“This is the longest Shabbat ever,” pouted thirteen-year-old Merav over the weekend. The reason for her distress was having to wait until Shabbat was over in order to claim her copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows from our local Steimatzky’s book store.

Religious Jews around the world were at a distinct disadvantage in the race to learn “who will live and who will die?” as advertisements for the seventh and final installment in the Harry Potter series have been teasing for months. The book went on sale at midnight Saturday morning, that is, on Shabbat. In Israel, that posed not only an economic, but a political problem.

According to the “Hours of Work and Rest Law,” stores in Israel are supposed to be closed on Shabbat; those that violate the law are to be fined. In practice, however, stores in many parts of the country other than Jerusalem and cities with a particularly religious character are regularly open. Harry Potter launching on Shabbat with all its incumbent publicity just brought the issue into Industry, Trade and Labor ministry officials’ faces, with minister Eli Yishai leading the anti-Harry Potter crusade. “Vendors should wait until after Shabbat,” Yishai of the religious Shas party said. “The law is that they can’t work on Shabbat.”

That didn’t stop Steimatzky from holding a gala party at the old Tel Aviv port early Saturday morning. Video screens broadcast an interview with Harry Potter creator J.K. Rowling from London and many attendees came out in costume. Other branches of Steimatzky opened at 10:00 AM Saturday morning, while rival chain Tzomet HaSefarim began selling copies at 2:00 AM. Some 4,000 Israelis reportedly pre-ordered the English edition (the Hebrew translated version won’t be out until December). Three branches of the Tzomet HaSefarim chain were eventually fined NIS 5,000 each for opening on Shabbat.

In holy Jerusalem, the only way to get a copy of The Deathly Hallows before the end of Shabbat was a trip to the eastern part of the city, where the small Arab-run Educational Books store opened at 5:00 AM on Saturday morning. Owner Imad Muna had offered to take pre-orders for Jews from West Jerusalem who don’t handle money on Shabbat and would be willing to walk to his Salah a-Din Street store to pick up a copy.

Anxious readers ready to break the law could also download a copy of the book: someone had nabbed a pre-release copy and painstakingly scanned every single page and posted it as a grainy file on various Internet file sharing services. The New York Times confirmed last week that the web version was the real deal.

Back in the Blum household, there was no question of stealing and we weren’t about to hoof it over to East Jerusalem to gain a few extra hours of what would fast become essential Shabbat reading. We had to wait until our local Steimatzky opened at 9:30 PM an hour after the conclusion of Shabbat. Hence Merav’s increasing impatience.

“Only three hours and 25 minutes more,” she duly informed me as the dull Jerusalem afternoon heat began to wane.

Mind you, Merav wasn’t alone in her anticipation. I’ve been just as hotly awaiting the final book. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve read all the books twice already – once to myself and a second time aloud to nine-year-old Aviv before bed (a process that has taken several years).

Now, for Shabbat lunch, we had guests visiting from the States who had a teenage daughter the same age as Merav. Merav and Penina didn’t know each other, and their initial moments were awkward and tentative. As soon as they discovered their mutual Potter fandom, though, they became as thick as thieves, making a plan to get in line as soon as Shabbat was over to pick up the book. Penina wouldn’t be getting her own copy until she returned back to the U.S. in another two week’s time, giving Merav the definite home court advantage.

By 9:00 PM, the line outside the Emek Refaim branch of Steimatzky already stretched down the street past the new branch of Aroma. Merav and Penina were joined by a who’s who of English-speaking southern Jerusalem teenagers and adults, some in black capes, all moving excitedly towards the shop door where they were asked whether they wanted the British or U.S. version of the book (with the U.K. editions referring to the “Philosopher’s Stone” rather than the Sorcerer’s Stone as in the U.S.) The queue advanced quickly and by 9:45 PM the girls were home with the thick orange tome in hand.

“Let me see, I want to read the first page,” I implored but to deaf ears. Merav and Penina grabbed the book out of my eager hands, swept into Merav’s room and slammed the door.

An hour later, when I came to say good night, the two girls were hunched over their shared copy reading the book aloud in turns. Penina’s father eventually came, leaving Merav the onerous but exciting task of finishing all 700 pages before Thursday, when she was due to leave for two weeks of sleep-away camp, sadly sans Harry.

They say that the Harry Potter series has increased literacy among young people. It also apparently can turn complete strangers into friends. Maybe there is such a thing as magic after all.

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The audio (podcast) version of this post can be found here.

One of the benefits of working from home is that you can take time off whenever you want, as long as you get your work done, of course. For me, my one consistent break has been a weekly trip to our local falafel stand with my friend Bob. To my exceedingly good fortune, we have what in my opinion is the best falafel in Israel a short 5-minute walk from our respective houses.

Now, falafel is a highly subjective taste and most Israelis will swear by their neighborhood joint. But Falafel Oved on Jerusalem’s Derech Bethlehem in Baka has a few things going for it that make the experience truly outstanding. There’s always a line for ordering, which means that the falafel balls are usually fresh out of the oil. There’s nothing as disappointing as old, cold or soggy falafel balls and Falafel Oved delivers the hot and crispy variety 90% of the time.

Falafel Oved’s other big secret is a garlic sauce that is liberally applied along with humous, harif (hot sauce) and tehina. While a lot of falafel restaurants can make good balls, the garlic sauce elevates Falafel Oved’s concoctions to another plane of existence. Yes, I know I’m laying it on thick, but wrapped up in a soft Arabic-style laffa, it’s just that good.

Of course, the real reason Bob and I make our weekly pilgrimage to Falafel Oved is not really for the falafel but the conversation. Bob and I will talk about everything under the sun – from shul gossip to why our kids hate school, which are the best anti-depression pills to whether God exists and if so, what She thinks we should do about Hamas and the Gaza Strip. In the middle of a day that is otherwise defined by long hours staring at a computer screen, alone without the company of annoying work colleagues to come knocking at the cubicle door to distract me at inappropriate times, our weekly falafel date cannot be underestimated.

On occasion, Bob and I have experimented with other locations. When we heard that a branch of the Ra’anana yuppie falafel chain Falafel Bis had come to our neighborhood, we resolved to give them a chance. Bis’s claim to fame is flavored falafel balls – there’s green with a cilantro, petrazilla and parsley flavor; red which includes chili and hot sauce in a Mexican style; and yellow which symbolizes extra garlic with a slight onion-y tang. The idea is good, but the execution disappoints. The falafel balls themselves are crispy on the outside but mere mush inside. You want your falafel to have a little fight in them, not melt in your mouth.

Bis, which is located on Ben Zakai Street in the Katamon neighborhood, is also too much of a fast food operation for my taste, just not as heimish as Falafel Oved which is run by two scrawny ultra-Orthodox guys who’ve plastered the walls with photos of Rabbis (mystical master Rav Kadouri is a favorite) and kabbalistic faith healers, set up boxes for donation to various charities (there were 11 at my last count), give away CDs with religious lectures, and often play Sephardic cantorial music while you sit in the two wobbly tables on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.

Bis, on the other hand has clean tile walls done up in alternating blocks of red, white and black and no quasi-spiritual paraphernalia. It does have one thing going for it that Falafel Oved doesn’t – fried garlic bread strips, dripping in oil and artery-hardening calories and free for the taking. You can pile them in a pita or eat them on the side. Afterwards, you feel like crap but it almost makes up for the less than stellar quality of the falafel itself.

Bob had long held that the best falafel in town was at Shlomo Falafel in Jerusalem’s Bucharian Quarter. It’s owned by relatives of his wife. One week we drove across town to give it a shot. The verdict: the balls were better but we found the overall gastronomic experience lacking. No garlic sauce, only a rather plain cabbage salad and not even any humous! Bob’s family favorite was no more.

Falafel is one of the constants of my life in the Middle East. I’ve eaten all over the country and had quite presentable meals in Haifa, Ramat HaSharon, Beersheva and beyond. During our family’s recent trip to Egypt, we got to know the falafel there as well. The Egyptians make a flatter, more oblong ball and put only 2-3 of them in a very small pita (at 25 cents a sandwich, it’s kind of like the White Castle of North Africa). Surprisingly they serve it with potato chips rather than French fries as is usually the case in Israel. We found them quite tasty, but upon our return to Israel, a visit to Falafel Oved confirmed that our local supplier still remained king.

Do Bob and I ever consider branching out to something more exotic, say a burger or a plate of pasta? Nah…that would defeat the down and dirty experience of indulging in Israel’s quintessential national fast food and feeling somehow patriotic while stuffing our guts. And besides, that garlic sauce is just to die for.

Falafel Oved is located just north of Yehuda Street on Derech Bethlehem, between the dry cleaner and the Frankfurter old age home. There’s no phone, no take out and no reservations. Get in line like the rest of us suckers and prepare to indulge. Falafel in a pita runs 11 shekels, in a laffa it’s NIS 15. Bring your own napkins!

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I was in Tel Aviv a few weeks ago to attend the first ever Israeli "Blogference,” – a blogging convention held at the Herzeliya Interdisciplinary Center. After the conference, I was invited to join a group of American bloggers who had come to Israel for the event for a dinner at a restaurant situated right on the Tel Aviv boardwalk. For a denizen of slightly backwater Jerusalem, the boardwalk is a real an eye opener, jammed wall to wall with people, strolling, jogging and walking their dogs. Every cafe was packed and pulsating music and neon filled the muggy night air.

Over the course of the conversation with the bloggers at dinner it transpired that the organization responsible for bringing the group to Israel had nixed a proposal for the group to spend a night in Jerusalem. The city’s nightlife, they said, couldn’t hold a candle to the disco and nightclub hopping the that had been planned for the group in Tel Aviv -  important given that one goal of the trip was to show the U.S. visitors a “different” Israel than the one guidebook-laden tourists typically see.

To which I cry: no fair. Jerusalem may be a sleepy sister to lively Tel Aviv, but our nocturnal activities are just as happening. And while we may not have the boardwalk, a stroll through southern Jerusalem on a warm summer night, the kind when even shirtsleeves seem too much but the air is dry so you’re comfortable and free, would prove to anyone that Jerusalem possesses charms even Tel Aviv can’t touch.

And so, earlier this week, my wife Jody and I set out from our house in Baka to stroll along Emek Refaim, the trendy café-laden boulevard that is a short five minute walk from our home. Any claim that Jerusalem is a ghost town, still adversely affected by the violence that began in 2000, is swiftly swept away after just a minute on the Emek: the streets are overflowing just like in Tel Aviv. In places you have to slip single file to pass the throngs waiting for a table at Caffit or Burger’s Bar. The last count of 42 restaurants on the strip (see my article here) has swollen by another couple in recent weeks with the addition of Tarantino’s, a fast food establishment offering “Entrecote steak in a burrito,” and Rivila’s, a non-kosher bistro with low lights and bedroom eyes.

Jody and I strolled hand in hand along Emek Refaim, past the "Shirechov” posters of street poetry affixed every few blocks, until we reached our ultimate destination at the northern end of the street: the newly refurbished Cinemateque, opened after a year in exile at the Binyamei Ha’uma International Convention Center while renovations were underway. The Cinemateque is one of Jerusalem’s cultural jewels: often the only place to catch an offbeat, non-commercial flick that doesn’t have “II” or “the Third” appended to its name.

The building itself is a treasure, built entirely out of Jerusalem stone with sensual arches and a location to die for, in a valley overlooking the walls of the Old City which at night are lit up by spotlights bathing them in soothing pastel colors. The Cinemateque’s NIS 15 million ($3.5 million) renovation – which will continue for another year – has already resulted in a state-of-the-art facility with new theaters, soft carpets and comfortable chairs complementing its lovely Jerusalem design.

The Cinemateque opened in 1981, the fulfillment of a dream by Wim and Lia van Leer who managed to convince then-mayor of Jerusalem Teddy Kollek that it was just what the capital needed. Three years later the Cinemateque launched an international Film Festival that continues to this day, this week entering its 24th year.

Jody and I didn’t opt to see a movie but instead headed for the newly opened terrace – a large grassy area with fabric-covered lawn chairs facing the spectacular view. We lay out, continuing to hold hands (it was one of those kind of evenings), reflecting on the unique benefits of living in such a remarkable city, so different than Tel Aviv and yet so vibrant and alive.

After a while, we headed up to the Cinemateque’s entrance plaza where a band was playing to a crowd that consisted of exiting theatergoers, a rowdy group of American students and several overly ecstatic band groupies. The music from “Radio Salamandra” – a mix between the Israeli band Tipex and hip hop New Yorkers Balkan Beat Box –wasn’t all that good, unfortunately, but the rock and roll on a warm summer’s night with the spectacular backdrop of the Old City kept us more than satisfied.

As we left the Cinemateque, we decided to stop in at the nearby Menachem Begin Heritage Center which had an exhibit featuring the work of graduates of the Emunah College’s graphic arts program in its foyer. One section in particular caught our eye: a collection of 12 wall sized black and white portraits called “Rabbis’ Daughters.” The girls were each posed looking right into the camera, wearing a variety of clothes reflecting their different political and religious sensibilities, from funky Indian inspired attire to long skirts and sleeves.

An accompanying booklet could only have been published in Israel, providing snippets you don’t normally find in a typical Facebook-style catalog. Along with their age, home town and favorite activities, we also learned, for example, whether the Rabbis’ daughters wore pants or not, whether they planned to cover their hair after they got married, and whether they would touch members of the opposite sex.

The night complete, we headed home, stopping briefly to consider a cone at the newly opened Aldo and Max Brenner gelato and gourmet chocolate emporium on Emek Refaim. We decided to pass; the hour was late and the night was already full without our tummies needing to be similarly satiated.

Jerusalem may not have the same level of nightlife that Tel Aviv offers. But when it comes to romantic walks, we are one of a kind.

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The podcast version of this article can be found here.

It’s been over 30 years since I was at a baseball game, but that unintended hiatus ended this week when I joined my family to root, root, root for the home team as the Modi’in Miracle suited up to play the Ra’anana Express as part of the Holy Land’s first professional baseball league.

The afternoon game we attended, at Kibbutz Gezer’s newly built field of dreams in the center of the country, not far from the Latrun junction off the Jerusalem-Tel Aviv highway, also gave me a chance to fulfill not only an expatriate’s national pastime but a father’s obligation: to teach my kids the rules of the game. There I was, with nine-year-old Aviv on one side and thirteen-year-old Merav on the other, extemporizing on the difference between a foul ball and a pop fly, explaining how and when a player might steal a base, and bemoaning a double play that ended an inning with my favored team failing to score.

I had forgotten how much I used to love baseball.

For most of the mid-1970s, our family were huge Oakland A’s fans. This was already traitorous to our friends and neighbors because we lived in clear San Francisco Giants territory, on the west side of the San Francisco Bay. But The A’s had spunk, they had color, and for the years we were attending games at the Oakland Coliseum, they also won the World Series three years in a row.

Those were the days when the team had a roster of amazing all stars: Campy Campaneris, Sal Bando, Reggie Jackson, Joe Rudi, Gene Tenace, Catfish Hunter, Vida Blue and Rollie Fingers. In my diary from 1974, I have cut out newspaper clippings with box scores and player rosters pasted onto the pages. We listened to every game on the radio and watched on TV whenever we could.

Then the A’s stopped winning and I went off to college and got busy with “more important” things. My baseball fanaticism withered and by the time I arrived in Israel for the first time in 1983, it didn’t bother me that “football” (and not the American kind) rather than baseball ruled the land.

Now, all that’s changed with the establishment of the Israel Baseball League (IBL), Israel’s first professional league (the non-professional Israel Association of Baseball has been promoting baseball in the Middle East since 1986). The IBL, which launched two weeks ago, consists of six blue and white teams – the Beit Shemesh Blue Sox, the Netanya Tigers, the Petach Tikva Pioneers, the Tel Aviv Lightning, and the aforementioned Modi’in Miracle and Ra’anana Express.

Former American ambassador to Egypt and Israel Dan Kurtzer is serving as the league’s first commissioner, and team managers include three former U.S. major leaguers: Ron Blomberg, Art Shamsky, and Ken Holtzman (once with my beloved A’s, he is on the record books as the winingest Jewish pitcher in Major League Baseball history).

There are a number of differences in how the game is played in Israel – there are only seven innings (Israelis, it’s supposed, don’t have the patience to sit through a full nine), with ties decided by a “home run derby” rather than extra innings; and the “fifth inning stretch” is as likely to include a break for the afternoon mincha prayer service as a trip to the snack bar for peanuts and crackerjack (or the Israeli equivalent: a bag of bamba and some bisli). The view from the stands at Kibbutz Gezer is also uniquely Israel – rolling shrub-covered fields covered with sunflowers and the ruins of an ancient Canaanite town, a far cry from the urban landscape of Oakland or New York.

Still, the excitement of watching a professional ball player pick up a bat and take a crack at a ball hurtling towards him at 95 miles an hour retains much of the big league thrill from back in the old country. And then there was the young man who boldly called out over the intercom “Dalia Gold, will you go out with me?” just like in the States (she said yes, by the way).

Nevertheless, the game in Israel still has a few bases to run. The fledgling IBL had to look overseas for players to step up to home plate in its inaugural 45 game summer season: only 10 out of the 120 players on the six Israeli teams are sabras. Maximo Nelson, the Modi’in team’s star pitcher, hails from the Dominican Republic and barely speaks English, let alone Hebrew. Still, some 40 percent of the players, mostly U.S. imports, are Jewish.

Crowds are also not even at U.S. minor league levels. While the opening game two weeks ago attracted a respectable 4,000 or so fans, this week’s match at Kibbutz Gezer had a mere 400. The upside: we got front row seats along the first base line, better than we ever got for the A’s in their heyday.

Who did we root for? The Israel Baseball League strives to be purely professional, all the way down to the players’ uniforms which they’ve cleverly chosen to match the branding of some of the leading U.S. teams. The Modi’in Miracle (the name refers to the Maccabees, the Hanukka heroes who hailed from Modi’in) were in Mets’ pin stripes (no accident given that Miracle's manager Art Shamsky won a World Series with the Mets in 1969). The Ra’anana Express were decked out in A’s green and yellow. Clearly we had to cheer the A’s clones. Big mistake. It was a baseball bloodbath with Ra’anana getting clobbered 9-1 by the Miracle (the next night, Ra’anana got nailed again, this time by the Tel Aviv lightning, by a score of 16-1).

Will baseball in Israel catch on? So far, it’s mainly an Anglo sport with even the play-by-play being done in English. Still the new league gets high marks for trying. And there’s something misty about singing Hatikva, the Israeli national anthem, before “take me out to the ballgame.”

Surprisingly, Jerusalem, Israel’s capital, has no team. That’s not deliberate, league officials say; there’s just no field suitable for baseball in the capital...yet. That didn’t stop the IBL’s “Official 2007 Yearbook” from superimposing a picture of a baseball stadium next to an image of the Old City, just alongside the Temple Mount, effectively obliterating a large chunk of mostly Arab East Jerusalem.

In Israel, it seems, even baseball can’t avoid straying into political territory.

(Here's the picture from the cover of the IBL Yearbook)


The podcast version of this article can be found here.

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Like all the California hotels, even a New York hotel has one of those travel agents who can get you seats on Orlando flights or even Vegas flights in emergency. Otherwise ideally they prefer allegiant airlines if one does have to fly. In other case, they are ardent fans of national car rental firms.