A Sunday Afternoon - a poem for Halloween

With

pink blaring against the sun

fire ripped from the starting gun,

bullets sprayed skeletons barely alive,

blood whipped across the starting line.

 

Then,

suddenly,

the race was done.

And standing in pools,

the winner began to run.

Uzi's, Oakleys & An Identity With A Side of Roses in Israel

**Note: This is the second in a series of articles on Israel. They're like algebra but fun - they're cumulative. Please read the first article before coming to this one to fully understand the context. Thanks.**

The first time I saw a group of men with sub-machine guns was at the rail station in Jerusalem. They were Israeli soldiers. Spirited, friendly, helpful and scary as hell all at the same time, they sported sleek haircuts and Oakley mirrored sunglasses. They were leaving the Old City after helping to quiet a riot in the Arab sook.

We had been warned by Livnot about the riot and told it was best to stay away from the sook. But we were also told that the army had dispelled the riot, and that was Livnot's first mistake. Their second mistake was giving us a free day in Jerusalem after telling a group of shoppers about the fantastic buys in the Sook the night before - when no one knew there would be a riot. There was no hesitation. We went to the Wailing Wall, the Jewish Quarter shops, and then straight to the sook. Where the shopkeepers were overjoyed at our presence.

It was magical. At least, it was magical to me, a girl in her early 20's whose favorite local shop spot was the mall. We turned a corner and there it was.

Rooms wrapped around corners in a maze-like configuration, each one housing a different shop. It was intimate, with one shop on each side and separated by only a few feet for passage. Intimate.

At one point I separated from my friends and made the mistake of turning a corner and finding the meat section. I wanted shoes. I got fresh goat legs hanging from the ceiling and a smell that made me glad I'd skipped breakfast but brought up memories of dinner the night before. It was a typical middle eastern open air market. But this was not my area of the market. I was not shopping for hooves.

My eyes pooping out of their sockets from shock, I half-dove back around the corner. A few deep breaths of fabric, spice and incense, and I relaxed again into a world of scarves, jewelry, hand-knit bags and multi-colored chamsas.

The shopkeepers called out to me from all directions - I was a rare customer on this day of rioting. Many people, especially single female travellers, would have been uncomfortable here and I wouldn't blame them. These guys (there were no women sellers to be found) were not shy with their requests to come inside and touch their lovely items, the things that only they possess, to lay eyes on the really beautiful things in the back. Sketchy? Yes. Dangerous? To my 20-something brain? No.

I am from New York. I have spent many summers in Manhattan being coaxed or yelled at - sometimes simultaneously - by shop-keepers, taunted by subway riders who make fake Rolexes magically appear, and I have repelled the slurs from guys with card-stands. Feel karmic one day? Casually walk by the guys with cards and talk about how some tourist just told a cop that their stand had taken his money. They disperse into the wind like butterflies before a storm, had the butterflies been adorned in leather and tight corduroys. Fun. During the day.

Goat legs make me run for the hills but pushy salesmen are expected. They're annoying, but they're always open to discussing price and value. We're cool and the gang as long as there's no touching. NO touching. Since nothing inappropriate was happening here, I strolled along, shop to shop, buying far too many souvenirs.

Upon turning a corner, I saw a friend being led by the hand deeper into a shop by an older man clearly invading her personal space for influence. Alarm bells started going off in my head like police sirens the night before your college Philosophy final (or was that just me?). Our bus was leaving in an hour and we were deep in the maze. It was was time to go.

I took her other hand and, giving the man a look of clear determination and disgust, verbally apologized to him and reminded her of our deadline. I was angry but not unaware of risk. I distinctly remember both of us refusing to let go of her hand and a small battle of wills taking place amongst walls of magnets and key chains. She is an immensely nice human being. She was being an immensely nice human being by going into his shop. But he'd broken the No Touching rule. I'd rather have fed my money to the chickens than buy whatever he was selling.

The mini-mind battle lasted only a minute before he let go and I pulled her out of the store. A look of anger found it's way towards my face from inside the room. I turned my back on him as I saw it, arm in arm with my friend. I seriously hoped she remembered how to get out because my sense of direction would likely take me to Detroit before bringing me back around to the group meeting place by the Western Wall some 5 days later.

######## Elevator Music a la Monty Python action break#####
### And we're back. ###

We did not wind up in Detroit. She was much better at navigating than I. We were spared an hour of, "So you go left at the 7th incense stand on the right and then right at the camel with the red cloths..." Thank God. We were then joined by another friend who appeared to have a GPS sown into her shoes. Fifteen minutes later we were back through the Jaffa Gate, out of the Old City and heading towards the bus station.

Which is when the machine guns appeared. It was disconcerting at first. No one was nervous or appeared to think this was out of the ordinary. I'm an American. I grew up in upstate New York. Guys in green fatigues with giant guns and Oakleys would be fearful people in my home town. I would run from them like my hair was on fire, arms waving wildly in the air. Or, more likely, I would freeze in place from the shock while they wondered why the little blond was trying to make things easy. The little blond found the calm around the machine guns discordant and disorienting.

But these heavily armed men were giving up their bus seats to old ladies and having jovial conversations with the drivers. They were vigilant, strong, communal and sporting the latest in Oakley shades. And this wasn't New York.

The camaraderie between the men struck me. In the States there is always the guy who doesn't quite fit in; he doesn't participate in the jokes or group fun. He is the 'excluded one.' Amongst the soldiers, you could tell who he would be. He was quiet and sat a row away from the others, but he was not excluded. The others departed before he did - he was not included in their outing. But each one paused at his seat as they got off, looked at him through dark oblong glasses and briefly clasped his shoulder. They nodded and a few words were exchanged.

He smiled at each, a sense of calmness appeared to restore to his body. He was accepted. He was a fighter, if fighting need be, and he would not be left out. I am certain that if he'd risen and said he wanted to come, he would have been happily included. But he remained seated and onward we went.

I say this in the same article as the Rooster for a reason. Note, the Rooster still lives. And this same communal link is why. He should thank his lucky little feathers he lives where he does. More on him later.

I grew used to the guns because I grew trust and respect for the gun-holders. They had these guns for my protection and the protection of people I cared for. I was just a face in the crowd in jeans and a chamsa necklace. They knew nothing of me. They owed nothing to me. But they would die for me if the need arose. And I was just visiting.

Think of Israel what you will. This was my experience.

Each day, this is what the Israelis did - defend. Every citizen is required to give two years of service to the State. Many stay in service longer. Many are ex-pats who start late. But they all know of the sacrifice.

Women are among those required to serve. 'Defender' is not a man-only role in the 'Jewish' State, and many women serve in fighting units. But Israelis don't see violence as the only form of national defense. Education and community service are also viewed as vital, and women (only) are given the option of serving in these realms instead of the army.

Our two Israeli tour 'helpers' were young women, Lizzie and Jaffa, doing their two years of service through Livnot, educating (mostly) naive young Americans and Canadians about Israeli custom, law, history and security. They made sure we were up at the crack of dawn trying not to pass out in our pancakes and fruit from jetlag and fatigue, they patiently answered our (occasionally ridiculous *cough*) questions about Israeli history and helped guide us on the "hikes."

It was Jaffa's birthday about halfway through the trip and what did she want for her birthday? To hike the wadi (a river - dry, in this case). Of course, a hike. I was just getting the feeling back in my legs from the climb two days before, so the timing was almost perfect.

Have your hamstrings ever been so tight you opted to slide down stairs instead of walk? Has your toe ever bruised green and black from pressing hard against a boot for 7 miles? No? Ask Jaffa to take you on a short walk. I adore this woman, she amazes me to this day. But no more hiking.

######## More Elevator Music... #######
######## And we're back to the regularly scheduled programming#######

Our tour schedule was more fluid than other Birthright experiences, and it was run by Israelis with little regard for the traditional tourist experience. Whereas other tours stayed at high end hotels like the King David, we stayed in a dorm with rock walls and a resident dog named Mimi with new puppies and a desperate need for a multi-nipple bra.

The others went to Yad Vashem, the large Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem - a solemn place that is a memorial of victims at its core. We did not. Instead, our trip took us to an incredibly beautiful building, glazed in pink roses amongst ancient stones in the city of Akko. We were shown exhibits about fighters, not victims. We saw the best of humanity on display in a stained-glass Holocaust museum.

A wedding was ending as we arrived, and the bride and groom, jubilant and love-struck, danced between stone arches and fallen petals. It was almost magical and entirely un-modern. It was something you wanted to remember, not forget. You wanted to put it in pictures as the background to one of the most beloved days of your life.

The museum was built next to a centuries' old theatre with a backdrop of ancient stone arches hundreds of feet tall. As the arches connected, they created a bridge on the top with locking keystones, and one member of our tour ran across them in controlled abandon.

Inside the museum, there was turn after turn of pictures in chronological order from the Ghettos to the Holocaust of the Jews who fought back. They wielded weapons carved from violins and broomsticks and the occasional smuggled firearm. They had set and determined stares. They would not lay down before the Nazis. And here, in this little museum, they gave to me the part of a Jewish identity that I was missing. Because I was not a victim.

Let me be clear. It's important that we remember. Plain and simple, it's important that we keepsake the horror.

I read an article in New York Times recently of how survivors' grandchildren are replicating the tattoos their grandparents were given by the Nazis - the numbers that identified them as things and made them easier to track. They were good record keepers, the Nazi's. It's a good thing, because it made Nuremberg that much easier during the post-war prosecutions and it made people easier to find for surviving family members.

I support this movement of tattoos. I would join it if I had a survivor as a relative.

But it's just as important to my identity as a Jew - 1/2 of my very being - that I am a descendant of a fighter too. That my People did not just lay down. They stood up when others would have crumbled.

It was the first time in my life that I was entirely proud to call myself "Jew." There was no nagging feeling of uncertainty - like there existed some kind of fucked up genetic trait for helplessness and passivity - NO. My people fought guns with books, violins, pitchforks and whatever else they could find, and sometimes - sometimes - they won.


This was my missing piece. The link between the striped pajamas and Mossad.

Thank you, Livnot. For giving me back my history.

Holy Hiking - Israel's Crazy Climbs

Somewhere in Northern Israel, there is an angry rooster roaming the streets. I don't know his name. We'll call him 'Rooster' because I am the queen of creativity. He does not like me.

Which is fine, the feeling is entirely mutual. I would have happily eaten him given the chance - and there are witnesses to confirm that this is more a testament to his character than mine. I think he marked us on the way in, hiding with his hens behind old Roman stones as we walked to our dorm.

There were four of us sharing the room in Tzfat, Israel, an artist's community bordering Southern Lebanon. On the roof at night we had a clear view of mountainous Lebanon. We watched the occasional twinkling lights go on and off and wondered who they belonged to.

During our stay, in an effort to move along peace negotiations with Lebanon, Israeli soldiers were removed by the Government from that very area. Helicopters frequently chopped our silent reveries.We worked briefly with about 50 Southern Lebanese who had helped the Israeli army and were now Israeli refugees. Their assistance made them targets at home. Six years later, Tzfat, also known as 'Safed', was shelled when Hezbollah took advantage of its proximity to Lebanon, and, quite possibly, the absence of an Israeli presence. Thankfully, no one we know was hurt. The city was quickly rebuilt. And the same tour we took part in continues to this day - our dorm still stands.

There was a constant strand of pride, hope for peace & readiness to fight in Tzfat that pervaded the consciousness and bound the people together. The purposes of our Tour were education, fun and work, and there was certainly no lack of opportunities for any of the three.

We were part of a 'Birthright Israel' trip. 'Birthright', as it's commonly known, is a phenomenal opportunity for any Jewish American or Canadian college-aged adult. It's a free 10-14 day educational program that flies participants to Israel. You are fed, housed, transported, educated and guided through a few of the country's hotspots, like the Kotel & Dead Sea.

Our Tour was run by a group called Livnot U'lehibanot, translated from Hebrew as "To Build & To Be Built", and was focused more on nature and community service than the average tour. It was a 14 day adventure centered in Tzfat and Jerusalem with stops at Masada and the Dead Sea along the way. We spent most of our time re-building old or damaged structures - I learned how to lay brick and use tools - and hiking through educationally relevant areas.

When I say 'hiking', let me point out that the Israeli version of a 'hike' is different from the typical American 'hike.' They are at least 6 to 10 miles long, have sketchy climbs up 90-degree grass ledges with loose dirt and "paths" that include jumps onto bolders surrounded by active and angry bee hives, all while carrying a 30 lb. backpack. Snakes, ditches filled with black water, ancient caves, 30 foot waterfall jumps, loose dirt downhill slides - par for the course.

Thank god for the guy who carried my pack towards the end. And although my toe was permanently damaged, thank god my toe was permanently damaged because it got me out of a couple of "hikes", and sent me instead with a friend to the gorgeous Mediterranean city of Nahariya to visit her Israeli friends.

But the pain was worth the trip - I'd take the pain in a heartbeat to go again. We saw cannons during a "hike" in the Golan Heights (this was in 2000, when the Golan belonged to Israel) used during the 6-day war, bullet holes from the British fight & opposition to the State from the late 1940's, and Hebrew graffiti carved into cave walls during the Roman occupation.

I still have a piece of pottery from an archaeological dig beneath the Western Wall. I went caving in Bethlehem, made friends for life. And, honestly, who besides the 30 of us can say they've been tubing down the Jordan River - which is really a big stream that kept aiming my tube (and only my tube) toward the muddy, rocky walls on the River's sides.

We did not sleep. We ate canned tuna and fruit. We sang.

Whereas other tours stayed at high end hotels like the King David in Jerusalem, we slept on bunks with rock walls and hung our unmentionables on cords to dry. Because we'd been tracked by the Birthright people, and determined to be both barely Jewish and in love with nature, we were handed over to Livnot. Livnot, whose PhD level instructors taught me that even questioning the existence of G-d makes you a "good Jew." Because you are questioning. And you are considering G-d while you do it.

If there is a traditional G-d, I owe him big-time for Livnot.

To be continued...

Red Curtains - yes, it's a poem

 

So it's time.

 

Air rides in like

waves above the ocean floor.

Inside this heart

desire screams for more.

Too many chapters were left without end

when Love died

from words unsaid.

 

So it's time,

to scream 'Goodbye' from the tips of Heaven

where no sound is blocked

by Severity or Seven.

 

Adjectives like fire breathe

from our lungs

and we've come to

need them

as an addict

needs his drug.

 

Walls stop smoke

like water

saves a drowning man,

and so shall

the world unveil

when a woman takes a Stand. 

On the poems on this blog and on Twitter -

They are my commercial breaks in between travel articles.

Think of them like the commercials from the Superbowl - adored and looked forward to (by me)almost as much as the main event (although hopefully they dont start to suck halfway through the game).

I LOVE poetry.

I love the way it makes me feel. I love the way the words flow from the page like a dance that I need to see from different angles to understand. I love how one sentence can mean a thousand different simple things, or just one clearly intended thought.

Poetry is not as simple as an article. A poem is far shorter but takes just as much time to consider as an article. It is not for everyone. I totally get that.

My one request is that you pick one and try it out. Take it line by line, give it five or ten minutes. Read, re-read, let it sit, let it settle, let it sink in.

After that, if it's not for you, f*ck it, another article will come shortly. I'll try to I.D. the poems until I figure out how to separate them into another area. Do with them what you will.

Cheers!~

Last note & Disclaimer.

* Note. You can now find me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/StaceyVLevinson! Travel, Family & Buffalo Sabres/Bills Fun in 140 characters or less. Seriously, HOW can you go wrong? :)

*Disclaimer. I am not responsible for missed plays or family milestones caused by time spent on twitter. Thank you.*

Between Covet & Condensation - an old poem

There is a breath

at the end of a sentence

that sets the bell-tones of conversation

before finality

is satiated and set.

 

But there wasn't a thought

 of this or that

when you couldn't

look me in the eyes. 

You breathed

in labored tones -

all attempts

at age appropriation

had long drifted away.

 

A boy

sat before me

dressed in a metallic suit

with grinding brakes

urging to be let go

and oil spilt carelessly

around useless legs.

 Everything was frozen

but the wind from your body.

 

A boy,

with my future

in his fumbling hands

waiting

to be wounded from above.



How to Get Your Shark-phobic Spouse Swimming With Sharks, or, Vacation in La Jolla - the Socially Accepted Place to Get Hammered

I love swimming with sharks. I know that's a shock given that 2 out of 6 articles on this blog are about swimming with sharks. My husband, however, does not share my enthusiasm. So how do you get him in the water with sharks when you really want to swim with sharks, but it is a non-child filled weekend and you also really want to spend time together? How do you get your shark-shaped cake and eat it too? Easy. Take him to La Jolla.

La Jolla, CA is one of the most highly photographed and high-end places on earth, and it is the only place I have been where it is socially accepted, if not expected, that you get absolutely shit-faced when you visit. You start at Jose's Mexican restaurant near the Cove and work your way down to the ocean, trying not to fall in when you get there. Everything serves liquor with a view - even the art galleries. Why? I suspect it's a lot like Vegas. They want you drunk so you will spend money.

It's a parallel tactic that I used to get Mark, my husband, in the water with leopard sharks on a Kayak, Caving & Snorkel tour. Leopard sharks are harmless but Mark's not a big water guy. He will perform his own personal ballet to avoid seaweed on the beach. He will leave the room if I'm watching Shark Week.

He will not agree to partake in shark tours - while sober. But he will enjoy it once in the water. It's a conundrum. How do we get from beach to lovely time with sharks?

We started at Jose's. It was margarita special night (it's always margarita special night). After 5 bowls of chips, 3 shots of Cuervo and an unknown number of margaritas, I asked him about the shark tour by describing it as a "kayak tour, and I know you've always wanted to do that." He has. Then I showed him the Groupon that offered the tour for $15 when it's normally $85 and that sealed the deal, but, "only if we can go on Sunday. I want to go on a Sunday." I immediately booked the (non-refundable) tickets for next Sunday.


It was Friday night. I was drinking Dr. Pepper.

Saturday was his fantasy football draft so he had no time to think about sharks. When it came up later he'd already been back around the margarita wheel because he drafted at Barfly, a bar-during-the-day and club-at-night 'restaurant' with free internet service. And we focused on the "harmless" part of the leopard shark. It is possible I never mentioned the "5ft long" part. Because if I had mentioned the "5ft long" part, that's all we would have talked about for the next 36 hours.

I also may or may not have left out the seals. Seals are prevalent in San Diego and concentrated in La Jolla, and it is possible the area we were snorkeling in was directly below a seal-viewing area. Seals like caves. It was a caving tour.

Mark likes seals. The seals aren't the problem. The problem is that seals, although sleek and nimble in the water, are the main food source for sharks. Seals and sharks. The two are connected in his subconscious like "peanut butter" and "jelly," or, "Ryan Matthews" and "still a good pick".

On Sunday we left with only enough time to get to the tour shop because I am a girl and girls can take as long as they want to get ready even if we are going straight into the ocean.

If we had left with more time, it's possible we would have wound up at the conveniently located Barfly for liquid courage. This would have lead to a constant stream of statements from Mark about how he is not afraid of sharks, and his constant talk about sharks would no doubt begin to freak out the other Shark Tour patrons.

Plus we'd likely be DQ'd from the Tour. They don't let you sign a liability release when reeking of tequila, and the Tour operators were already cranky because we were using Groupon. They weren't going to be sympathetic. (As a sidenote, if you're going to be cranky when people use your Groupon, then don't offer services on Groupon.)

Parking is tricky by La Jolla Cove, so Mark was off finding a parking spot when the earthquake hit. Which is probably a good thing because I was signing the release forms at the time. The quake was centered in Mexicali and registered in at 5.4. We were thankfully far enough away to only get smallish shakes, but they were big enough to shake the pen as I wrote on the counter. If you're already on edge that is not a comforting sensation. Frankly, it's not a comforting sensation when you're not already on edge, because two other words that go together are "earthquake" and "tsunami." But there were several Tours coming back and we were assured that the water was calm.

Mark arrived and we both changed into the best outfit anyone can wear - a wetsuit. Neoprene sucks in everything. You may have sported a muffin-top on the way into the shop but when you leave for the Tour you will have Halle Berry's curves. I LOVE these things.

One girl tried to be really fashionable and wear only the bottom-half zipped to avoid famers' tan-lines. But, if she'd thought about it, the idea of trying to get the top on while in a tiny kayak in the middle of the ocean probably would have stopped her. The waves rock you, your movement rocks you, and the zipper's in the back so you need help. Her boyfriend was not the helpful type and she had to wait for a guide when it was time to zip up and get in the water. It was shameful. Hopefully karma slapped the boy with some seaweed.

All 10 people on the Tour did our sexy neoprene stroll down to the water, where they handed us the helmets and snorkel gear and we were no longer sexy. They showed us how to paddle. We were in a circle and a few people were unintentionally smacked around but they took it in stride. I like the people that go on these things, they're usually adventurous and slightly nervous so they take a lot in stride.

We pushed our 2-person kayak in the water and Mark immediately began to paddle like someone had slipped crack in his coffee. When I sweetly asked him what the hell he was doing, he said, "I want to keep up." I pointed out that we were spinning in circles and maybe this wasn't the best strategy, but he really wanted to get in a work-out (I'm not kidding). So I dug in and went at it with him.

A few minutes later we were a least 50ft ahead of everyone else and had no idea where we were going, but, hey, we were on the water and getting a work-out - life was good.

We eventually wound up in sync with the Tour and, since only half the participants spoke English, the guides spent a lot of time talking to us. They also spent a lot of time pushing our kayak away from them because we were constantly paddling at them, banging our kayak into theirs as we failed to stop paddling in time to avoid them. But the guides too took it all in stride.

They spent the rest of their time trying to keep the non-English speaking contingent from paddling into dangerous cliffs or drifting into other tours. They were mildly successful.

When it came time to get in the water, we stopped at the Seven Caves and listened to the seals as their barks echoed around and through the rocks and water. And then, in we dove. Hands held, we watched the tall underwater grass move like a field in the wind. Colorful fish flitted in every direction and we split to follow different schools. The leopard sharks were hard to see but they were accounted for and a beauty to watch.


About ten minutes later I felt a hand on my back. Mark was pointing to a seal floating in place about 2 feet away that I somehow hadn't noticed. We stayed like that for awhile. The water and nature and warm contact enveloped us and there was only unspoken joy at the incredible all around.

It was one of the most romantic times either of us have experienced and it was all because he kept his word and faced his fears. He could have backed out. We both knew he could have, and we both knew he wouldn't.

We got back into the kayak fairly easily from the water - I got in a lot easier but I am not 6'3 or 185 lbs. There's a reason gymnasts are tiny. We managed a good rhythm on the way back, and, when we arrived at the off-shore starting point, the guides explained how to ride the waves back into shore without tipping over. They made the tipping over thing sound really dramatic. I suspect it's because they were bored with the whole touring bit by then, and they just wanted to go surf already.

Naturally, we tipped over on the way in (we were the only ones). Mark tried to look at a fish and 185 lbs. tips a kayak easily when it's leaning half-way over the edge. But it was warm at the shore and any excuse to get back in that water was a good one.

The tip was all talk. It was about as undramatic as you can get. After falling into the gently rolling waves, we easily righted the boat while gently pushing it to shore. And then we immediately removed the helmets. I now love kayaking.

And that's how you get a shark-phobic spouse in shark infested water and have an amazing time.

Rush, Reasoning, American Dreaming

 

In time and effigy, in opposition to efficacy

walking in step,

walking in sleep

to the American Dream.

In rhythm and resilience, promise and paucity,

lettered by grade and guild and

universally euphemistic

to the American Dream.

I have wanted to walk with you

by shaded walls of merry-go-rounds

and kings and poets popularly crowned.

I have waited for a rush of faith

daring death to my silence

amongst the loudest of fools.

If Rush and reason contend

my friend

time may

heavenly collide,

and radio in hours will crackle the whip

as enigmas in righteousness

start the glass

to tip.