The Sacrifice

Banks are not my 'cup of tea', but this one was an exception; firstly, because of its attractive facade, pleasant staff & atmosphere, and location near a garden; secondly, because of an aquaintance of mine who used to work there. Whenever this aquaintance saw me in the bank she greeted me warmly and it was a pleasure to exchange a few words with her.

One day she saw me, and ...ignored me. I told my brother about that as she was the wife of one of his friends. He said that she was avoiding everyone because of their eldest son - a fresh soldier, who had collapsed during an army drill, was hospitalized, and after a while released both from the hospital and the army and put on medication. I asked my brother for details as to the nature of the collapse, but he couldn't provide any as both parents had refused to talk about it even with friends.

The worst was yet to come. During the period of intense worry for her son, this aquaintance of mine, Aliza, a pretty woman about 45 years of age, a top employee at the bank, was diagnosed with liver cancer. I visited her at the hospital two weeks before her death.There was something about her that immediately caught my attention: her beautiful hair was intact, face not much altered, and when she smiled with her pearly little teeth , one could hardly guess she was dying.

It was at the funeral, that the secret was disclosed to me. After the burrial and before leaving the cemetery, her mourning husband whispered in my ear that she had strongly refused to receive chemotherapic treatment. The logic behind her decision was that: Liver cancer is fatal. Chemotherapy might prolong her life with several more months but the price would be too high, it could kill her son. Still not completely recovered from his collapse, seeing his mother, in a highly helpless situation between hair loss and vomiting sessions - it would have been the end of him.

I believe the son is not without health problems today, but he 's got a job , a wife, and two kids. Sometimes, I wonder whether he knows about his mother's sacrifice.

I've closed my account at the bank, one of the reasons being that it fills me with deep sadness to enter this place and not see Aliza's familiar face there. Whenever near the building, I still enjoy, however, having a look at its appealing facade and its compact, modern architecture.

Beer and Lace

Belgium is a cute little european country famous for its chocolates (Godivas, Leonidas confections) its beer (about 700! types of beer), its lace, and many historical, architectural, cultural attractions . When on tour at belgian chocolate factories or beer breweries, one gets to sample the products , and this in itself is a tasty, wonderful experience.

My great surprise at the time of my visit in Belgium, was that at McDonald's - a child and family oriented chain, with most of the staff underage - they sold...beer, an alcoholic beverage. I thought that was strange. In reply to my questions on the matter, I was told that in Belgium , there were generally fewer restrictions and age related limitations on alcohol consumption than in the USA and other countries, and that beer drinking in particular was a major part of belgian culture. Belgium, so it appeared, was the first country in the world that served beer in its McDonalds.

I must admit that I myself greatly liked the idea of beer with my Mac meal . I was tired and hungry from touring , so a glass of icy cold beer to wash down the Mac burger and the fries was very welcomed . Besides , it was a new experience for me. I usually don't drink alcoholic beverages. It's not that I don't like to , it's just that these beverages don't like me; a drop of wine and my head drops , and this is embarrassing when you're sitting at the table with people. With the belgian beer I 've had no problem at all. Anyway, my all time favourite cold beverage is soda water or sparkling mineral water.

The gem of any tour in Belgium is the well preserved city of Brugges. It' s often called "Venice of the North" because of its canals and bridges. Brugges is synonymous with lace as the 'bobbin lace' work ( a branch of lace making) is a specialty of this city.

Lace -making has an history of exploitation of girls from poor families. The girls , good at this craft because of their little nimble fingers , were considered cheap labour, . Lace making was a sedentary kind of work, bad for the eyes and for the spine. Young girls in convents were sitting for hours bent up, not allowed to raise their eyes from their work. As a result of the hard physical conditions they looked pale, weak, undersized. The girls paid a very heavy personal price to allow the bourgeoise ladies the pleasure of wearing lace.

Nowadays , lace is made chiefly as small souvenirs (doilies mainly) as it is very expensive for other purposes. Anyway, no one leaves Brugges without a souvenir of lace and neither did I.

In the photo below we see a girl dressed in a traditional outfit sitting outside and demonstrating the craft of lace-making.

<

The "Flexible" Pharmacy

It was in a small building on a narrow lateral street. Inside, there were only two people serving the customers- a wife and her husband, both pharmacists.

I was directed to this pharmacy with the recommendation that it was " flexible" , meaning that one could get stuff unobtainable at other pharmacies. And it wasn't for money. The middle-aged couple were just kind people trying to help wherever and whenever possible.

My mother had been suffering for some time of a bad ear itching. Nothing helped relieve the problem except a certain solution prescribed by an experienced ear doctor. It was a cheap solution and easily prepared by any pharmacist. To my astonishment, I found myself one day in the position that nobody wanted to prepare it for me . It appeared that the active ingredient, 'boron', was found to be carcinogenic in children, and its use was forbidden by the Health Authorities. Well, my mother was no child and she insisted on having the solution at any cost. That's why and how I got to the 'flexible' pharmacy.

It was a good feeling to enter this place - an intimate, family establishment, with a nicely arranged interior and superb service. One day, I found the front door closed, and on it an obituary announcing the sudden death of the woman pharmacist. The shop reopened some two months later. The man was unrecognizable; he looked a human wreck. He told me he had made a great effort to return to work hoping it would give him a chance to go on living, as he felt he couldn't make it without his wife.

The next time I came to the place, I saw one corner full with shoe boxes. What was all that about? The man said he intended to turn his pharmacy into a shoe shop. Since his wife's death he had developed some health issues and was afraid to deal with preparation and selling of medications ; so he decided on something he was familiar with from childhood when he used to help his father in the family-owned shoe shop . The pharmacist sounded to me confused, so I left without asking for the solution.

I happened to be in that vicinity several more times. He was not there, the pharmacist, and I saw no shoe shop but a cosmetics shop, and next time there was a hairdresser's shop, and then a food shop. Flexible place indeed...

The entire episode gave me much food to thought. I've seen men deteriorate after their wife's death but not so quickly and not in such an abrupt manner. What happened in this particular case was perhaps the fact that they had no life at all without each other ; they were together all the time : at home and at work.

As for the difficulty in obtaining the solution - a friend pharmacist of mine was among those who refused to prepare it for me after the 'boron' element was put on the "black list". I reminded him of the saying "A friend in need is a friend indeed" and cut off any contact with him. I was confident that I would have taken the risk of ignoring the stupid health regulation to help a friend in distress ('stupid' was the word used by him later on when he tried to apologize for his behaviour).

At The Parade ; On The Fishing Boat

On last Sunday, day of the joyous and colorful Purim holiday, there were heavy rains , so the annual traditional Purim Youth Parade was postponed until Friday ( March 5). On Friday the weather was rather hot , but the parade... paraded nevertheless. After the procession came to an end, all the participating youth groups and the general public gathered around three main stages placed on the avenue where the municipality building of our town is located, to watch a variety of outdoor dance, music, and circus shows.

Here's a short slideshow I've created with some snaps taken at the Purim Parade (Adloiada - עדלוידע). Open up the speakers, please!

On The Fishing Boat

"The most wasted of all days is the one during which you did not laugh".

[" One morning the husband returns after several hours of fishing and decides to take a nap. Although not familiar with the lake, his wife decides to take the boat out. She motors out a short distance, anchors and reads her book.

Along comes a Game Warden in his boat, he pulls up alongside the woman and says:

- Good Morning Ma'am, what are you doing?

- Reading a book, she replies (thinking... isn't that obvious?)

-You're in a Restricted Fishing Area, he informs her.

- I'm sorry officer, but I'm not fishing, I'm reading.

- Yes, but you have all the Equipment. For all I know, you could start at any moment. I'll have to take you in and write you up.

- For reading a book?

- You're in a Restricted Fishing Area , he informs her again.

- I'm sorry officer, but I'm not fishing. I'm reading.

- Yes, but you have all the Equipment. Again, for all I know you could start at any moment. I'll have to take you in and write you up.

- If you do that, I'll have to charge you with sexual assault, says the woman.

- But I haven't even touched you, says the Game Warden

- That's true, but you have all the Equipment. For all I know you could start at any moment.

- Have a nice day Ma'am, and he left"].

Moral:
"Never argue with a woman who reads. She can also think."

The Tajiki Avalanche

Tajikistan , a former USSR country, lies in central Asia bordered by Uzbekistan, Kyrkizstan, Afganistan, and China. It's capital, Dushanbe, known for its monday market, derives its name from the tajiki word for Monday. Tajikistan is not yet widely attractive touristically , but its Pamir Mountains, also named "The Roof of the World" and considered a challenging mountain range , have attracted professional climbers for years.

The first time I showed any interest in this country was when I met the new cleaning woman in our office building. She was originally from Dushanbe, the capital city, and kept telling me about the place with its tree-lined streets and many monuments , and also about the tajiki various customs.

Tajiki food was a constant subject in our conversations, and sometimes she used to treat me with delicacies brought from her home kitchen such as samosas, pirmeni (small noodle sacks with meat &veggies similar to ravioli). Their staple dish is 'plov' made up of scraps of mutton and rice fried in a large wok. A small curiosity: the Tajikis eat sweet dishes like halwa, and drink tea, before proceeding to soup and meat.

Tajikistan and the Pamir mountains came forcefully into my awareness on july 1990 with the dramatic news that an avalanche set off by an earthquake in the Pamir range swept 45 climbers from different countries to their death. Among these climbers was Benny, a 20 year old alpinist, son of an israeli sovietolog of russian descent, Mikhail Agursky.

It happened late in the night: a minor earthquake caused an ice block to fall off the slope and trigger an enormous ice-snow avalanche ;this avalanche burried the tents and the people at the mountaneering camp located at some 6000 meter up in the Pamir mountains.

An expedition of rescuers was organized, and Agursky, the father, over 60 and not in the best of health, but with knowledge of the language and the mentality of the place joined them to look for his son. There were heart-rending descriptions in the newspapers of that time about the father who stayed at the foot of the mountains for more than two weeks in hope of finding his son dead or alive.

Despite of long time -searching by helicopters and specialist rescuers , only one body was found (that of a woman climber). Out of 45 only two climbers survived the disaster.

The father came back again the following year (after raising the neccessary money), to try to recover his son's body, but - no results. After a while, he was found dead in his hotel room; It was believed he suffered a stroke, but it wouldn't be untrue to say that he died of a broken heart. How sad!

"Deadly" Encounter at the Dead Sea

A former co-worker of mine, Avi, was a sad case of psoriasis(psoriasis - a chronic disease which manifests itself through thick scales and dry red itching patches on the skin). He had it all over his body: on face, scalp, elbows, nails, back. His psoriasis first appeared after he had experienced divorce, so he blamed it all on his ex- wife.

She was an ambitious young lawyer and he was a law graduate who didn't feel like working as a lawyer; she wanted to consolidate her career, he wanted babies - that's how it all started. She was the one who asked for a divorce and he felt devastated for months. When I first met him he was already married to his second wife , apparently the very opposite of his first one: simple and vulgar , but in his condition he couldn't afford to be choosy.

Exposure to the sun and bathing in the salty, mineral rich waters of the Dead Sea - were the only means that helped him relieve itching and pains without undesirable side effects . Twice a year he used to take a three -week vacation and go the Dead Sea , at the Ein Bokek zone which was well equipped with a Solarium, carefully planned to absorb the sun's rays, and provide the patients with the best facilities and treatments possible.

On his return from these Dead Sea vacations, Avi seemed to be a completely different person. His skin was smooth and clear; his self esteem high, and he looked very handsome and relaxed. The period of complete relief lasted about six months till the next attack of the disease.

Every year Ein-Bokek is invaded by hundreds of psoriatic people from all over the world. Avi had friendly connections with many of them ; he was especially attached ( platonic attachment , he said) to an austrian lady (he himself being of austrian descent and speaking the german language); they used to plan their vacations to the Dead Sea so that they arrive together at the spot and leave together, she to Wien, he to Tel-Aviv.

Knowing his wife's violent temper he didn't tell her about his austrian friend, but she found out and demanded to accompany him on his Dead Sea vacations. He strongly opposed the idea saying that without a relaxed atmosphere , away from the stress of home and work , the treatments will have zero effect on his skin disease.

During one of his last Dead Sea vacations, his wife decided to take her little car and drive to Ein Bokek to see with her own eyes what was going on there. Avi was not in his hotel room , so she waited for him in the semi darkness. When he entered his room... accompanied by the austrian friend, she took a chair and threw it at them, and then another one, and then any heavy item found in the room. The two , taken by surprise, couldn't stop her. Luckily the heavy items didn't reach their heads, but hit all the other body parts. For the "finish", she approached them and used her fists and sharp finger nails.. They were left bleeding and in pain.

At this point, our ways , mine and Avi's, went separately as the office got closed and we were transferred to units in different cities.
About two years ago I bumped into him. He looked surprisingly well. He was of course more mature and completely bald, but his skin was radiant.

"Have you been to the Dead Sea lately"? asked I
"No, I haven't been there for quite a long time. I am very busy , and I'm tired of commuting to this place".
"Then how come you look so terrific" ?
"I ask myself the same question" he said, "and have no clear-cut answer to that. I think it's a miracle, and at any rate, I believe that the whole psoriasis matter has to do with my two ex-wives, divorce being the trigger. I got the disease after the first wife filed for a divorce, and I got rid of the disease after I asked my second wife for a divorce. It has all come full circle" .
It has indeed..

Gain and Loss in the "Shield Oasis"

My hometown had several neighborhoods whose name started with the word Neve (oasis). The oldest and most famous was Neve Magen - The Shield Oasis. This neighborhood (adjacent to ours) , was established for the families of high rank officers in the Army. It had little streets with private cute houses and with a very special atmosphere, that of a community with common interests. In tense times (during pre-war,war, post-war), the atmosphere became that of a close family.

A haute-couture seamstress whose clientelle was based almost entirely on the wives and daughters of those army officers lived in our vicinity. One day she turned to me ,a high -school girl, and asked whether I would be willing, after school hours, to keep an eye on a seven year old boy whose mother had died untimely on the previous year. I was to stay with him until his father, the officer, gets back from Headquarters or any of the grandparents show up, whatever comes first. I accepted the offer as the money was generous, the boy, Danny, seemed well behaved, and I was kind of excited to play 'little mother' to him.

One day, Danny came home from school with a black swollen eye. He got beatten by a classmate. The next day, our officer took the kid by hand and the two strolled towards the school building which was not far , to face the little agressor. The latter was not present as he got suspended from school immediately after the incident , so, our arrogant officer (yes, he was very arrogant) "spilled " it all on the young teacher. He accused her , in front of the whole class, of incompetence, lack of control and failure to impose discipline, threatened to have her fired , and finally made her burst into tears.

When father and son came back home, the boy entered his tiny room, locked the door, and refused to eat and/or talk to his father. He cried loudly and bitterly repeating between the heartaching sobs the one question :how dare you talk like this to my beloved teacher?.

I approached the officer and told him he must go look for the teacher ,apologize in front of her, and ask her to come talk to the boy. Since he loved his child more than his arrogance, he did that. He arrived with the teacher . The boy unlocked the door and fell into her arms, still neither looking at, nor speaking to his father. The teacher was invited to stay for dinner. She stayed for dinner, and then... stayed forever. It all happened very fast: the officer had fallen in love with her, asked her to marry him and insisted that she quit her job as a teacher.

I was very proud to have been the 'architect' of all this happy end. However, I was also aware of the fact that the three were winners, I was the loser in this story. They all got Love plus something: the teacher got a loving husband, the officer got a loving wife, the boy got a loving stepmother and private teacher , whereas I was about to lose a job with good money.
As they say : One person's Gain is another Person's Loss.

Happy Valentine's Day!

From Dover to Calais

Every now and then I make plans to join a cruise, but nothing comes out of these plans as I am afraid of seasickness, 'mal de mer', as the French call it. This kind of fear prevents many people from taking a cruise vacation; it's no secret that seasickness can turn a pleasant trip into a miserable, embarrassing experience.

I 've been on boats and ferries for short trips, never on a big cruise ship. I'm told a big ship has huge stabilisers and so less motion. The larger the ship the less it will rock, and if you position yourself in a midcabin, that is, in the center ,where the least motion is felt, and prior to the voyage you take some precautions , then the chances of not getting seasick are very good.

I'll never ever forget the ferry voyage across the british channel or as the french call it La Manche ( the sleeve), from Dover port in south-east England to Calais port on the northern coast of France. The channel is " an arm of the Atlantic Ocean that separates England from northern France and joins the North Sea to the Atlantic" (Wikipedia) . The most cheap and convenient way to cross the channel was by ferry, departures occurring every thirty (30) minutes.

On the day of the voyage the sea was rough, but visibility was good and the service to Calais was running normally. On the ferry, people around me were talking, laughing, eating, having fun , and only I had terrible nausea, and loss of color in my face. Even the color of my eyes, normally green, was fade and lifeless. An english lady wanted to help and gave me something to smell, but that made things worse and I began to vomit and feel cold. At this point, I was willing to accept medical intervention. I was administered an injection which brought about quick relief.

The trip lasted for about an hour, but for me it seemed like eternity. Looking back, I think that a bottle of soda water would have done a good job from the start in helping me get rid of the nauseous feelings, but for some unknown reason I forgot to ask for one.

They say the cause of seasickness lies in some disturbance in the inner ear. There are lots of theories as to what could prevent it, but I knew almost nothing about that at the time. Anyway, the most mentioned tips to deal with seasickness are: accupressure wrist bands, ginger capsules, scopolamine patches behind the ear, taking deep breaths, being on the deck in the fresh air facing forwards , staring in the distance and not focusing on the moving ship etc...

By the way, WHY did the wave rush up on to the beach? IT was feeling seasick.

"SaharaSorbonne" Couscous

It was because of a bad neighbour that I came to believe there might be some grain of truth in the saying: " you can take a man out of the desert, you cannot take the desert out of the man". The neighbor, Mr. A, was born in a small town on the fringes of the moroccan Sahara , which like some other towns and villages in that area served as a gateway to the vast desert.

[This region of Morocco is nowadays a very popular and highly exciting tourist attraction. Towns like Marrakesh, Quarzarzate , Merzouga , Zagora have become famous as starting points for treks in the Sahara desert. Here is the place where all the arrangements are made to ensure that tourists get a one-time experience which includes riding camels, feeling the dunes of sand, watching the nomads and palm grooves, sleeping in tents, and listening to the the unique stillness of the desert].

It so happened that when this neighbor was about 10 years old, a french movie producer spotted his elder sister and found her fit for the role of a native girl who could ride a camel and speak the local dialect. When the film shooting was over, he took her with him to Paris. The moroccon family followed her and settled there permanently . After graduating from Sorbonne (philosophy ?!) Mr. A couldn't 'find himself' in France, so he came to Israel, where he 'found us' and made our life a misery.

It started with the little garden which was common to both appartments: his and ours. Whatever my mother planted, he destroyed. She kept planting flowers and trees , he kept destroying them and levelling the earth. It went on to the water issue. He warned us not to"waste" water on the garden, but he shamelessly used the garden water pipe to wash his car, and there were many other things that made us unhappy, to say the least. My mother didn't want to file a complaint against him. We were afraid , he had "friends" who were apparently close to the philosophy of Sicily not to that of Sorbonne.

It was only when he started demolishing walls in his appartment, and changing his cars as often as one would change one's socks - that my mother finally understood the situation was hopeless. " It seems the man has the desert in his blood and veins" she said bitterly. "He doesn't want a garden but an arid plot, he 's restless in his appartment, he'll feel at ease only close to earth, perhaps in a tent, cars don't seem to suit him well, probably only camels will do." "But Mom, he's got a diploma from the Sorbonne university in Paris, I saw it with my own eyes." "Well , education has its limits ; it probably cannot always, if at all, change the essence of a person, only the outer layers, and in his case not even this," she said.

After her 'discovery', we felt that the only thing to do was to pray to God to help us get rid of him by way of making him consider moving to another place. God heard and accepted our prayers. . At the end of that year, Mr. A finally got tired and bored of constantly demolishing and remodelling the walls which seemed to strangle him, and moved to another building, in the center of the town. I knew where he lived so I kept away from that area to avoid bumping into him.

One day, a friend of mine wanted us to meet in a small coffee shop located in that "red zone". Although I wasn't sure the 'philosopher' was still around, I was reluctant to meet her there, but she insisted. We sat at a table outside the cafe. After we had our chat and coffee, we asked the waitress for the bill. "It has been taken care of'' she said . "What do you mean, by whom?" She looked me into the eyes and said :"By Mr. A, my boss, who wants you to feel welcome here." So, he was the owner of the coffee shop. I kind of panicked, I didn't want to see him, and didn't want his free coffee.

My friend decided to do something about it. She felt guilty for insisting on coming here, so she went into the coffee shop, thanked him, using all her arsenal of charming french words , paid the bill , brought the receipt for me to see it and calm down. When I rose from my seat intending to leave the cafe, a heavy hand pushed me back into it and a known voice in a french accent said : "You're not going anywhere without eating my couscous first"; a bowl of hot couscous ( moroccon specialty based on granules made from semolina flour) was placed in front of me.

I forgot to mention that the only good thing I remember about my former neighbor was his ability to prepare the best couscous imaginable. Well, I could never resist the temptation of eating good couscous.

What a place...to die !

Someone has recently emailed me a little something with a sort of surprise ending. Here it is:

"Two women talking in heaven"

1st woman: Hi , Wanda

2nd woman: Hi , Sylvia. How'd you die?

1st woman: I froze to death

2nd woman: How horrible!

1st woman : It wasn't so bad. After I quit shaking from the cold I began to get warm and sleepy, and finally died a peaceful death. What about you?

2nd woman: I died of a massive heart attack. I suspected that my husband was cheating on me, so I came home early to catch him in the act. But instead I found him all by himself in the den watching TV.

1st woman: So what happened?

2nd woman: I was so sure that there was another woman there somewhere that I started running all over the house looking for her. I ran up into the attic and searched, and then down into the basement. Then I went through every closet and checked under all beds. I kept this up until I had looked everywhere, and finally I became so exhausted I just kneeled over with a heart attack and died.

1st woman: Too bad you didn't look in the freezer - - - we'd both still be alive.

The Chernobyl Curse

graffity seen in Prypiat

She looks like a shadow, moves like a shadow; it's only when you place your head into her hands and she gently starts washing it, massaging the scalp, and then styling your hair - only then does she look and sound human, a lively female creature full of energy and humor.
Ina (short for Irina) is a Chernobyl survivor.

Yes, Chernobyl- that dreadful region in Ukraine where on 26 April 1986 early morning , the most devastating nuclear disaster of all times occurred. They said the explosion in the nuclear plant, located close to the town of Prypiat at the border with the Belarus republic, was the result of faulty design of one of the reactors and mistakes done by workers.

[There will always be mistakes, ( " to err is human...") so what does that mean to us? It means that the end of the world is not utopy; all you need to make it happen , is some 'mistake' at a nuclear plant] .

Almost twenty-four years later, the affected area is still a 'dead zone' with deserted towns and villages, decaying ghost houses and high radiation which will remain high for hundreds if not thousands of years. At first, there was talk of a 30 km 'dead zone' around the plant, but as the years went by , it became clear that it was much larger, 300 km at least.
(I strongly recommend reading about it on the website elenaefimova.com It's a must).

Ina had been exposed to moderate radiation. When she arrived in Israel in 1991 she was diagnosed with two types of cancer. She claims that she's clean now of malignancy due to some unique treatment (combined conventional and alternative means) administered to her by a russian doctor living in Germany and specializing in radiation victims.

Anyway, on the day of my appointment with her, after she had finished 'upgrading' my hair , and I was above to leave the tiny hairdresser 's unit attached to her appartment, I said to Ina the following : "the person who has recommended you, told me that you are too good to be true, and I agree with every word".
"Oh , it's not me , it's my obsessive behaviour about hair", she said in surprising honesty.

It appears that as a result of her long periods of Hair Loss, side-effect of chemotherapic treatments, she has developed an obsessive need to touch and work with women's hair in its live, natural place- on the head. She's very skilled and her hairstyling is considered of high quality. Once a month she volunteers her services as a hairdresser to hospitals and aged people's homes in her area.

On that evening, I attended a festive event. A friend complimented me about the way my hair looked and asked who did it. "I'm afraid it's not Who, it's What - apparently, a 'neurobehavioral' disorder did it" said I , and told her about Ina and her confession.

Tough Question

The other day I went to do some shopping at the Azrieli Center shopping mall in Tel Aviv. The large mall is located in the circular tower , the tallest of the three towers composing the Complex, the other two being the square tower and the triangular tower. I hate towers , but since I was looking for a specific item and I couldn't find it anywhere else, this place was my last resort, and so I found myself standing in line for the security check at the entrance.

Nearby, a bunch of girls were giggling and trying to get the attention of a young soldier. They were repeatedly , between the giggles , humming a line from an english song:"...what a looker he was...". I was familiar with the line and the melody, but I couldn't ,at that instance, associate it with any known song or singer.

The soldier 'played it' completely indifferent, but not so the young checker who was throwing furtive glances at the girls instead of concentrating entirely on the bag content of each visitor; which made me think that under the circumstances, a smart terrorist could have had no much difficulty introducing a little cute bomb into the building . Just like in the movies, using the distraction element. But, I was wrong, a security man appeared from nowhere, approached the girls and removed them from the spot.

Anyway, when I got home it suddenly struck me: the line "...what a mover/ looker/groover" belonged to a hit song performed by the british disco singer Tina Charles. I turned to Youtube to find out stuff on her, and I was pleasantly surprised by videos from her breakthrough concert in 1976 and from her performance thirty years later.

In the mid 70's she was a young, fresh ,sweet singer, but a bit plump, voice a bit too high-pitched, hair and dress lacking any particular style. Thirty years later she is mature, but looks cool, sounds cool, displays a stylish haircut, moves graciously in a black fashionable outfit .

Who do you prefer? Tina 'a' or Tina 'b'? Tough question. That's why I vote for the orchestra conductor , "..what a mover" (LOL)...,and for the songs ("Dance little lady dance", "I love to love") which make you wish to dance regardless of where you are or what you're doing at that particular moment.

Do watch the two videos; you'll greatly enjoy it.

Tina 'a'


Tina 'b'

No Hope at "Cape of Good Hope"

At the beginning of a New Year , along with the new plans and hopes, I tend to go back in time to review small and big happenings in my past that fall into the category of 'unfulfilled expectations' . This gives me a realistic perspective for the new year and provides me once again with an opportunity to test the saying of ' Dissapointments that don't kill you, strenghten you.'

I met Ethan (fictitious name) - a compatriot - in Cape Town, the cosmopolitan city of South Africa , the gateway to the huge african continent.
He said he was a doctor, at the beginning of his medical career, but when I tried to make conversation on the nature of his work, he changed the subject.

He was not what one would call good- looking, but there was something magnetic about him, especially about the way he spoke and moved his hands. Hands are the first thing I notice in a man, and his, were big with long, slim fingers like those of an accomplished pianist. He caught my eyes looking at them so I said, trying to sound funny, " Do you practice a lot on the piano?" "I practice a lot on dead bodies" he replied,"I'm a forensic doctor".

This came as a big shock to me, and for a few moments I felt sick. So that was it, that was the reason for his reluctance to talk about his work; Later on, he would say that he didn't mind talking about it, but he noticed I was sensitive and vulnerable ( I liked that, coming from him) and he wanted to spare me the unpleasant aspects of his profession.

During our conversation, I made an effort to look composed and behave naturally, trying to take off my mind from corpses and autopsies.. We discussed the two famous landmarks of Capetown: the Table Mountain with its flat top and sloppy sides, overlooking the city, and The Cape of Good Hope which had been named so, to mark the opening of a new hope - a sea route to India and the East.

He offered to take me the following day on a tour to these two attractions ; "no visit in the area is complete", he said, "without seeing from the top of the mountain, the spectacular views of the city and the cape peninsula with its Cape Point tip , the stunning cliffs and the rugged stretches of rock of the Cape of Good Hope, the mingling of the two oceans: Atlantic and Indian".

I accepted the offer although the weather was not friendly, and I could well imagine that it was probably windy and cold, up there on the mountain. Frankly, I was in a romantic mood, ready to get involved in a relationship with Ethan, so the weather and the anticipated wonderful scenery came second into my thoughts.

Soon after we had reached the spot , a young man approached us, and Ethan greeted him with such a big, warm hug that I stood there watching them with unbelieving eyes and a widely open mouth. Then he turned to me and said in his irresistible low voice something like: 'Meet my boyfriend and home mate ; he'll be our guide as he knows the place perfectly'.

'There goes my Romance, here comes the end of my Hope', I thought to myself, and plunged into the breathtaking beauty of the Cape surroundings.

Great-grandmother's Politician

Groundbreaking - Left to Right : Joe Forbes

One of my great-grandmother's grandsons, Joseph Goldfarb Forbes (Joe Forbes for short) was mayor of the city of Oak Park (1967-1970) and member of Michigan State House of Represantatives (1971-1984) . He was born in Detroit, son to David and Yetta Goldfarb, the fourth of their seven children. He resided in West Bloomfield where he was known for his friendly behaviour and affection for people. He died on December 2004, at the age of 88. May his soul rest in peace!

Several years ago, I embarked on an internet genealogical quest intended mainly as a tribute to my mother's memory, in an attempt to track her father's family saga. She had been very fond of her father (Hersh Goldfarb) and she kept telling me the story about his widow mother, his three brothers and three sisters who had emmigrated to America, leaving him behind as his wife was against departing from Romania. Sort of mini tragedy. Sometimes I think that the fact that I've never visited the USA and feel no urge to do so, has its roots in this story of hers. It is as if in my subconcious I resent the place that has 'robbed' my grandfather of his initial family.

The first of my great-grandmother's descendants I contacted after finding information through the internet, were a nurse from Cincinnati and a restaurant owner from Los Angeles. These people were fourth generation like me , so they knew little (the nurse) or almost nothing (the restaurant owner) about great-grandmother (first generation), her children(second generation) and grandchildren (third generation).

And then I came upon the name of Joe Forbes. He was a public figure, so I thought I would find some biography with information on his parents and siblings which could also lead me to the others. Well, I found no such thing. In those days people were humble ,not like today when the biography gets written on the first month of their public job. I did ,however , find in local newspapers, his obituary and also an eulogy on his service and integrity as a man and legislator.

Obituaries in Genealogy are of the utmost importance. It was from the obituary that I learnt about his three daughters. One of them who lives in Aghoura Hills , California, kindly emailed me some pictures and additional information on her father and his family.

Joseph Goldfarb Forbes was considered a key leader in the Legislature of Michigan. He was elected as the Democrat majority floor leader for five consecutive terms. One of his successors said that in order to survive as a floor leader (whose job is to run the floor debate) one needs a sense of humour and "Joe Forbes possessed humour in abundance". (Im sure of that. All those on my mother's family side had terrific humour that helped them overcome hard times).

Dachau

Memorial

I had in my right pocket a slip of paper with the name and address of a nice german woman from Dachau whom I had met on a tour in Greece. I thought I would perhaps go look for her after visiting the infamous concentration camp. Well, I didn't. I couldn't. I was in no mood to walk around or talk to any inhabitant of the city. I wanted to leave the place that had witnessed unimaginable horrors, as quick as possible.

[I am reminded of my visit to Dachau by the recent news regarding the theft of the iron inscription at the entrance of Auschwitz death camp: 'Arbeit macht frei' (Work sets you free or Work brings freedom).
The Dachau camp had a similar iron inscription at its entrance] .

The concentration camp was built by prisoners on the grounds of an abandoned gun powder factory outside the city in 1933. It was the first concentration camp and it served as a model for the other Nazi camps that followed. It had two main parts: barracks and a crematorium . Almost 30,000 prisoners are believed to have died in the camp and its subcamps.

No way people living in Dachau at that time didn't hear or see anything about the atrocities (slavery work, tortures, medical experiments, inhumane living conditions, extermination) that went on at the camp located east of their clean, peaceful town. More likely they ignored both the rumours and the visible facts.

Nowadays, europeans and germans in particular, claim in private conversations, that they feel they are being punished for what they 've done to the jews. Foreigners from third world countries, they say, have 'invaded' Europe, destroy its culture, traditions, landscapes - and the locals feel helpless about it.

Helpless? Well, they''ll probably come up with something (evil), they'll invent something nobody has ever thought of (like gas chambers), they'll find a (final) solution. History, I'm afraid, has the tendency of repeating itself.