Which one is worse?

My forty-something-year-old neighbor asks me how Liam did on the flight from Baltimore to Tel Aviv.
"He did really good," I say.
She asks me if it was a direct flight, and I say we had a stop in Toronto.
"How long is the flight?" she asks.
"About 12 hours," I say. She repeats my answer. Sounds shocked.

The next day, my neighbor calls her sister when she sees me, and tells her, "Do you know how long it takes to fly from here to Toronto? Twelve hours!"

So I tell Honey about that, and she says it's nothing. A day earlier she was talking to the sister, who asked her how long it took to travel from Baltimore to Tel Aviv. Honey said it took about twelve hours.

"You drove for twelve hours?" asked the sister.

But even that's nothing. A day before that Honey talks to a neighbor three doors down, about another neighbor who just had a baby. He tells her she was in labor for twelve hours. Honey tells him she wasn't in labor at all. They made her have a C-section.

"So you didn't get the watermelon down your cooter?" he asks.
"No," she mumbles.
"Lucky for your husband," he says.

My Cemetery Story

A few months ago, I saw on Rol's blog his graveyard story. Here's mine.

Again, I'm going back to the military. By way of introduction, I'll say that all of the officers in our unit were a bit different. One of them was silent and kept to himself. Another one liked to beat up Palestinians. My platoon's officer liked to navigate.

So when they moved us from training to Nablus, a large Palestinian city in the West Bank, he wasn't too happy. What were rooftop observations and street patrols to a man who liked nothing better than to be alone with a map and the dark desert hills. But he was determined to make the most of it.

He called us into a room one day, and full of enthusiasm, told us about our night's mission. There was a large cemetery in the middle of the city. He made maps for everyone, and already planted the items we needed to find behind a few of the graves.

And I swear I thought he was joking. I think we all did. I mean, that's a bit too much. Even an occupying army can't just go for a nightly navigation exercise in a Palestinian cemetery. There are limits to what we can do here!

But there weren't. So later that night we went to the Nablus cemetery with our hand-written maps, and started looking for the items, whatever they were.

We were supposed to do individual searches, but it was dark, so of course a few of us met up and started strolling there together, waiting for the officer to give up, or for someone else to find the items and end this silliness.

Suddenly we heard a noise coming from behind a headstone. A whisper. We fell to the ground with our guns in front of our faces and yelled for the people behind the headstone to come out. They didn't. We got up, and slowly moved forward. This was it. We shouted, "Put your arms up." They didn't. The officer ran over to us, and with the entire platoon behind him, was now leading us toward the headstone.

Confronted by faceless soldiers with their guns aimed at their faces, they stopped getting dressed for a moment. The woman took the rest of her clothes and ran away. Stunned, we just watched her go. The man stayed with us, his arms now high up in the air. The officer let him go a moment later. He was very disappointed. Our navigation exercise was ruined, and we weren't ambushed. What a bummer. Might as well go back and get some sleep.

Baby Got Back

And although most of the 400+ photos are of Liam eating biscuits, there are a few others:

Like Liam with his mommy:
And Liam with his daddy:
Liam with Grandpa:
Liam with Grandma:
Liam with Great-Grandma, from his grandmother's side:
Liam with Great-Grandma, from his grandfather's side:
Liam with his uncle and his cousin:
Liam with his great-aunt:
Liam with a friend:
Liam with another friend:
Liam with more friends:
And another friend:
And Liam by himself:

Now, there are more pictures and movies. There's a video of a magician and one of a flying girl. There's the beautiful Baha'i Gardens. There's the babies' TV channel, which as far as I'm concerned, is the way Israeli parents occupy their babies while trying to provide them with siblings. There are philosophical musings about Israel. And more pictures of Liam.

Like, for example, many people may ask how come the picture of Liam playing with a naked barbie doll didn't make the cut. And what about his Rasta hat? And any chance of me giving some context to any of these pictures?

But we just got here today, and these things will have to wait. And anyway, I still have a cemetery story to tell. Thanks for sticking around.

Things to do when I come back

This post is brought to you by the power of post-scheduling. Although this post was written on June 1st in sunny Baltimore, I can safely assume that now, June 8th, we've made it to Israel, the land of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Jesus, Muhammad, and many others. I can safely assume we're having a good time, even thought I probably already got sun-burnt and Honey probably told me I promised to put sun-screen on and what was I thinking and I'm an idiot.

Everyone loves Liam, I assume. He's cute and he loves a good joke.

We're probably very busy right now visiting grandmas and great-grandmas and friends, or maybe we're stuck in the desert with bad tires. Damn mutants.

But this vacation will end soon, and when I come back, there are a few things I need to do:

Start cooking

It's time. Every once in a while I get into it, and for a while last year I was making this incredible bruschetta, but then I stopped, which is a shame. It'll be fun. We'll sit in the kitchen with the dogs, and we'll sing songs, and we'll make food. Good stuff.

Seriously look for work

But seriously. There was one thing, but it didn't last. Then there was the prospect of doing translations, and it still might work, but I'm still waiting for the project to be finished, which could be months from now. I really should use less commas when I write.

Put some ads

What can I say... I can't find a reason not to do it, and even if it doesn't make me rich, at least it's something new to obsess about. It won't be the evil Pay Per Post, and it won't be one of those offensive "Your ad here, $0.02"

You know, tell me if you think it's a bad idea.

Put some shelves, hang some pictures

We've been in this house for five years. Maybe it's time we lost that just-moved-in mentality.

Submit my book to agents

I can't wait anymore (even though it's still too short). I gave the book to a few people, who now ignore me (including Honey). Either they can't bare to tell me how horrible it is, or they're embarrassed because the book is so suspenseful that they peed their pants. Is suspenseful a word? I don't like it.

Shag Honey

Honey, aren't you happy you told your parents about this blog now?

Put photos from Israel in the next post

It'll be beautiful: Mountains, dead seas, grandmas, sunburns, stray cats, Liam eating Stage 2 food. And who knows what else? Damn, I hope we made it alright, or this post will be ironic and stupid.

My Grandfather and the Clarinet

I wrote before about my grandfather from my father’s side. Now, my grandfather from my mother’s side, Grandpa Albert. I have two stories about him.

The first story is one he told us. Near the end of the war, he said, he was fighting with the French resistance, the Partisans, when someone saw a group of retreating Germans. The next day, an American platoon went through the woods and was met by the Partisans, who tried to explain to the Americans where the Germans were headed. But of course, none of the Americans spoke French and none of the French could speak English, and it seemed like the Germans were going to escape.

Then, my grandfather heard an American officer referring to one of his soldiers as Cohen. My grandfather then quickly ran to introduce himself and to explain, in Yiddish, where the Germans were hiding.

That’s it. It’s a cool little story, I think.

One other thing I know about him was that as a young man he played clarinet in a Klezmer band. When my mom told me about that, I thought it was the most amazing thing in the world and I was proud and eager to hear him play. One day he finally agreed. He took the small box from the back of the drawer, opened it, unwrapped the pieces of clarinet from the satin sheet, and slowly put together the clarinet, piece by piece.

I think time moved differently back then. But maybe that’s what childhood is all about.

And then he put the clarinet to his lips and blew. And nothing. He tried again, but still nothing.
And I don’t know if it was smoking or maybe it was just old age, but I just remember feeling I was witnessing one of the saddest moment of my life. What can be sadder than a musician who can’t play music anymore?

I don’t remember much else about him. My mother says he was a great father and she cries a little when she mentions him. He was great to me, too, considering I broke his chandelier in a pillow fight with my cousin. And I know he was an antique dealer in France.

Lesson to us all. If you’re an antique dealer who moves to Israel and is forced to get rid of everything because there’s no market for antiques in a land eager to invent itself, and you keep only the most prized, sentimental possessions in your house, don’t put a pillow, a chandelier, and two kids in the same room. Poor guy.