Israel

So, I'm sure everyone knows someone who's gone on Birthright, the free trip for Jewish people to Israel. (I just came back from it.) They all take the same photos of a dusty, rocky, hilly landscape; everyone has a picture of the Western Wall; you usually see people either smeared in mud or bobbing unnaturally high in the Dead Sea. And that's all well and good, because you should have pictures of those things. They're unique, unlike anything you'll ever see anywhere else in the world.

Unfortunately, I'm a shit photographer. Mostly I just forget I have a camera (probably because up until I commandeered Danny's old one specifically for this trip, I never had one of my own, and to tell the truth it still feels like this one technically isn't mine and it's only on loan - a camera is a luxury I will buy when I have a real salary). The rest of the time, I'm not even thinking about artificially preserving what I see beyond my memory. Thinking about it messes it up, because then it's all about the composition, and the lighting, and the color, and the forms, and is there balance between vertical elements and horizontal elements, and why can't I turn off the damn auto-focus because I WANT the foreground to be blurry dammit, and how can I make this look interesting - like something someone would remember. And then, when I go home, I don't even really remember what I was looking at in the first place.

The bottom line is I suck at snapping pictures.

So I didn't take that many which makes me sad.

I especially didn't take very many of the things I personally enjoy - like the food - although I do have one of my and several of my tripmates' lunches. However, despite the lack of visual evidence, I can still verbally rave about the food.

First of all, can I just say that the simple fact that there IS agriculture on land that's alternately desert and swamp is just unbelievable? I'm not talking a plot here or there, I'm talking bananas, dates, litchis, cucumbers, prickly pears, tomatoes, grapes (for eating out of hand and really good wine), mangoes, olives, plums, all kinds of citrus, pears, and I'm sure plenty of other things I'm not aware of, all from someplace half the size of New Jersey... that is, as I said, half desert and half swamp.

If you put in a minute bit of effort, it seems like it's impossible to eat badly here because all the fruits and veggies are so fresh and tasty, there's hardly any reason to eat anything else, which brings me to the rest stop options. I have a lot of experience with Israeli rest stops because the only way to get a large group of people all over the country is by bus. Our bus didn't have a bathroom which was both good and bad. Good: the bus didn't smell like a bathroom. Bad: we had to stop for bathroom breaks.

Israeli rest stops:

- The actual toilets can make the ones in NJ rest stops look like the Four Seasons. Carry your own toilet paper, ladies and gentlemen.

- The food is - roughly speaking, of course - 9 million billion gazillion times better than US rest stops. You do have McDonald's and pizza, but why would you even bother when there's falafel in pita with everything and tons of complimentary salads to round it out??? I mean, really. one place we stopped had a random guy selling baklava and other syrupy delicious confections off a table. They were awesome. There's also Aroma, a coffee shop that sells borekas (crispy flaky dough with a vaariety of fillings) with egg, tomato, eggplant, and pickles inside along with sandwiches and really, really good coffee. It's no wonder Starbucks failed miserably in Israel.

Honestly, if every Pizza Hut or Wendy's or whatever was replaced with a falafel joint, think of (a) how much more awesome everything would be, (b) how much tastier everything would be, and (c) how much more vegetables the entire US population would eat.

I also had a chance to try some of the best shwarma I've ever had in Jerusalem, thanks to one of the Israelis who stayed with our group throughout the trip. Shwarma is slabs of meat (the best is lamb) skwered through the middle and layered on a spike. Then the whole thing is slowly rotated so everything is exposed to a vertically placed heat source. They shave off the outer cooked layers, leaving the raw meat exposed. Another concept I was hugely appreciative of - the half pita if you're only sort of hungry. Brilliant. You could order a half pita, a whole pita, or a laffa (large Iraqi variation on the pita). And there were all sorts of complimentary salads on the side you could help yourself to, roasted eggplant chunks (sooooooo good), carrot salad, various pickles, sauteed onions, roasted peppers, etc.

Another gastronomical high point is the dairy. I got a little pot of full fat yogurt, and I was full after two spoonfuls. It was like eating sour cream, super flavorful and rich. It tasted so good. True, I ate simply. Lots of fresh things very simply prepared. I didn't have a chance to go looking for developed cuisine beyond stop-and-eat joints, but I think taking it down to basics really shows off superior ingredients (or points to inferior ones). The bottom line? Everything was spectacular, from fresh squeezed orange juice after a sunrise hike up and down Masada, to the salads, falafel, and shwarma I ate everywhere. Israel is one country in which I highly recommend eating as much as possible.

Vacation Rocks My Face Off

It really does.  For one thing, school isn't raining down all kinds of unimaginable hell on my head, the constant buzz of fear has finally shut off because I don't have to live one of my recurring stress nightmares (teaching a subject I know nothing about), and I am surrounded by people who communicate their thoughts fully and comprehensibly.  

Actually, my anxiety dreams have grown up with me.  When I was a little kid,  like 8 or so, I used to dream about going to school naked.  I went through puberty, spent a lot of time in locker rooms primarily for basketball and fencing, started dating, and as a result of observation and very rarely getting turned down by boys, I learned that for all my supposed freakishness (and all the awful teasing from girls), I'm actually pretty hot.  So, those dreams went away.  But far from being free from anxiety, I then dreamt about walking into class, sitting down in the front row, and knowing nothing about whatever the professor is professing.  The second semester of my freshman year in undergrad, I accidentally walked into the wrong chemistry lecture, realized it was organic chem - not general chemistry - and slunk out with my heart pounding from a mixture of abject terror and relief.  Once I got over that, I've dreamt about having to get up in front of a room full of people, feeling perfectly confident, and then realizing I know NOTHING about the subject about which I am supposed to speak.  Well, just got done with that.  Two 2-hour sessions a week for a semester is a very effective shock therapy.  

I wonder, with what maladjusted phobic scheme will my brain ambush me next?

Anyway, after knocking another thing that scares me off the list of Things That Scare Me, I was totally primed for vacation.  Two amazing Chanukah celebrations later, I am fat and happy.  Actually, I'm not really fat even though I feel that way from a surfeit of really good food.  Because Chanukah is a celebration of a miracle of oil (oil for a menorah lasted 8 days even though there was technically only enough for 1 day), fried food is the order of the day(s).  Our celebration included sufganiyot (no idea how to spell that, but it's pronounced soof-gah-nee-yoht'... not a short "o" in the last syllable) which are jelly-filled doughnuts.  I used a syringe to inject Polaner's All-Fruit raspberry preserves into the doughnuts my mom made.  I know there's probably a less labor intensive way to do it, but I don't know about it... We also did potato latkes (potatoes, onions, egg, flour, water if needed) with apple sauce and sour cream, and my dad made falafel with all the fixings to round out the fried thing.  

That's why I feel fat and happy, instead of just happy.  But the funny thing is I managed to put on a pair of skinny jeans for a New Year's Eve party I pretty much despaired of ever fitting into.  Something stayed my hand when I went through my closet recently.  They were too nice; the denim is a deep saturated blue, they don't cling all the way down my calves, they're long enough, and they fit inside boots I own ever so perfectly.  I couldn't toss them.  When I realized I could slide myself into them, I paired them with a super sequined top that was possibly supposed to be a tunic on a shorter person under a black velvet blazer (after the leaping around with joy finished).  I resembled the Times Square ball; just imagine it in a blazer with reddish hair.  And of course, shoes.  Mine look something like this, only black and a different brand which I've forgotten.  That just goes to show you, sometimes even when you feel like a greasy blob, it really is just in your head.  Hah.  

But actually, between Chanukah and New Year's, I did something other than eat.  While I was in New York, I introduced Danny to my best friend from high school who is the one person I've known since I was 15 with whom I can carry on a serious conversation and still joke about poop and farts.  Knowing anyone over the course of your most formative years when everyone changes so much and still liking them and having them like you back is pretty huge.  He's in law school now, as brilliant and goofy as ever, after finishing a master's in Slavic Studies at Columbia U. and writing a book, and translating things, quitting smoking for the bazillionth time, and generally boggling my mind with all the stuff he does.  The three of us went out in a particularly deserted part of town, in bars with animal heads mounted on the walls, talking, laughing, and drinking beer.  It was a tremendous relief when it turned out he and Danny got along.  I didn't expect a table-flipping brawl, and it wasn't something I'd really been dreading, but, well, you know... 

So, there was that, some museum hopping, and TONS of sleeping.  Currently, I have a cold.  It's not bad, just a nuisance that's keeping me from doing things I want to do.  Danny made some amazing chicken soup, which combined with naps, tea, and cold-eeze is keeping me more healthy than sick.  Hopefully this trend will continue.  I want to take a shower, but I straightened my hair yesterday (which was a TON of work) and lack a showercap.  Drat.  I might sacrifice my hard work in the name of not being smelly anymore.

The rest of the story...

To continue the epic tale of our Caribbean vacation, I'll pick up from day 3. I acquired a really nasty sunburn on the backs of my legs, thanks to sunscreen getting rubbed off during surfing, but I pulled on a pair of linen pants (everyone should have a pair of billowy linen pants on a Caribbean vacation), and soldiered on. Danny and I hopped in a cab and visited the oldest synagogue in the Western hemisphere, which was in Bridgetown, the capital of Barbados. The building switched hands many times, going from law offices to a warehouse, and then it was scheduled for demolition. But it was saved by people who donated money to preserve its history, and the building now has a museum that presents some really nifty Portuguese and Brazilian Jewish history.

The really excellent part was when we wandered around the graveyard. Some of the graves had - get this - skulls and crossbones on them. Pirates! Rum-swilling pirates! Crazy Barbadian Jewish rum-swilling pirates! With hourglasses and cutlasses and things! And no one really knows what they mean! Of course, they could just be symbols of death imported from either Portuguese or integrated Portuguese-Brazilian culture, but they were super cool nonetheless. I mean, you always hear about the Jewish bankers and merchants being maligned for handling money (total bullshit because they were banned from holding land by the anti-Semitic powers that be so what were they supposed to do, anyway?), but you never hear about badass Jews who kicked butt, outside of the story of Chanukah and the Israeli military, that is.

Anyway, after we stared at the graves, took some pictures, shmoozed with the museum guy, and got a tip on where to eat a beautiful lunch, we decided to try to find Mount Gay Rum Distillery, which the oldest rum distillery on the island, if not the whole Caribbean. Most tourists take cabs. We decided to try public transportation. It was an enormous mistake. Let it be known that there are none, zip, zero, zilch, nada, no bus maps or even road maps of Barbados. First we got totally lost in Bridgetown. No one had any idea where we were trying to go. A policewoman told us to go to what we found out was the total opposite end of the island. After much wandering and worrying when a cry of "You white interlopers!" would echo down a street followed by a pistolwhipping and a mugging, we got in a cab and made it back to our hotel. We never did get to the Mount Gay Rum Distillery, which we kind of thought would be a huge joke, anyway.

(A random, somewhat socio-political commentary about Barbados: There is not as much open racism there, and possibly even less anti-Semitism. I wonder if it's because Barbados is populated primarily by people with darker skin who also hold positions of power, but I really have no idea why walking down the street feels safer. After all, the black Barbadian population were enslaved, just like American blacks. And I felt less trepidation asking a cab driver to take us to the old synagogue then I would have felt if I did the same thing in Virginia. Barbadians - black and white alike - take great pride in being independent from England, and the island itself is so small that perhaps country takes precedence over race...? No idea. But still interesting.)

Anyway, back to the scheduled discussion of rum-soaked vacation. In lieu of going on a tour of Mount Gay, we continued our highly scientific test of Barbadian rum and purchased Cockspur brand rum. The medium aged one was so good, Danny and I swilled it from the flask straight. (For the record, I now hate Bacardi. It is complete and total shit.) To accompany our rum, we got some chicken, locally grown tomatoes, some onions, a Bajan marinade, and some Bajan hot sauce. When we have the marinade decoded (it involved shallots, salt, pepper, marjoram, thyme, basil, onion, and garlic, I think), I'll post it here. Until then, the most I can do is tell you that all those herbs grilled on chicken were unbelievable, as was the hot sauce.  There was a grill where we stayed, so we BBQ'd up a storm.  

(I haven't mentioned it, but we did breakfast pretty much the same every day; we had a thing of nutella, some bread, cheese, tomatoes, kippers, local mangoes, milk, and juice. We combined everything in sane combinations - cheese, bread, and hot sauce = awesome - which did the trick, along with mango smoothies every morning.)

Our fourth day in Barbados, it mostly rained on and off. We took that day to laze around the apartment, watching the birds in the sea grape trees outside our balcony, and admiring how the sea changed color when the weather turned. It was a lovely lazy day culminating in a trip to Oistins in the evening for the Friday night fish fry. Oistins is the place to be if you're a fisherman or a fish eater. There's a fish market, and like 12 feet away is the fish fry. The fish fry is wonderful; rows of stalls of people selling fried or grilled fish in steaks, fillets, or whole, on plates loaded with rice and beans, macaroni pie (read: mac and cheese), and salad. Those are the pictures at the top of this post. I think the fish we ate was swimming a couple hours ago. Everyone goes on Friday nights, locals and tourists alike. The place really gets packed, and there's music and booze and dancing and stalls selling junk. It's definitely something to do if you go, but be aware that Barbados is where 80's dance and Michael Jackson music go to die. The local reggae is much better.  After we ate, drank, checked out the junk being sold, and people watched to our hearts' content, we got back to our hotel and crashed hardcore, full of fish. 

The next day we rented a car so we could drive through the island and check out the less developed east coast.  The interior is beautiful, hilly sugar cane fields and some more wild areas.  However, you do see where the less well-off live.  There are small groups of houses, tiny and without foundations, cars up on blocks, and goats and chickens wandering around.  To any tourist renting a car, do not stop for anyone for any reason.  We got accosted by a man trying to turn a dollar as a tour guide.  Danny stopped the car, and I started yelling at him, sure we'd get killed when he in his eternal brilliance opened the window.  Luckily we didn't get killed, but don't stop.  And don't open your bloody windows.  

That being said, we found the place for our one big-ticket lunch, The Roundhouse.  After some maniacal laughter about not being dead at the hands of possibly the only tourist-hating Bajan on the island, we noticed how awesome the view was.  The food delicious (more grilled fish!), and wandering on the beach after we ate was perfect.  The Atlantic side of the island has a very different character from the Caribbean.  The ocean is rocky with big waves and very strong currents.  It's more dramatic and sharp.  We wandered along the coast, snapped some pictures of the interesting rock formations, and then drove back to our hotel, this time without harassment.  

That was it for us.  We packed up and got ready to return to reality.  And of course, we finished up with one more curried goat roti and pineapple juice.  The cab back to the airport the following day was uneventful.  We endured a screaming child sitting immediately behind us for 4 hours.  Happily, I resisted throwing him out an emergency exit.  (I mean, I know children will scream, but the parents weren't handling it properly.  The kid wanted attention and they gave it to him.  It was really pathetic.  I never want to have kids.  They're monsters.)

But that was our trip.  It was nice.  I had a great time.  I highly suggest surfing, Cockspur rum, mangoes, checking out the synagogue if that's your thing, roti, swimming, Oistins Friday night fish fry, and a trip to the east side of the island.  Definitely do not stop for the dudes hustling tour gigs in the interior, and don't buy into people renting hovels for $45 a night.  If I were going back, I'd spring for a fully A/C'd place to stay not because you need A/C, but because there are no screens and mosquitoes are an issue.  If I had the dough, maybe I'd rent a car, but the reggae buses are kind of silly and much more fun.  There was a bar, Mojo, right across from where we stayed.  Nice people, good way to slowly enter into the Barbadian rhythm.  They mix a good rum punch.  

You should go.  :)

Going Bajan, days 1 and 2...

Going to Barbados is the kind of trip that requires more than just a car and a roadmap, even if you do roll the windows up really tightly.  There are no rest stops at the bottom of the Atlantic, so it wouldn't matter how waterproof your closed windows made your car because you'd be screwed the second you tried to get out and pee.  

Therefore, a plane seemed much more practical.  Danny and I booked a nonstop flight from JFK on Jamaica Air for $470-something each.  It left at 6:50 in the morning.  Hooray.  We left my parents' house (who were kind enough to let us crash there) at 3 AM, stumbled into the airport, and tried not to lean too heavily on our fellow passengers as we vertically snoozed in line, periodically wiping the drool off our passports.

Eventually we got through security, picked our way through people lying on the floor in sleeping bags only to find that JFK is run by heartless bastards who put unmovable arm rests on the benches so you can't lie down across them.  To make everything worse, we then found out Air Jamaica was running 2 hours late.  We consoled ourselves with those airport muffins that look and taste as if they'd last for roughly 24,956 years with nary a loss of moist sponginess.   I'm going to echo Michael Pollan and say don't trust anything that bacteria can't get to.  If they can't digest it, do we really think we're capable of it?

(NB: Perhaps the people who study these things should look into the possible use of things like Cheez Wiz or any processed American cheese food product as the next super antibiotic, because damn.  How do we get fat on that crap?  It's basically sodium-laden plastic.  But it never, ever rots.  Seriously, kids, what have we wrought.)  

But anyway, we managed to get on the plane, and I realized I forgot gum so my ears were all funkified for a while.  But all was well.  We were high up in the wild blue yonder with fluffy interesting clouds all around us and periodic honking noise from a child seated immediately behind us who I thought was a functional autistic.  His dad was doing a good job of keeping him calm.  Then they served breakfast.  Airline food is an abysmal affair unless you're flying ElAl, the Israeli airline.  They're a bit brusque, but security is top-notch and the food is actually good.  Actually, if you have the chance on any airline, get the kosher option.  Whenever I've gotten it, people have always jealously eyeballed my food. 

 But we were just getting breakfast, so we figured, hey, how bad could it be?  It was definitely worse than elementary school breakfasts.  In fact, I don't want to talk much about it.  The best that can be said was the sodden greasy potato bits looked like they actually came from real potato tubers, and the omelette was nominally made of actual egg matter. 

Happily, we landed, and hooray!  We were in Barbados!  A little about Barbados:  Barbados is the most easterly of all the Caribbean islands.  The last time it was severely hit by a hurricane was in the 50's.  It's an interesting place.  It was formed not by a volcano but by a massive reef.  Before becoming an independent nation, it was a British colony, and English culture even now remains a heavy influence.  For instance, topless sunbathing is against the law, and cricket reigns supreme.  You see old ladies walking around in short sleeve dresses that fall past their knees with a neat belt around their waists, a straw hat, and sensible shoes.  But you also have the island culture.  Reggae, rasta, and surfing have a place in Barbados, too.  Barbadians are a resourceful lot, I'm sure due in no small part to a 97% literacy rate.  Unlike other former colonies, Barbadians pride themselves on making tourism into an economic venture that benefits a wide range of people.  The line between the haves and the have-nots is indeed present, but it isn't anywhere near as stark as it is in, say, Jamaica.  That being said, Barbados is still a third-world country.  (It's a rising star in the eyes of developed nations; everyone is watching to see where Barbados is going.  They have an educated resourceful population who take great pride in their country.)  

So, Danny and I are the first of all out friends, acquaintances, and families who've gone.  We took a leap of faith and jumped.  Take it from me, don't go for the $45 a night guesthouse.  We got there, and it turned out to be a hovel.  It was little more than a poorly constructed shed with a holey mosquito net over the bed.  A tent in a backyard would have been more comfortable.  The mini fridge in the room acted like a small space heater.  This would have been lovely in the dead of winter in New Hampshire, but in an equatorial region?  No.  Trade winds or not, it was miserable.  Barbados is strange in that despite a problem with dengue fever, which has gotten steadily worse with the end of DDT, there are no screens.  People just don't use them.  We looked all around the island, and they just weren't on any windows.  But anyway, after one night in the heated hovel, we decided to screw the deposit and find somewhere else to stay. 

(Get Rich Quick Scheme, #496: Sell screens to the Barbadian people.) 

Sea Foam Haciendas, run by a very nice woman Phillipa (Phillippa?  Philippa?), was just the ticket.  We opted out of a place with full A/C because (a) we were on a budget, and (b) we're tough young'uns.  But our new digs had an air conditioned bedroom, a private balcony overlooking the startlingly turquoise Caribbean, and a BBQ downstairs on the shared patio by the ocean.  If I had more money, and I could afford something more than $130 a night (US dollars), I would probably go for full A/C for no other reason than it would keep the very militant mosquitoes out, although I think they got in with the cleaning people from the stairwell, not the windows.  Seriously, the mosquitoes would loiter, waiting.  They lurk in the shadows until you get there, and then they emerge, surrounding and buzzing you like fighter jets.  I would say Barbadian mosquitoes are more belligerent than Barbadian bums.  

However, if you're looking for Caribbean on a budget, Sea Foam Haciendas is in an ideal place.  Not only is there your own uncrowded stretch of beach and ocean in which you can spot sea turtles (it was totally sweet; we saw 2-3 sea turtles from the balcony a day), but you can access the supermarket (which sells all sorts of liquor), a bank, a roti place (The Ackee Tree), public transportation, and a nice bar, Mojo.  It's also close to St. Lawrence Gap, where nightlife happens.   And Phillipa is incredibly helpful with anything you may or may not want to do during the day.  

The second day before we relocated from our overheated hovel, we went for a morning surfing lesson with Zed of Zed's Surfing Adventures.  This was a whim.  I wanted to try it.  I'm a pretty rotten snowboarder although I do enjoy it, so surfing seemed the next logical thing.  I convinced Danny he should try it too, and we stood with the other members of the group and listened to our instructors explain how to stand up.  You can't walk without standing up first, and neither can you call it surfing unless you're upright. 

I discovered something that day.  All you have to do is listen to what they tell you, and then you do it.  And you don't think about it; you just get up and ride it.  Standing on a surf board is like fencing, just you stand still and no one's trying to stab you!  I stood up and rode my first wave all the way the hell in.  Danny and I rocked surfing, hardcore.  At the end of about 2.5 hours riding waves, tipping over and hard paddling, it was time to go in.  (Seriously, I can see why models and actors surf.  It is a HELL of a workout for your core and shoulders.)  As we loaded the surf boards back into the truck, one of the guys teaching us brought out a bag of the most sweet mangoes ever.  Warm, green, and incredibly fragrant, they beat you over the head with mango flavor, and we peeled and ate the fruit out of our hands with a bit of sea salt still on our lips.  

Upon returning to our new place, we decided the Ackee Tree was our next stop for a proper meal.  Curried goat rotis, a sort of West Indian burrito, were excellent.  Also, I think they may serve the world's best fresh pineapple juice.  It's hard to explain, but everything seemed exaggerated.  The sunshine was more intense, the colors more vibrant, houseplants that sat demurely in pots at home were tree-sized soil dwelling giants, sprawling over people's lawns, flowering and spilling scent into the street (the plumerias were of special note), and even the fruit flavors were somehow more concentrated and magnified.  

That night, as we retreated into our relatively mosquito-free air conditioned cave, the ocean serenaded us to sleep.  The fact that it was cool enough to endure being touched by another human made it worthwhile.  The waves were a welcome lullaby compared to the insanely hot fearful night we spent worrying about when we'd see the silhouette of a murderer coming through the bars on our door in that hovel.  Sometimes, losing the deposit (which was negligible when compared with not sleeping) is certainly worth it.  

Stay tuned for the rest of the trip report...