When it comes to buying shoes, I am not an easy customer to please. My feet have very high arches; most shoes do not give me enough support. All the more so with sandals. As a result, the last pair of sandals I bought has lasted me an impressive eight years...in large part because they haven't gotten a whole lot of use.
 
But those sandals have finally fallen apart. So I was filled with both optimism and excitement when I found a pair of Teva Nomadic sandals that looked like they were going to be different. The base had a real spring to it; the straps were adjustable in three places and cushioned by an extra piece of leather. The salesman in the store claimed they were “orthopedic.”
 
I brought my new Tevas home and wore them for about a half a day before I noticed something scraping against the sole of my foot. I removed the sandal and ran my finger across the leather. There was a defect. A piece of the leather was pointing up at my foot like a tiny knife, almost imperceptible but ever present.
 
It was a small inconvenience, to be sure, but the sandals hadn't come cheap (I’d paid 500 shekels - about $115). I took the m back to the store and asked for a new pair. The salesman looked at the sandal.
 
“You’ve walked on these,” he said.
 
“Yes,” I replied, “but not out of the house.” My mother taught me long ago that this was the unwritten rule of returning shoes.
 
The salesman frowned, which I thought was slightly amusing given his name was "Simcha" which means happiness. Somewhat begrudgingly, he brought me out a replacement pair.
 
I tried them on, but something felt odd. They weren’t as comfortable as the first. I walked back and forth across the store for a few minutes. Maybe they just needed more breaking in time. Yes, that must be it. I took them home.
 
As I started to wear them around the apartment, though, they still felt slightly off. Too tight. I took a closer look and found the problem: the wrong sized sandals had been placed into this size nine box. The sandals were indeed too small.
 
Which necessitated another trip back to the shoe store. Another encounter with Simcha, explaining the situation, brushing off the complaints that I’d walked on this pair too. But what else could I do?
 
Simcha didn’t gripe so much on my second visit in a week. The error was as clear as the label on the sandal that neither of us had noticed. But when he returned from the back room, his hands were empty.
 
“We’re all out,” he said. “We can order more.”
 
At this point, something clicked. A frustration level – more with myself and my own pedo-idiosyncrasies than the particular situation perhaps – ratcheted to some hidden threshold level. I’d had enough with this sandal and this store. I'd go shopping elsewhere, or forget the whole matter entirely.
 
“I want my money back,” I said.
 
“Sorry, that’s impossible,” Simcha replied curtly. “We only do store exchange.”
 
Ah yes…that uniquely Israeli reality. For all the strides we’ve made in customer service in recent years - and anyone who hasn't visited since the 1980s would be truly amazed at the positive changes - the consumer still has very few rights according to the law.

Simcha’s attitude may have been infuriating to me, the immigrant with memories of no-questions-asked satisfaction-guaranteed policies from the old country, but as far as he was concerned, he was being quite magnanimous.
 
“But you don’t have a store exchange,” I replied just as matter of factly. “You’re all out, remember? I want my money back.”
 
“No,” he said.
 
“No?" I sputtered. "I think yes,” They’re passing a law about it, you know.”
 
“It’s not the law yet,” Simcha said, again true. The bill to mandate money-back guarantees is stuck somewhere in the Knesset. These days, lawmakers have more pressing issues on their minds than smooth sandal return.
 
I tried a different strategy. “Please call your manager. I’m sure he can do it.”
 
“I’ll call, but he won’t say any different, I’m sure of it.”
 
Simcha called up Rafi in the store chain’s main Tel Aviv branch. They chatted amicably for a few minutes in that over-the-telephone back slapping kind of way, then Simcha hung up and shook his head at me. Snap verdict rendered.
 
“Let me talk to him,” I demanded.
 
Simcha looked taken aback. Probably no one had ever demanded to speak with Rafi. I imagined him as some huge ogre of a super-salesman, unable to bend or go out of his way.
 
“Hi Rafi,” I said. “My name is Brian.”

I figured we should get on a first name basis before the negotiations began. I explained the situation again.

“I just want my money back.”
 
“It’s not our policy. We can’t do it.”
 
So much for playing Mr. Nice Guy.  “You can do it if you want to do it. You and I both know that. And you will do it," I said with more forcefulness than I actually felt. "I’m not going anywhere until you agree to give me my money back!”
 
Rafi muttered something about having another call and then the line promptly went dead.
 
“I think he hung up on me!” I blurted out to Simcha. “Call him again!”
 
This time the line was busy. Simcha then turned to me. “You know, I’m on your side. It’s just the store policies.”
 
He didn’t seem very on my side before, but I was glad for any ally I could get against what I now perceived to be the real enemy in Tel Aviv.
 
“You know, I like your store,” I said. That was true...at one time at least. “If you make your customers happy, they’ll recommend you to others. You don’t want to alienate me,” I added, exuding self-importance.
 
Sure, right, Simcha nodded, while he called Rafi repeatedly until he finally got him. They argued for several minutes. This time, though, it appeared Simcha really was lobbying for my case. I couldn’t hear Rafi’s responses, but it didn’t appear Simcha was winning. He kept repeating himself and shrugging his shoulders, occasionally looking sheepishly in my direction.
 
Finally, he put down the phone. I braced myself.
 
“He agrees,” Simcha said. “We will refund the money.”
 
I was flabbergasted. “Is that what he really said?” I asked. I didn’t want Simcha, my new buddy, to get in any trouble on my behalf.
 
Simcha swiped my credit card and punched some codes into his electronic cash register until a refund slip appeared which I promptly signed.
 
It was only at this point – after the battle had been won – that I finally asked “when do you think you’ll be getting a new pair in my size?”
 
“Probably a couple of weeks,” Simcha said.
 
“I might be back then,” I replied.
 
“We will be happy to be of service,” Simcha said. I even think he meant it.
 
I walked out, sandal-less but satisfied that while this customer may not be easy, he is at least sometimes still right.

There’s a line in the movie "Risky Business" where the character played by a teenage Tom Cruise decides to throw a party while his parents are away for the weekend. When the folks call to check in on him and hear music and merriment in the background, they confront their son over the phone who responds by asking innocently “Party? Who said anything about a party?”
 
That’s a bit how I felt when it transpired that our twelve-year-old daughter had planned a sleepover birthday party for eight of her girlfriends…without obtaining permission from her parents.
 
The whole thing kind of slid under the radar. First it was just a couple of friends, some pizza, pajamas, ice cream and a movie. A low key event a month or so before the big celebration – that being her bat mitzvah when she’d be called up to read from the Torah in synagogue for the first time. We said fine. Why not?
 
A few days later, Merav let slip that the numbers were rising.
 
“Eight girls?” I said. “That’s kind of a lot, don’t you think?”
 
Here is where clear father-daughter communication could have avoided a lot of problems down the road. I understood my comment to be a warning to scale back. Merav, on the other hand, took it much more literally. She didn’t think it was a lot and I didn’t explicitly say “no.”
 
Now, a party for eight is not such a big deal. A bit overwhelming for the parents, to be sure, but Merav had just started junior high and we wanted her to make new friends.
 
The problem was that neither my wife Jody nor I were going to be home that night. We had parent-teacher meetings at school and wouldn’t be back until 10:00 PM.
 
“What’s the big deal?” Merav asked, and she had a point. We had stopped calling for a babysitter a couple of years ago, putting our trust in Merav and her fourteen-year-old brother Amir to take care of themselves and their younger sibling, seven-year-old Aviv.
 
A couple friends camped out in front of the TV, we figured would be OK for a few hours without us. But a party of eight was another matter entirely.
 
The point was driven home when Jody ran into the mother of one of the invited kids while shopping. “So I guess that means you’re not going to the parent-teacher meeting?” the mother said.
 
“Well, actually, we were planning on going,” Jody replied.
 
The mother stood there for a second, mouth slightly agape. Even in permissive Israel, some things apparently still are not done.
 
“Someone has to be there, to take responsibility,” I said to Merav. “An adult. What if someone chokes on some popcorn? Or slips and falls down the stairs.”
 
“You’re exaggerating, Abba. Nothing’s going to happen!” Merav protested.
 
“But what if something does? That’s my job as a parent, to make sure you guys are safe.”
 
“Are you telling me I can’t have the party?”
 
“We never said you could have a party.”
 
“But I’ve given out the invitations and everything. You can’t do this!”
 
“You shouldn’t have given out the invitations without checking with us first.”
 
“You’re so mean!” she cried and stormed off to her room, slamming the door.
 
“You’re ping-pong’ing,” Jody said kindly, referring to a situation we knew too well from our occasional own back and forth bickering. “Take a moment and let’s map out what to do next.”
 
“The problem is what I’ve already done,” I said glumly. “I’ve created one of those situations she’ll remember forever. When her horrid father cancelled her birthday party.”
 
And yet, there was also a part of me that wanted to teach her a lesson. Was there a way to turn the situation to the positive?
 
Jody and I discussed several possible strategies, but when I knocked on Merav’s door a few minutes later, I still didn’t know what I was going to say. From the other side of the room I could hear her sobbing hysterically. I jiggled the handle but it was locked.
 
“Open up!” I demanded.
 
Merav let me in but refused to look me in the eye. She ignored my feeble attempt at consolation, brushing off my touch. We both just sat there.
 
I spoke first. “Do you have a piece of paper?” I asked.
 
She motioned to her desk.
 
“OK, we’re going to do some brainstorming,” I said. “Let’s write down on this paper what the problems are and what options we have.”
 
Merav looked suspicious. I started to write.
 
Point #1: the party was planned without permission.
 
Point #2: there were going to be eight kids instead of three.
 
Point #3: no parents were going to be home.
 
Next to each problem, we wrote down several possible solutions.
 
We could call a babysitter or a family friend until we got back.
 
We could cut down the number of kids.
 
We could postpone the party to a night when Jody and I would be home.
 
Each option was shot down in turn. Our regular babysitter couldn’t make it and neither of us felt comfortable calling another adult, someone else’s parent, to do the job. Merav argued, with good point, that she didn’t know what she’d tell the kids she was dis-inviting. And delaying the party would place it too far away from her real birthday.
 
Feeling a bit exasperated, I said firmly “well, we’ve got to do something. Because we can’t have eight girls over here with no parents.”
 
We sat silently for another minute, maybe two. Then, as her breathing steadied, her face brightened. “What about Meital? She was referring to her counselor from Scouts. Maybe she could supervise and the party could go on as planned?
 
“Hmmm…that’s a good idea,” I said encouragingly.
 
While I didn’t expect Meital to be free on a Thursday night (with no school the next day, Thursday is Israel’s equivalent of a Saturday night on the town), I didn’t want to dampen Merav’s newly discovered enthusiasm.
 
Merav nearly bowled me over as she ran to grab the cordless phone. She raced back into her room and slammed the door again. This time when it opened, a very different girl emerged.
 
“She can do it! She can come!” Merav hugged me tight, she was so delighted.
 
It wasn’t just that the problem had been solved, though. It was that she had come up with the solution herself. She had called Meital on her own. She had gone from being passive and stuck to actively taking a part in the ultimate result.
 
Maybe it had something to do with having sunk to such a depth of despair. Or perhaps it was seeing everything written down in black and white that had allowed her to become more objective and less emotional, to internalize that there were options and everything wasn’t so uniformly hopeless. Or maybe she just needed time to process it all.
 
It doesn’t really matter. The main thing was that the evening which had not long before appeared so bleak, had taken a turn that none of us anticipated.
 
Instead of this squabble etching an indelible memory of the inflexible uncaring parent into her psyche, it had turned into an equally unforgettable moment of self-actualization. A lesson that, if she can reenact it in similar situations in the future, will serve her well for the rest of her life. I told her the same and she positively beamed with self-confidence.
 
Let the party begin!

“Happy Birthday!” my wife Jody and the kids cried out as they placed before me a home-made chocolate cake with white frosting and peanut M&Ms spelling out the number "45.".
 
“Thank you,” I said as I hugged each one of them in turn. “And what’s this?” I asked innocently.
 
As I felt the loosely gift wrapped package, there was no mistaking its contents: the most dreaded gift for a gadget head like me. No, it wasn’t that new iPod Nano I wanted. Nor was it a TiVo or even something as mundane as extra memory for my digital camera.
 
It was clothes.
 
A stack of new colored t-shirts to be exact.
 
“Gee shucks,” I said with a smile. “It’s just what I wanted.”
 
And I meant it.
 
You see, in the heady days of dot.com doddery, I found myself not infrequently holed up at some hi-tech conference. In reward for our nerdy attention, the organizers would bestow upon its participants a goody bag, invariably stuffed with several t-shirts emblazoned with the names and logos of this and that sponsoring company. Those t-shirts became my workout attire and I became quite attached to them.
 
However, repeated wearing and washing over the past seven years has led to a holey-ness of an entirely non-spiritual kind. A less-than-artistic pastiche of rips and other unfashionable blemishes have made me into a running embarrassment (fortunately, that’s usually when I wear them, while running, so you don’t get to see me for too long before I zip by).
 
I should have replaced them years ago. But the t-shirts represented a certain part of my history. And besides, they were part of a bigger issue.
 
I admit it: I am an unreformed and unrepentant packrat. Over the years, I have collected so much junk, it spans two locations – the closet of the room I grew up in at my parent’s house and my current home office which these days looks more like a U-Haul self-storage depot after a fight between a dozen cats in heat.
 
There are the techie books I’m not really sure I need anymore, like “Windows 95 for Dummies” or the “Fourth Annual Spring Internet World 1997 Official Show Directory and Buyer’s Guide.”
 
And the stacks of old floppy disks (although you never know when someday you might need to refer back to an old legal document from 1989). And floppies are certainly less of a space hog than keeping the original paper documents.
 
Oh, did I mention I don’t actually own a floppy drive anymore?
 
There are piles of yellow pads with notes from at least five different places of employment awaiting that long fantasized-for “free moment” that never comes, and the incremental CD backups done religiously every month from 1996 on.
 
All of these are still in the “messy but manageable” category. Not so with my extensive collection of newspaper clippings.
 
I have been cutting out articles I thought were interesting since I was – wait for it – fourteen. As a result, I have curling newsprint at my parent’s house dating back to 1974. Box after box is filled with the kind of trivial pursuits of utmost importance to a middle-class “That 70s Show”-era suburban teenager.
 
There are lists from Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 and Dr. Demento; the entertainment line up from the Millbrae Art and Wine Festival; old Greyhound bus schedules and the occasional news headline on something I deemed important…although in those days, politics took a definite back seat to the latest news from my all time favorite art-punk band The Tubes.
 
I have ten years worth of "Fall Season Preview" issues of “TV Guide” (hey, that’s got to be worth something on eBay) and way too much bad poetry (what was I thinking?)
 
Now, you may not be an out-of-the-closet packrat like me, but I'm willing to bet that many of you know oh too well the experience of having “stuff” still stored at your parents; stuff  you just can’t bear to throw away…so you just leave it there, collecting dust for the future, and hoping no one will ever notice.
 
More to the point: do you know where your old high school yearbooks are?
 
Somewhere, in the foggy recesses of my packrat brain I guess I always thought that this would all make for a great book. A must-have coffee table title. Or maybe an avant garde performance art piece. Perhaps even a highly irreverent podcast.
 
At the very least, I was sure that my kids would be fascinated by this offbeat time capsule from the developing mind of their very own father.
 
I once asked the kids once if they were looking forward to going through my collection. They stared back at me in stunned horror.
 
OK, so maybe the grandkids.
 
My wife finds this aspect of my personality a bit…disturbing, to say the least. Her mantra is minimizing clutter and augmenting simplicity and we have had more than a few clashes over the matter.
 
Fortunately for our relationship, I’ve found that every so often I become possessed by the holy god of Order and begin to weed through my stuff with a vengeance. The most recent such exorcism was six years ago, when we rented our current apartment.
 
I had the moving guys carry up onto our terrace the staggering collection of product brochures and press kits I’d collected from hi-tech companies that have long since vanished from their brief blip of fifteen-minute fame. It took me weeks, but by the end, I’d eliminated a good 60% of the contents.
 
Jody was so proud.
 
And so, it was in that spirit that later that night we trashed my t-shirts. Cut them up and turned them into cleaning rags with memorable dot.com names like “Goodcompany,” “Mongo Music” and “Thunder Lizard.” I could have put up a fight. But I knew we have a bigger fish to fry.
 
My parents had just told me that, after 40 years in the house where I grew up, they’re moving to a retirement community. There won’t be any room for all my years of clippings in their new place.
 
Had the packrat finally met his match?
 
“What a great opportunity,” I said offhandedly to Jody as I relayed the news. “Now we can consolidate all my stuff in one place right here!”
 
Jody just shook her head.
 
“Yes, it’s an opportunity, all right,” was all she said.

Coming home after vacation is always a bit tough. The time away is filled with adventure, with new things to see and do every day. There’s no school, no need to wake up early. And most of all (if everyone gets along that is) you have plenty of quality time together as a family. That was, thankfully, the case with our recent two week trip abroad.
 
The return home, on the other hand, starts with unpacking, continues with checking (and responding to) hundreds of emails, listening to voicemail on multiple land and cellular lines, and eventually jumping back (or being dragged kicking and screaming) into work.
 
For the kids, it also means their parents are no longer 100% dedicated to the pursuit of family fun as each day’s sole goal and activity.
 
Fortunately, they have their friends (which usually makes up for parents…and then some).
 
On our first day back, eleven-year-old Merav and her friend Ayelet spent the afternoon together at the pool. The girls were having such a good time, they decided to extend their time into a sleep over. Seven-year-old Aviv tagged along as best he could, but by dinner time, it was clear he was the odd man out in this celebration of girl power.
 
By lunch the next day, they were looking for new creative outlets for all that pre-teen energy.
 
The girls started by cleaning the kitchen. (This may be the first time in recorded history anyone under the age of 45 has willingly chosen to wash up the dishes because, as Merav told me later, it was “fun.”)
 
I was in my home office upstairs working; Jody was out at the gym. Aviv was grumpily prowling around the house looking for something to do. The idea of “cleaning up” didn’t appeal to him as an organized activity, and he still didn’t entirely understand what had happened to all the parental attention that had been lavished on him and his siblings for the past two weeks.
 
At about 2:00 PM, Merav called up to me. “Abba, when Imma gets home, come down to the kitchen. Immediately!”
 
“Why?” I called back to her.
 
“Just do it.”
 
Now, one of the benefits of working from a home office is that you can be more spontaneous in participating in the lives of your children. When the front door opened 15 minutes later and Jody walked in, I heard a round of giggling. I hoofed it down the two flights of stairs.
 
What I saw before me was nothing short of amazing.
 
Not only had the girls cleaned up the entire kitchen, they had set the table for two. Dark blue crepe paper was draped over the windows and small candles were placed strategically across the dining area. Jody and my places were at the far ends of our long table, creating an environment I thought slightly more royal than intimate. But never mind…
 
Merav and Ayelet beckoned us to sit down which we did.
 
With a dramatic flourish, our two giggling (and definitely underage) waitresses filled our water glasses and brought out the first course to a romantic meal they had planned.
 
A plate of sliced peaches.
 
“Would you like some cottage cheese with that, sir?” Ayelet asked. How could I refuse?
 
We ate our peaches while the girls doted on us. This was obviously their idea of how adults have a good time.
 
“Some wine with your meal?” Merav asked.
 
“Um, sure…” I said, wondering if she’d mastered the art of the corkscrew as part of her waitressing apprenticeship.
 
She produced a bottle of two week old Coke and poured it into one of the little glasses we use for Kiddush.
 
When we had finished the peaches, Merav and Ayelet cleared our place settings and produced the main course: home make pancakes with big chocolate chunks.
 
“Any maple syrup?” Jody asked.
 
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Ayelet responded quickly, “we’re all out.” Merav produced a plate of butter instead.
 
As we enjoyed our meal, the girls gave us back and neck massages. This was some elegant restaurant, I thought. Peaches and pancakes with Shiatsu!
 
It was at that point that we heard a faint whimpering coming from the TV room couch, just off our dining area.
 
Uh oh, I thought, immediately sensing that someone was hurt. I just wasn’t sure if it was physical or psychological. “Where’s Aviv?” I asked
 
“Here,” came a pained voice.
 
Jody went over to the couch where Aviv was lying, his head buried in the pillows.
 
After several minutes of coaxing, he revealed the source of his misery. “They didn’t include me!” he sobbed.
 
The girls stood still, momentarily paralyzed by this dramatic turn of events. In their imaginative play, a romantic candle lit meal did not include a needy seven-year-old.
 
While Jody continued to comfort Aviv, I sat at the table alone, trying to keep a smile plastered on so as not to defeat the good cheer of our hostesses.
 
As the minutes stretched on, it was clear Aviv was not to be placated by Jody alone.
 
Then, as if a light bulb had suddenly appeared over our waitresses’ heads, the girls hurried to the kitchen, whispered animatedly, and produced an additional plate, cutlery and glass which they placed between Jody and me.
 
“Aviv,” Merav said. “Would you like some peaches and pancakes?”
 
Aviv and Jody stumbled to the table.
 
“But not together,” Aviv said, evoking the seven-year-old creed of never mixing different food types on the same plate. The peaches went in a bowl, pancakes on the plate.
 
The conversation returned to its pre-crisis level. Aviv’s face lightened, and the meal concluded. Merav produced a hand written bill (see the picture above). 15 shekels for the pancakes, 9.50 each for the peaches, 2.50 for the waters and 3 for the coke…er, wine, tax not included (no mention on whether a tip was expected). Fortunately, at the bottom Merav had written “no payment required.”
 
The girls cleared the table and Jody resolved to spend the rest of the afternoon with Aviv.
 
For my part, I climbed back up the stairs and wrote this story so the rest of you would know all about our mid-afternoon romantic candlelit dinner…
 
...for three.

It was a rainy afternoon in Freiburg on the last day of our recent family vacation in Europe. It seemed a shame to stay cooped up indoors despite the thundering skies outside. Our German/Israeli friend Chana who, along with her three kids, was visiting her brother, had a suggestion.
 
“Why don’t we go to the pool?” she said.
 
Now the last thing I would think about doing in the rain is going swimming. But this was no ordinary pool. The Keidel Thermalbad is like soaking in a warm bath…for hours. The effect was extraordinary.

As we luxuriated in the relaxing mineral waters, alternating between the Jacuzzi jets, the hot and hotter tubs, and the warm water “river” that spun us round and round in blissful glee, cold rain pelted our faces from above. And we couldn’t care less.
 
The Thermal Baths were only the last of a fabulous two week “road trip” in Europe that packed in so much it felt more like two months. We started near Verona, Italy, at a bed and breakfast built into an old farm house. My morning run that week was something straight out of a Diane Lane movie, with church bells ringing in the distance and everything.
 
We explored the castle town of Bergamo, rode the cable car to the top of Mount Baldo before exploring the medieval streets of charming Malcesine with its picturesque Castello below, and waxed poetic on a tour of the lavish Villa Serbelloni in Bellagio which calls itself – with full justification – one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Shabbat, we were with Chabad in Venice where we were fed three meals (for free, donation requested) along the canals just outside the historic Jewish Ghetto.
 
Then it was off for a few days of hiking in the Swiss Alps. My wife Jody and I had done this twenty years ago as backpackers and had long dreamed of sharing the majesty of these stunning mountains with our kids.
 
From the moment we opened the curtains in our youth hostel in Grindelwald to the staggering image of the north face of the Eiger Mountain on our first morning there, to looking down from the snowy wilderness of the Jungfrau's 3800 meters at the rolling green valleys below, I couldn’t help wonder: was this real or were we standing in front of some extravagant painted backdrop.
 
A few days in Freiburg touring the Black Forest, and then we flew back to Israel.
 
The view from the airplane window momentarily stunned me.
 
After two weeks of conditioning to expect forests and hills and snow covered peaks, Israel appeared small, flat, brown and dirty.
 
The effect was not softened any by our taxi driver who tailgated and swerved past cars and trucks on the road back to Jerusalem far worse than any of the so-called daredevil Italian drivers we met on the Autostrada.
 
The news was no less disorienting. We had been away during the main week of the disengagement. The TV was still showing images of army and police carrying Gush Katif residents from the roofs of their homes. Newspaper headlines screamed in urgency. As the taxi drove past the Mahane Yehuda shuk, I was struck by how third world Israel still is.
 
And I thought to myself: what the heck are we doing here?
 
This is not the first time returning to Israel after vacation has brought up feelings of culture shock. And I know that there are many beautiful locations in Israel – the Golan Heights and Upper Galilee have the hills (not to mention Mitzpe HaYamim, my favorite resort), while the Negev is incomparably stunning in that desert kind of way. We have our own Thermal Baths too, plus waterfalls and even a fat cow or two lolling on a hillside.
 
But come on, let’s not kid ourselves. When it comes to sheer physical beauty, Israel just can’t hold a bar of chocolate to Switzerland and the Alps.
 
“How can you say that?” now fourteen-year-old Amir protested as I voiced my observations. “You’re being unpatriotic!”
 
I prefer to think of it as stating the facts. I mean, hey God, would it have been so hard to put a nice little snow-capped Jungfrau just outside of Tel Aviv? A few rolling “Teletubbies” hills near Ma’aleh Adumim?
 
But we already had the answer. It had been taped up on the wall of the elevator that led to our holiday apartment in Freiburg.
 
I almost didn’t notice it at first. It looked like the kind of notice that tells you the maximum weight and number of occupants the elevator can hold. Except that written in small letters near the bottom was the word “Auschwitz.”
 
I took a closer look.
 
The paper recorded that a Jew named Robert Burgheimer, born August 20, 1882, had lived in this building at 29 Klarastrasse until his deportation in 1940 to Gurs France and then ultimately to the concentration camp where he was killed along with nearly 300 other Jews from Freiburg.
 
The note, we found out later from the owners of the building, was part of a project taken on by a private individual to document where the Jews had lived prior to the end of World War II. There were similar documents posted throughout Freiburg.
 
Now, I know there are some people who are uncomfortable even visiting Germany. That’s not our case. And Chana’s family went out of their way in showing us the most heartfelt hospitality.
 
Still, the whole incident gave me the creeps. It’s an in-your-face reminder that one cannot - and should never - forget the role that history plays in determining where we choose to live and make a community. A simple piece of paper helps put into perspective why we would choose a flat, brown and dirty piece of land over a continent filled with glaciers, medieval villages and Swiss chocolate.
 
Europe is a great place to visit. I’d go back to the Keidel Thermal Baths in a flash. But there’s no place like home.

------------------------
Here's the note posted on the elevator wall: