I don't have air conditioning in my apartment. My friends think I'm insane, despite the fact that domestic air-conditioning was exhoribitantly expensive, and thus considered a true luxury in Israel, up until around 10 years ago. Hardly anyone here grew up with air conditioning at home, but today it's considered a necessity. Since I live in a rented apartment, in a building that is slated for demolition in a couple of years (getting permission from the municipality takes a very, very long time), the owners aren't about to invest in a unit - and I'm certainly not going to spend $1,000 to get one installed. Mostly, this is not a problem: I live in an old (and crumbling) Bauhaus building with high ceilings, and my apartment doesn't get a lot of direct sunlight. Tonight, however, it's particularly hot and humid, and the air just isn't moving. The cold shower didn't help; I can't sleep.
So I'm waiting for the magic hour before dawn, when the humidity declines a bit, and meanwhile I'm reading the New Yorker online. I just finished Hendrik Hertzberg's very intelligent and beautifully written review of Bill Clinton's memoir, "My Life." I particularly like this bit:
"...the book is shaped by political pressures and obligations. Theoretically, when a President becomes an ex-President he is freed from many of the constraints that necessarily shackled him when he was seeking office or negotiating with Congress or conducting diplomacy. But Presidential memoirs seldom take full advantage of the freedom to be frank, and Clinton’s is no exception. It is his unique and ironic fate to have a spouse who is a politician, too—one whose elective career lifted off with a roar just as his own was nearing splashdown. Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton, Democrat of New York, represents a state bristling with political minefields, and she will almost certainly be on every list of Presidential possibilities for several cycles to come. Her husband must therefore consider the impact on her political fortunes of everything he says, does, or writes. He might like to fire off something beastly about Israel, for example, or the Cubans in Miami, or the teachers’ unions. But he can’t. He has to watch what he says. If this is Hillary’s revenge, it is exquisite."
What can I say? I respect and admire Bill for his brilliance and charisma, and I think the Starr Report (which I read) can most kindly be described as none of anyone's business. But humiliating one's spouse in public is very uncool, and if Hertzberg's half-joking speculation is true then I say - more power (both literally and figuratively) to Hillary.
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On the Face in the News
Lebanese and Israelis blog
the war: edited by Michael Totten This Month
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Saturday, July 31
Heat-induced insomnia and Bill Clinton
by
Lisa Goldman
on Sat 31 Jul 2004 03:22 AM PDT
Friday, July 30
Tel Aviv discovers Toronto
by
Lisa Goldman
on Fri 30 Jul 2004 12:26 AM PDT
In this week's Time Out Tel Aviv there's a three page article about Toronto by one of Israel's celebrity TV chefs (and restaurant critic for Time Out Tel Aviv), Gil Hovav.
Toronto really showed up on the Israeli radar screen about a year ago, when the mass-circulation daily Yedioth Ahronoth published an article announcing that Canada's largest city had become the destination of choice for emigrating Israelis. According to the article, there are now about 60,000 Israeli immigrants living in metropolitan Toronto. Based on "man on the street" interviews, it seems that most of them would have preferred to emigrate to the USA, but post-9/11 visa restrictions have made that increasingly difficult, whereas Canada is a country that has a much more open immigration policy. An oft-repeated reason for being less enthusiastic about Canada was - big surprise - the winters. Apparently, six months of freezing temps are a major bummer. Indeed. Especially for people who are used to near-constant sunshine, 6 months of hot weather per year, and just 2 months of winter weather, when the damp and chill are sort of reminiscent of London in October. I know Toronto pretty well, having lived there for three years in the late 1980s, and my mother and sister Adina live there now. It's not the most exciting place in the world, but if you're looking for a clean, safe and pleasant place to raise children, and you're not adversely affected by long, freezing winters (followed by brief, scorching summers), then Toronto could be for you. Peter Ustinov once described the city as "New York run by the Swiss." Torontonians took Ustinov's pronouncement as a huge compliment - forgetting that Switzerland is generally considered one of the most boring countries in the world. But I digress. Here's a bit of what Hovav has to say about Toronto (in my inelegant translation from the Hebrew): "Canadians are a more successful version of Americans - more witty, with the ability to laugh at themselves, and modest. And if you approach Toronto from the right angle, the city is a version of Manhattan that is a thousand times more human and pleasant." Hovav goes on to tell his readers that Mercer Street is the hottest place to hang out in Toronto these days. He loves the boutique hotel Le Germain, with its charming lobby and bathrooms that look like an aquarium, and staff that's "dressed a lot better than you are"; he adores Rain, the Mercer Street restaurant located in a building that was formerly a women's prison - a fact "which provides a thrill for the guys who go to eat there." OK, he admits, the communal table concept is a bit tired already, but this is a *leather* table. And the open kitchen "offers an exciting performance". Gil liked the gyozo stuffed with oxtail, the pork-filled omelette [trendy secular Israelis are big on pork] and the duck cooked three different ways. Other TO eateries recommended by Hovav: Barbarian's Steak House (Beit ha-Steyk ha-Barbari), Carousel Bakery & Sandwich Bar, Jamie Kennedie Wine Bar and Susur. Queen Street West [a trendy street roughly equivalent to Tel Aviv's Sheinkin Street], Hovav writes, is "where you can find all the stores that sell ugly clothes to young people with ugly hairstyles, plus a few good, inexpensive restaurants, a designer chocolate shop, a fabulous shop for kitchen utensils, and most importantly (surprise!) a cute little patisserie (called Clafouti), that sells the best croissants in the city." In other words, Gil doesn't "get" Toronto at all! His is a sort of north Tel Aviv yuppie's guide to the city, not a sophisticated insider's view. Just for starters, and as long as we're talking about food, I cannot believe that he totally ignores Chinatown, and all the great places to eat there. ('though perhaps not the eatery described here by Adina's friend Joey). And how come there's not a word about little India on Gerrard Street? Last time I visited TO, my Mom and I ate the best tali I'd had since the last time I visited Natraj restaurant, in Udaipur. (Actually, I think we ate there three times - in 10 days). Then there's Kensington Market, where there's a huge variety of shops selling foods from all over the world, plus boutiques, clubs, cafes... I wouldn't describe Toronto as an "edgy" city, but it has its moments - and, amusingly, the celebrity food critic and world traveler managed to miss them all. Thursday, July 29
Yoga practice makes me hungry
by
Lisa Goldman
on Thu 29 Jul 2004 01:10 AM PDT
When you practice ashtanga yoga in the sticky Tel Aviv summer, you sweat a lot. After a long day of sitting in front of the computer, weeding out other people's grammatical and factual errors (grr), I was ready for a good workout at my regular hardcore yoga hangout. But after 30 minutes of rapid sun salutations I literally slipped on my own sweat and landed very unelegantly on my behind. (Luckily, it is well padded.)
The upside is that the heat made my muscles feel like elastic, and as a result I am delighted to report that I was able to hold this asana (position) for a glorious 10 long breaths. (okay, I know it's very un-yogic to take pride in one's practice, but let me enjoy the moment - just for tonight!) After two hours of physical activity, and with the measly avocado sandwich I bolted down at lunch a good 8 hours behind me, I was starving. So I headed over to the sandwich bar across the street (Ben Gurion, corner of Reines) and ordered a virtuous Greek salad, with a side of toasted rye bread. And a lot of olive oil. I was perched on a high stool in front of the counter, chatting with a fellow yogi between bites (actually, mostly through a mouthful of food), when I saw a rather gorgeous guy (who can resist sculpted triceps and eyes the colour of robin's eggs?) order the weirdest sandwich ever. Picture this, if you can: smoked salmon with butter and mustard on rye bread, with white onion, basil and fried eggplant. Butter with smoked salmon? And eggplant? What the hell is that?! This is what separates Israelis from non-Israeli Jews of the Ashkenazi variety: no matter how far Sheldon Goldberg of New York, Toronto or Manchester may have strayed from his roots, he was born knowing that there is only one way to eat smoked salmon - on a bagel, with cream cheese and possibly - if you're feeling a bit adventurous - a garnish of purple onion and/or capers. This, he will assure you, is Jewish food. Except Israel is a melting pot, with more Jews of Middle Eastern extraction than Eastern European. So Rafi Ben David, whose grandparents were born in Rabat, doesn't know from bagels. He does, however, know all you ever wanted to know about hummous (everyone has a favourite place to eat it: mine's Abu Hassan in Jaffa), sabich (which takes about 5 days to digest, if you're lucky) and where to get the best couscous (at his grandmother's, on Friday afternoon - after a day at the beach). Actually, it's pretty common to make fun of Ashkenazi food here - especially gefilte fish, the mention of which is usually accompanied by a mock retch. (obviously, they haven't tried my mother's). So there you go, another perception turned "on its face": in the Jewish homeland, you can't even find a decent bagel. Oh, by the way, here's a photo of my first niece, in her father's arms. Wednesday, July 28
Facing my readers
by
Lisa Goldman
on Tue 27 Jul 2004 06:08 PM PDT
My sister Adina suggested the name for this blog. It's a literal translation of a popular idiomatic expression in Hebrew, "al hapanim." It makes no sense in English, but in Hebrew it means, loosely, "it sucks" , "the pits", or "terrible." Example: I went to hear my favorite singer perform last night, but could hardly hear a thing because the sound system was "al hapanim."
I like the name because it says a lot about the way I perceive life and its experiences. Like the expression (which has a meaning that is very different from what one would think, based on the literal translation) most of the time things are not as they seem on the surface; if you take the time and effort to look more deeply, you'll discover - often - that the reality is very different from the way it appears "on the face of things." This is a lesson that I have never stopped learning, and it forces me to re-think my opinions constantly. Which I think is a good thing. Sort of like the Socratic concept: "The only true wisdom is in knowing that you know nothing." Or, as a Zen Buddhist monk once told me (as I sat in the semi-lotus position, legs painfully asleep after a 45-minute meditation session), "keep your know-nothing mind"! This idea, of things being different than they seem, is particularly true for the country in which I live, Israel. I hope to show what I mean with little stories and anecdotes about my life in Tel Aviv. It's pretty hard to avoid the subject of politics in Israel (unless you're either very enlightened and detached, or totally unaware of your surroundings), but this is not a political blog - it's just a journal for my family and friends, and whoever else might be interested. Here's an interesting article written by a friend of Adina's in the Toronto Globe and Mail. By the way, we're both very excited today - 'cause our sister Jackie - who lives in New York - is in labour, about to give birth to our first niece, Sydney Brooke. (I've been eyeing an adorable baby outfit at one of the baby boutiques for yuppies in Neve Tzedek). |
The most blogged war: a retrospective
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