After touring northern Spain for 10 days during the Christian Holy Week, we returned to Israel with an in-flight Kosher meal — matzoh included — and a greeting of “Happy Passover” from the pilot when we landed. Ah, it’s good to be home.

Tomorrow, I move into a dormitory in Tel Aviv, where I will be interning for the Peres Peace Center, a co-existence organization that unites Israeli Jews and Arabs, both young and old, through outlets such as co-religious sport teams and business collaborations. My program and internship finish in the end of June. After that, I am open to suggestions as far as what to do with my life.

But let us jump back a couple weeks to April 3, when I left Israel with two male friends from my volunteer program in Israel. I was the trip ringleader, so anything that was a success was to my credit and anything that went wrong (see below) was also my fault. I was traveling with one of the most cynical people I know, so I knew I was in for some tongue lashing.

The vacation spot I chose, based mainly on a cheap flight I found ($250 round trip to Madrid), was northern Spain with a couple days in Madrid to round out the trip.

Religious men during a Holy Week procession.

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I planned everything down to the cities to visit, sights to see, accommodations, modes of transportation, a car rental, bus schedules, etc. However, as the popular adage foretells, my best-laid plans went awry and so did the trust in me of my two fellow travelers. But to ensure these mishaps did not befall me in vain, here are some tips for prospective travelers of northern Spain.

SUGGESTION #1: READ PEPECAR’S TERMS OF AGREEMENT BEFORE RENTING A CAR FROM THEM FOR THREE DAYS.

Back story:

It was Day 4 of our trip, which was supposed to commence with a car rental in San Sebastian and subsequent visits to a nearby fishing village in France, a hike up the French Pyrenees and a stopover in a Spanish fishing village on the Bay of Biscay. 

We pushed open the office door, bright-eyed and excited for our driving adventures. The car rental man asks me where I plan to go. I tell him France. He tells me no and points to rule #2 on the terms of agreement. NO CROSSING INTO FRANCE.  I am a bit chagrined but not deterred. I have a backup itinerary. We sign the papers and head to the garage.

He gets the car and pulls it out onto the street and motions me to hop in the car so he can show where all the buttons and gadgets and how they work. I look in between our two seats and see what looks like a stick shift. I ask him, “This is an automatic, right?” He answers no, explaining to me that all their cars are manual, which I would have known had I read the terms of agreement. (In my defense, these terms are written in Spanish.) I turn to my traveling partners and ask if they have ever driven a stick shift. The answers are a resounding no, which also sums up my experience with manual cars. Avi, the bravest among us, volunteers to give it a shot. We had collision insurance but no health insurance, so as long as the car snapped in half and not our necks, we would be okay.

After a 5-minute “how to drive stick shift” verbal overview by the Spanish car rental man who spoke mediocre English, Avi rolled on the city street. (The first few tries failed because we forget to release the emergency brake). I should add that it was pouring rain at this point.

We came to a red light a few meters from where we left. We tried to remember the tips: Feet on the brake and clutch while stopped. The light turned green. Take foot off brake and place on accelerator. Simultaneously, give car gas and ease of clutch. First attempt by new driver: stall-out in middle of street. As frustrated drivers honked their horns, I consoled Avi from the passenger seat, telling him that we do not care about these impatient, callous San Sebastian drivers. “You are doing fine,” I added in a soothing tone.

Being the only Jews within a 100-mile radius, God was able to track us down quickly and bless Avi with newfound driving skills, which he used to propel us out of San Sebastian, albeit with a few more stall-outs and disgruntled honks.

SUGGESTION #2: VISIT NORTHERN SPAIN BUT DO NOT NECESSARILY EMPLOY ME AS A TRIP PLANNER

San Sebastian is gorgeous. It is a city in northeastern Spain of about 180,000 nestled in between the Pyrenees Mountains and pushed up against the shores of the Bay of Biscay. It boasts an old city that is packed with small bars that serve its renown cuisine, including “pintxos,” the northern Spanish version of tapas, that the bartenders place neatly along the bar like a mini-buffet. At night, the streets fill with young barhoppers who drink and eat until 4 a.m.  

The city is also flanked by two small mountains, where visitors can hike up to amazing views of the beaches and surrounding Pyrenees mountains.

Renting the car freed us up to spend two nights in a casa rural, which was located in the verdant hills of the Aralar Mountains. Families who live in century-old farmhouses have converted parts of their home into a bed and breakfast, where travelers can stay, eat and experience briefly what it is like to live in this scenic landscape.

From there, we hiked up a mountain called Txindoxi and the next day took a two-hour drive to the heart of the Spanish wine-making industry. We took a tour of the Marquis de Riscal winery in Spanish because we were an hour late for the English. Blame the navigator/me.

After a few days with the car, we returned it without a scratch to San Sebastian. (Another one of the company’s rules: renters must return car to same location.) We then took a bus to Bilbao, where we visited the Guggenheim Museum and explored a bit of the old city, where we were greeted with religious processions for the Holy Week. We also caught a procession, where KKK-looking men carry around the streets sculptures of Jesus Christ or the Virgin Mary, in a small town called Haro in La Rioja, Spain, a region where the wineries are.

We capped our trip in Madrid, where we went to El Museo del Prado, El Museo De La Reina Sofia, and strolled around the city among the plethora of fellow tourists. 

Thanks for reading!

I turned the corner and headed to the classroom with a cluster of 9-year-olds trailing me like frenzied groupies. As I approached the English class, a girl darted outside and grabbed me by the wrist, beseeching me to sit next to her. As I followed the girl to her seat, the other students, seemingly jealous, tried to coax me to their seat with desperate screams. One girl even grabbed my other wrist and tried dragging me to her seat.

I make the army look good.

Most of my volunteering in Ofaqim, which hovers around 35 hours a week, I spend teaching English. Three times a week, I spend at a school, grades 7-12, taking kids out of their English classes for private tutoring. Last week, I distributed the lyrics  to Alanis Morissette’s “Ironic” as we listened to the song and watched the music video, which actually has no visual connection to the lyrics. Instead, it is Alanis, in fact, two different Alanises, screaming like mental patients in a car. So much for aiding the visual learners.

In the afternoons, I work twice a week at an after-school center for kids who are part of a mentoring program. The mentors are assigned a number of kids from poor families, and they, with the cooperation of the children’s parents, ensure the children’s well-being both in school and outside of school. I, for my part, help the kids with their homework, either English or math, after school.

Twice a week in the evenings, I volunteer at a youth café, which is run by a group of soldiers whose goal it is to offer kids, mostly in high school, a safe place to hang out with their friends and also to serve as role models for them. Initially, any attempt toward a real conversation was thwarted by the kids incessant inquiries into my sexual life, mostly pertaining my interest in whores and my sexual orientation. For some reason, these kids, mostly from Russian background, have no interest in anything but making immature, inappropriate jokes using their comically poor English skills.

Socially, the town of Ofaqim is a black hole. There is not any place where people my age can hang out and mingle at night. No bars, no restaurants. The only food establishments are small, fast-food shwarma and falafel joints. Not an ideal breeding ground for social interaction.

Therefore, most weekends I escape Ofaqim to visit Israeli friends nearer to civilization. Last weekend, while staying with my friend in Modi’in, I organized a reunion for staff who worked at my summer camp in 2007, my first year. About 13 people attended.

This week, I will be in Ashdod, and then Sunday my program has a seminar and trip that will focus on minorities in Israel. Will we actually talk to intelligent, eloquent, English-speaking Arabs? For the sake of our largely narrow perspectives, I hope so.

Again, thanks for reading and sorry for the absence. Oh, and Happy Purim!

Signing off,

Brian.

As I wrapped my legs around my blankets and snuggled into my pillows last night, one thought kept gnawing at my psyche: If a rocket alert sounds, do I run outside in my boxer-briefs or waste precious seconds to throw on pants.

I am now in Ofaqim, one of the many towns in the Western Negev susceptible to the latest round of rocket attacks from Gaza after the end of the 6-month ceasefire on Dec. 19, 2008. In fact, on the way back to my host family’s house, the mother pointed to a house that a rocket recently gutted.

The valley below snakes all the way to the Dead Sea.

Although rocket fire has diminished since Israel’s unilateral ceasefire on Jan. 17, residents are pessimistic about a prolonged calm.

Other than this pervasive paranoia that I now share with the other million Israelis now in rocket range, my life here in Israel and the volunteering nature of my program is on track.

The operation in Gaza and the resulting dangerous climate in southern Israel delayed by a month my arrival to Ofaqim, the partnership city of northern New Jersey. During that month, as we waited for the situation to calm down, I rearranged storage rooms, mopped floors, and sorted clothes at an army base in northern Israel for two weeks and then moved to Rishon LeZion, where for a week I mingled with adolescent Ethiopian Jews at a community center, while living and socializing with Israelis doing a year of national service.

In Ofaqim, I am working three days a week at a high school, helping English teachers in their classrooms to tame the wild beasts they call students. In the afternoons, I host a weekly English group for boys in Yeshiva and volunteer at a coffee house with soldiers aimed at keeping kids off the street.

This past weekend, I had a seminar with my group on the “conflict.” We heard speakers from all sides of the political spectrum, spent Shabbat in a legal West Bank settlement called Tekoa and an afternoon in Sderot, Israel’s PR poster child for Hamas aggression. I somehow managed to weed through all the propaganda espoused by the speakers to hear new stories and angles at which to view this convoluted mess we call the Middle East.

The recent war — er, “operation” — coupled with the upcoming elections make it a fascinating time to be in Israel. I feel pressured to have an opinion about everything from my take on West Bank settlements to the war in Gaza to my favorite Israeli burger joint. But the journalist in me is just searching for facts to find some truth, even though my objectivity — which manifests itself sometimes in criticizing Israel — is often seen by my peers as Palestinian-loving, treacherous discourse. Agadir, by the way, gets my vote as best burger joint.

Thanks for reading!

At 2PM today, the “Mexican Hat Dance” song startled me as I was blissfully transitioning between my first and second REM cycle. It was my program coordinator on the phone. Things are heating up in the South, he said, and OTZMA is looking into alternate arrangements for its participants who were slated to live and volunteer in the areas now susceptible to rocket fire from Gaza.

And so, as much as I tried to placate your fear and concern for my safety by telling you it was only your ignorance and paranoia, it seems, in the end, you were right.

On Dec. 19, Israel’s 6-month ceasefire with Hamas ended. During those six months, however, Hamas, a terrorist and political organization that rules the Gaza Strip, continued to fire rockets daily into towns close to the border, most notoriously in Sderot, a town of about 20,000 people 2 miles from Gaza.

(Hamas claims that it reduced its rocket fire from 100s a day to 15-20 a day, while Israel, as part of its failed obligation, did not fully reopen the border crossing to allow for the free  flow of food, oil, gas, etc., upon which the lives of 1.5 million Palestinians depend.)

On Dec. 27, after both parties failed to renew the truce, Israel decided to take preemptive action and bomb strategic targets in Gaza alleged to be centers for Hamas terror activity. About 200 Palestinians were killed in the bombings, among them high ranking Hamas leaders, Israel has reported. The death toll is now about 375 Palestinians and two Israelis.

In response, Hamas has amped up its rocket fire into Sderot (about 70 per day), in addition to firing into cities that Hamas had previously spared.

These new Hamas targets now include communities where OTZMA was planning on stationing its volunteers. Ofaqim, for example, a town about 12 miles from Gaza in which I am supposed to volunteer and live, saw two rocket crash down in a residential neighborhood yesterday.

Am I safe? Basically, yes. The farthest a missile has hit so far is a town 18 miles from Gaza. Tel Aviv, near where I am now, is about 36 miles from Gaza. There are riots and protests in Israeli Arab towns, but I have crossed them off my itinerary.

I am now on break from my program, and this morning I saw my sister off at the airport after she extended her Taglit-Birthright trip for five days to spend with me in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.

On Sunday, we have a meeting in Beersheba, which was originally meant to prepare us for our new lives in the Negev. Now it seems like it will be a meeting to tell us where exactly our new lives will be. This month, I and 14 others volunteered for two weeks in the army, so we may be dispatched to an army base again if the war persists.

I appreciate your concern and I hope you are praying for all the innocent people entangled in this war. Email me (brianf08@gmail.com) or call 972-52-604-1787 with any questions.

Thanks for reading.

GA hostess addresses the crowd at Binyanei HaUma.

The following is a multiple choice question. Please choose the best answer: Last week in Jerusalem, Brian a) heard five current and former Israeli prime ministers speak; b) stayed free in a 4-star hotel for seven nights; c) participated in a debate on the Israeli-Arab conflict with two Members of the Knesset; or d) listened to a Scottish Jew conduct a seminar on the week’s Torah portion in a William-Wallace-like accent. (See here for quick reminder of the accent)

And the answer is (drum roll, please): ALL OF THE ABOVE. 

I arrived in Jerusalem last Thursday for a media/journalism seminar, which the World Zionist Organization organized in conjunction with the GA. What’s the GA, you ask? In short, it is an annual conference for members of the American Jewish world, mainly from the United Jewish Communities, who hold meetings to discuss programming and philanthropy. This year, in commemoration of Israel’s 60th birthday, this weeklong conference/birthday party was held in Jerusalem, and former Israeli prime ministers and heads of Jewish organizations addressed the more than 4,000 American Jews in attendance at the Binyanei HaUma conference center.

During the GA, I participated in a journalism seminar with participants from Israel, Russia, France, USA, Switzerland and South Africa, all of whom are here doing yearlong programs. We met with the editor-in-chief of Israel’s leading online news Web site; had a discussion about security issues with the former chief of staff of the Israeli Army, Moshe “Bugi” Yaalon; listened and partook in a debate about the two-state solution with two Members of Knesset; and sat in an audience of 4,000 to hear speak: Shimon Peres (Israeli President), Tzipi Livni (Acting Prime Minister), and former PMs: Ehud Barak, Benjamin Netanyahu, and Ehud Olmert.

The week soared above all of my past weeks in terms of intellectual stimulation, social networking, and a long series of days without needing to watch episodes of Heroes to stave off boredom. Furthermore, I expanded my network of available couches on which to crash for the weekend.

I wrapped up the week by spending Shabbat in Ofaqim, a small town of 30,000 people in the Western Negev and my future home from Jan. 4 to April 1. I stayed at the house of my roommate’s adoptive family, a bunch of eccentric yet very hospitable and gregarious Moroccans. They are also Shomer Shabas, which means I could not watch TV, turn on the lights or use any electric devices from Friday to Saturday, sundown to sundown. 

On Monday, I and the other four people who will be sharing our cozy, little apartment in Ofaqim, got a tour of the town, making stops at our future volunteer sites: a high school, elementary school, after-school coffee house and a farm, where the family grows everything from khat (a hallucinogenic plant) to bananas.

Monday was also my birthday, and I have to publicly thank my mom (I don’t know how public it is if she is the only one who reads this blog) for her resourcefulness and thoughtfulness. A woman who five months ago did not know how to turn on the computer, somehow managed to contact a florist in Arab-speaking Nazareth to deliver to me a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates. Love you, Mom.

Thanks for reading and thanks for the birthday wishes. Keep in touch.

Brian.

River snaking through the bottom of a valley near the Golan Heights.

In effort to fight back against the boredom that was our day, a couple friends and I laid out a mission: go to the coffee guy in Nazareth and stock up. This man, named Ahmed, said he has been in the coffee business longer than we have been alive. His father and his father’s father, too, all coffee men.

We navigated up the narrow, windy cobblestone streets of the market and found our man. But just when we were set to leave, he invited us for some hot coffee in the back of his shop. And if there is one thing you don’t do in Arab culture, it is decline an invite for coffee. (Personally, I don’t decline anything free.) So we drank. And we talked. And we drank some more (three cups). And we talked. All in Hebrew, so the conversation was a bit limited. And after 20 minutes, when the awkwardness began to settle, much like the coffee grains to the bottom of the pot, we left. Shukran, Ahmed. 

Weekend recap: I went up to Metulla, which hugs Israel’s border with Lebanon. You can see UN vehicles, Israeli tanks, and Lebanon tanks all patrol the same area. The North is beautiful (see picture). Green mountains, kibbutzim, turquoise rivers, and wide valleys all dot the landscape. It is a stark contrast with the city atmosphere (Tel Aviv) and desert scenery (South) in the rest of the country. I spent the weekend with a friend from summer camp. We went to a kibbutz party Friday night and hiked Saturday and then ate some hummus in a Druze village in the Golan Heights.

On Thursday, I head to Jerusalem for a 6-day journalism/media conference. Free hotel room, three meals a day, seminars, field trips. The works. Then, I have the distinct privilege to celebrate my birthday with a grand tour of Ofakim, the development town where I will live January-March. I return to Upper Nazareth Nov. 24, at which point I will only have a couple weeks until I say goodbye and move on to the next stop on my journey: two weeks volunteering at an army base.

That’s all for now. Thanks again for reading!

Sabra cactus. Don't touch.

After living out of my suite case for nearly three weeks, I finally arrived back home. And no, I never thought I would actually refer to an immigration absorption center in Upper Nazareth, Israel, as “home.”

I rounded out my vacation with visits to friends in the Tel Aviv area, including a 1-day seminar in Tel Aviv with OTZMA. The seminar was focused on exploring the old city of Tel Aviv, the first Jewish city in modern Israel; however, I was more focused on my nagging stomach ache inherited from bad sabich (see: sabich). On a day trip with a friend, I also toured the ancient city of Caesarea, which was home to an ancient Roman city from Caesar’s time.

Everyone is now back to our routine in Upper Nazareth. On Monday, I will start a new volunteer activity, working in an private school for Arab children in Nazareth, the biggest Arab city in Israel, which lies below Upper Nazareth. The school claims to be in the top 10 schools nationwide, which includes Jewish schools. It is 60/40 Christian to Muslim, and because it is private, it attracts mainly middle- to upper-class Arab families. They claim to send 70 percent of the kids to universities.

That’s about it. There is a Halloween party tonight and the plan is to explore the Golan Heights this weekend with some Israeli friends of my rooommate, Avi.

Thanks for reading.

The third holiest site in Islam, where Muslims believe the Prophet Muhammed ascended to heaven.

I am currently in the midst of the “Chag.” Simply, it translates in English to “holiday,” but for me, and the other 50 Otzma participants, it translates, more importantly, to weeks and weeks of vacation time.

The Chag starts with Rosh Hashanah (The Jewish New Year, apples, honey, rejoicing, family, mounds of food, etc.). It then skips into a more reflective holiday, Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement, absolving our sins, not eating, attending synagogue, praying, etc.). Then, finally, the holiday for which I am currently on vacation, Sukkot, the welcoming of the harvest (a sukkah, lulav, etrog, Shlomi, family gatherings, and again, mounds of food).

For the two festive holidays, Sukkot and Rosh Hashanah, I spent with two different families of girls I know from summer camp. At both places, Modi’in and Ashdod, I dined with their extended families. The first holiday saw about 25 people at the table; the second, about 10. At my home in New Jersey — on the rare occasion we come together for a  Jewish holiday — there may be, at most, 5 people. My observation, although admittedly perhaps a bit narrow-minded and unique, is that family ties in Israel are stronger and more important than in the States.

Now, I will touch briefly on the picture attached to this post. Last Sunday, our entire group toured the Temple Mount, home to the most important sites in the three monotheistic religions: Judaism, Christianity and Islam. There is the Western Wall, which, for the Jews, symbolizes the closest proximity to the destroyed First and Second Temples, the holiest sites in the religion. It is the most sanctimonious place for Jews to pray. Next, you have, for the Muslims, the Dome of the Rock and al-Aqsa Mosque. The Dome of the Rock is the oldest Islamic structure (691 AD) in the world and is thought to be the place where Muhammed ascended into the heavens. Lastly, you have the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, where Jesus is thought to be crucified and buried. (There is a tomb for him inside the church.)

Most Jews, even Israelis, do not go to this Temple Mount because it is a Muslim holy site and has been a dangerous place for Jews to go in the past. It is policed by Jews but monitored by an Muslim organization called the Waqf. Many Muslims ascend to the Temple Mount to pray, and it is considered the third holiest site in Islam, next to Mecca and Medina.

Speaking of holy sites, I saw a sunrise rock concert atop Masada, a mountain top in southern Israel. Awkward transition, I know. I took a mini, 3-day vacation with a few Israeli friends and Americans from my group. We saw the concert — and the sunrise — did three desert hikes, one of which was five hours, and toured Sde Boker, a kibbutz where masking tape is made!

That is all for now. For anyone who actually does read this, I apologize for not updating it more frequently and thus squeezing in so much information in this post. Thanks for reading!

Ashley gazes up in awe at a cliff on Mount Arbel.

If you’ll humor me, I’ll start this post off with a funny anecdote. The story includes a cab driver, his daughter and a marriage proposal. A bunch of us went to Tiberias (city on Sea of Galilee) for the weekend. We took a cab to hiking spot and I seized the opportunity to practice my Hebrew. We start off, the cabbie and I, with casual conversation — where are you from? how long have you been a cabbie? do all the Israeli girls look like models, etc. — and then he starts inquiring into my financial background. I tell him I have money (a white lie to spur conversation), and he tells me he has a daughter. I tell him I am interested, so he calls her and puts her on speakerphone. We chat in Hebrew. He talks to her, too. I have no idea what they are saying. End of story: I give him my phone number when he drops us off and he promises to pass it along to Vered, who, by the way, has a boyfriend! He didn’t mention that until later. Nice guy, though.

Ok. Now if you’re still reading, I’ll include some meatier information. This weekend, like I said, we went to Tiberias. About 15 of us camped out on the beach one night and shacked up in a hostel the other night. We braved a 3-hour hike through the mountains and an ancient Jewish settlement (4th century AD).

This weekend we have off for Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year. I am going back to my friend’s place in Modiin, which is halfway between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. No significant plans yet other to elicit a few laughs at the holiday table with my shaky Hebrew.

Ulpan continues to progress. I study about four hours in class and then maybe two outside. On Thursday, I volunteered at an after-school hangout spot for kids, where they come to get out of their house and talk about life. The kids were great. And they even spoke English!

Thanks for reading!

 

Ethiopian Jews, who are new immigrants to Israel, hosted a New Years party at the Absorption Center.

I came to Israel in search of a world perspective. Last night, that perspective emanated from a charismatic group of Ethiopian Jews.

In the absorption center in Upper Nazareth, where new immigrants to Israel come to establish a springboard for their new lives, everyone congregated on the center’s basketball court to bring in the Ethiopian New Year. There was dancing, drinking, eating, joke telling, poetry reading, all which spurred the intermingling of Jews from Ethiopia, Ukraine, Lithuania, Israel and our group of bright-eyed Americans.

Last night embodied the optimism and hope that drives families from across the world to come to Israel. And we, the Americans, are here now in Upper Nazareth, to help cultivate that hope and help them succeed. Sunday, we start our Hebrew classes (from 8:45AM to 12:45PM), and in the afternoon, we will all disperse in the town and the absorption center to offer our skills to anyone in need. Mostly, we will be teaching English to the kids in the center and also venture into the town to mentor troubled youths. There are a multitude of other opportunities, but I will not list them in respect to your time.

We have already been here a week, but we have, for the most part, been tourists — sightseeing Jerusalem and the Dead Sea, hiking, and staying in a Bedouin tent. On Sunday, the whole reason for our being here will commence. A bit of nerves pervade our group, but most people are excited to start — as I like to facetiously say — saving the world.

-Brian