek at the training space

Here is my training space. The trapeze wasn't up yet when I took this pic, but it hangs on the left right over those two white lines. And no, that's not the ladder I used to hang it. The other ladder is WAY bigger.

As you can see, I also have access to a rope, a pullup bar, plenty of floor space, and some large mats. So my goal for the long weekend is to write myself a few really comprehensive, ambitious exercise routines that make full use of my space while I have it.

Thanks, Marymount. You guys totally rock.

fun day

ohhhh, I had such an awesome workout today. Just me and my trapeze. It felt like old times.

I trained the way Natalie Agee at Ruby Streak taught me - I did her sequence of abs and arms warmups, then beats on the bar, pike pullups, ankle hangs, straddle ups, one-knee hangs. And then I just ran through a few moves, started improvising, and moved on to choreography.

"POISON"

standing back bridge

pullover

front balance

dive to catcher's

pull to aeroplane

grip bar and drop into back beat

straddle up to ankle hang

one-knee hang

pull to seated; modified mermaid

sit-and-spin (I HATE this move. It never works and the trapeze gets tangled up! But it is a way to change facing, which is necessary for...)

back balance

roll forward to crucifix

beat back to both knees on rope

spin around rope

infinity turn

shoulder stand (with spider-on-web legs)

falling star

bird's nest

quickly tuck and pop back to bird's nest; repeat a few times

aaaand that's all I have so far. I'm not training with music yet, although the song is certainly stuck in my head most of the day.

I feel so happy and relaxed now, after training. I'm starting to remember why I fell so hard for trapeze in the first place.

I DID IT!!!

one. perfect. handstand.

the East River

I'm very lucky, to live where I do. Andy said, "It's like you're at summer camp, too! Just like your students! But you're at Yuppie Camp. You know, you live in a nice area...you have a washer/dryer in the building...now go make me a lanyard. Out of money."

I came home from work today - kinda fried, again - and took a short nap, which worked very well, because by 7pm I had enough energy to go running in the park along the East River. It was beautiful, Naomi. And it smelled like being by the sea...well, also with sort of a gasoline smell, but what can ya do.

Midway through my run I threw in stretch kicks, 3 sets of 10 pushups with my feet up on a step, and a few tuck-ups on a bar. Oh, and 10 handstands, some of which had definite hang time. 'Getting there!

If I could just stop chowing down on cereal and pop tarts, I'd totally have a six pack by now.

Bob Geldof didn't particularly care for Mondays, either

Monday's workout: jack shit.
I finished work at 4:30pm and was so fried, I just came home and lay on Andy's couch for five hours and ate pop tarts.

So basically it was a lot like last Monday, except this week I did not emotionally blackmail my ex, so I guess that puts me in the plus column.

;-)

hanging in there

Hey Nae! Miss ya.
Friday I worked out in the gym - 10/10 handstands (I skipped the straddle ups. I really stink at those, dude!), 3 sets of 10 squat jumps, and a bunch of trapeze stuff. I find myself really gun-shy to do any of the suspension on the ropes moves. My grip needs to toughen up.
Also I forget exactly how to get into meathook, if you care to remind me.
On the plus side, I am choreographing. Front balance to catcher's, pull up on the ropes to aeroplane, then - I made this up - grab the bar and drop down into a back beat. It's kind of intense. I hope it looks good - I might need to tape it and see if it's as dramatic as it feels.

Saturday I walked five miles, but at a very slow pace...

And today I went for a short but exhilarating run. It was insanely humid and hot out. I'm proud of myself for going outside at all. I probably should have added some sprint intervals, but, well....hey, did I mention it was really hot outside?

:-) Hope you're doing well, girl. And if you're not training as hard as you'd like, because of teaching or gym access or what have you, just go easy on yourself. After the year-long intensive, it's probably a good idea to rest anyways.

love you!
-Nati

oh yeah, and for the first day in over a year I underate instead of overate. So maybe pretty soon I'll start achieving a balance.