The book of Eicha is traditionally read on Tisha B'av

Every year on Tisha B’av, there are pundits who write in the local newspapers that we should stop fasting and start celebrating.

Tisha B’av – the ninth day of the Jewish month of Av (which always falls somewhere in super-heated July or August) – commemorates various tragedies which have befallen the Jewish people, first and foremost the destructions of the first and second temples in Jerusalem and their subsequent exiles.

In order to properly mourn, traditional Jews refrain from eating from sundown to sundown on Tisha B’av.

But why, if the Jewish people have returned from exile to re-establish a sovereign Jewish state and even have control over Jerusalem itself, should we continue to fast? Anshel Pfeffer, writing in Haaretz, is the latest in an annual stream of columnists calling for an end to all the pseudo-sackcloth and ashes. As usual, he makes some good points.

“Tisha B’Av was never supposed to be an eternal day of mourning,” Pfeffer writes. “The prophet Zechariah, who according to tradition lived 2,500 years ago, at the time of the first return to Zion and the building of the Second Temple, quoted the Lord of Hosts promising that ‘the fasts of the fourth month, and of the fifth, seventh and tenth months will become festivals of joy and happiness for the House of Judah.’”

Not only is the exile over, but those Jews who remain living outside of Israel are not being prevented from emigrating but rather are doing so out of choice, Pfeffer says. “Praying to God that all these millions of Jews will up themselves and make aliyah is hypocritical.”

Now, there are those who say we must continue to mourn until a third temple is built. Pfeffer has an answer for that as well. When Israel captured the Old City in 1967, it was Israeli Defense Minister Moshe Dayan who assured Muslim Wakf officials they would have full control of the Temple Mount area. “The only reason that the third temple has not been built is that a majority of Israelis simply are not interested,” Pfeffer writes.

When I presented Pfeffer’s point to some friends, though, I was quickly reminded that the temples were destroyed by what the rabbis deemed “baseless hatred.” And we are far from overcoming such feelings today. Indeed, a Ynet-Gesher poll asked Israelis “What, in your opinion, is the worst source of tension in Israeli society?” 42 percent indicated religious vs. secular issues (there’s lots more in the poll – worth checking out).

So, said my friends, we continue to mourn – not for the destruction of the temples but for the continued brokenness of our fragile society.

That’s also what our rabbi said in a preface to reading the book of Eicha (Lamentations) in the garden of the Jerusalem Nature Museum last night. But as we sat outside, listening to the mournful tunes being chanted under the stars, the silence was repeatedly broken by the sound of a helicopter circling directly above us. I timed it – it came around regularly every 5-6 minutes. The copter must have made at least 10 very noisy flyovers during the reading.

None of us knew what the helicopter was doing. Was it police or army? Had their been a tip-off that a terror attack was immiment? Or was this area – close to the Knesset – always patrolled and we just normally never stop to listen?

Regardless of the reason, the symbolism seemed clear: exile must truly be over – we have our own security forces with our own helicopters that can protect the Jewish people from future disasters.

Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe the reason we need the helicopters is that we still have enemies who are bent on our destruction. Only once we have true peace in the region can we start eating again on Tisha B’av.

Food for thought…well at least for after the fast.

A slightly different version of this article was published on Erev Tisha B’av on Israelity.

Mugrabi Cinema in its Heyday

When I was hired to record a series of conversations to accompany a course on teaching Hebrew to English speakers, I didn’t know I’d be getting a lesson in Tel Aviv nostalgia.

The project was to edit a 500-page curriculum originally developed to prepare U.S. diplomats posted to Israel. Along with the written text, there were about 200 short snippets of dialogue – ranging from “how are you today?” to “the fish was delicious, may I please have the recipe.”

I brought in nine Israeli men and women to record the voices. That alone was a big part of the overall experience. In my line of work, I don’t meet a lot of native-born young people. Indeed, all of my current clients are Anglos and when I write an article for a publication like Israel 21c, I usually conduct the interview over the phone. So, it was refreshing to get to know the world outside our insular Jerusalem Anglo bubble.

My main voice talent was a genial twenty-something named Dov, recently out of university and unfortunately out of a job, having been downsized when the economy went south. With a deep, rich baritone and superb diction, he was considering a career change to radio.

Our team also included Hallel, a playwriting student with a mostly shaved head whose father once served as the security guard at our son’s kindergarten; a musician named Daniel who heads up a band called Moshe and the Refugees that sounds a little like a mashup between the Doors and Leonard Cohen; Maya, who’s pursuing an M.A. in criminology at Bar Ilan University; Rachel, a professional translator, Hebrew/English editor and hazanit (a female cantor); and Avital who is active in the Gush Etzion “Raise Your Spirits” musical theater ensemble that performs exclusively for women.

Even more fun: the curriculum took us on a trip down memory lane (or perhaps a stroll on our parent’s alleyway of antiquities).

At a key point in the course, Mr. Williams, a U.S. diplomat, is looking for the government tourist office. He is told to head in the direction of the Mugrabi Cinema. None of us had ever heard of the Mugrabi and, despite our all being Jerusalemites, we were pretty sure there was no such theater with that name in Tel Aviv today.

Thank goodness for Google. A quick search and we discovered that the Mugrabi was in fact a key cultural icon. Built in the 1920s, the building served as the home for the Palestine Folk Opera in the 1940s and later became the cinema for which it was most famed. It was designed in a classic Bauhaus style. If you wanted to locate yourself in Tel Aviv, it was always in relation to the Mugrabi.

The theater was, sadly, bulldozed to put up a parking lot in the 1980s (Israeli shades of the Joni Mitchell classic).

There was another reference in the dialogues that was less well known. Adjacent to the Mugrabi was a restaurant called the “Brooklyn Bar” which, according to the text, served banana splits “just like in America.”

I’m sure that – if the course saw fit to put what sounded like a glorified ice cream parlor in the same conversation as its more famous street-mate – it must have been popular with the locals at some point in the recent past. We found one short mention of the Brooklyn Bar online but, unfortunately, no pictures.

Banana splits have been replaced these days by immigrants from Brooklyn as Israel’s main import. But for a few minutes, it was a trip to indulge in this nostalgic blast from the past.

Let’s just hope our Mr. Williams arrived at his destination safely. And that the ice cream lived up to its cross-culturally elevated reputation.

A version of this story originally appeared earlier this year on the Israelity blog.

Must-have knafe

I’ve never eaten it, but I’ve just got to have it. Kanafeh, that is. It’s an Arab pastry somewhat like baklava, but with the addition of soft goats cheese, an orange coating and sprinkled pistachio nuts.

I first learned about kanafeh from a friend who was guiding us through East Jerusalem. He pointed out a bakery near Damascus Gate called Eiffel that he says serves the best kanafeh in town. We were on a tight timetable and weren’t able to stop, but since then I’ve been hankering for a taste.

Our next opportunity came as we were heading up north from Jerusalem for a hike in the Carmel Mountains (see this post on Israelity that I wrote about that tiyul). Our route took us through the Druze village of Daliat el-Carmel and there, on the right side of the street, was a restaurant advertising fresh kanafeh, My taste buds fired up.

But this was a Friday and, unbeknownst to us, that’s prime shopping time and the traffic at noon in Daliat el-Carmel was bumper to bumper. There was no way to pull over, let alone anywhere to park. As we nudged forward, my kanafeh receded sadly into the background.

My search for kanafeh reminded me of another dessert obsessively sought. Back at the height of the mid-2000s donut craze in the U.S., I was traveling on the East Coast with the family. My goal: to find a Krispy Kreme store with the red “hot now” light on, indicating that original glazed donuts were rolling fresh out of the oven.

On highways from Toronto to Cleveland and Chicago, past rest stops and strip malls, the Krispy Kreme proved elusive until the last day of our road trip. Unlike with the kanafeh, my love for Mr. Krispy was ultimately requited. And it was worth it.

On the way out of the Carmel, we skipped the Daliat traffic, but also our opportunity to pick up some kanafeh for the ride home. Still, it’s only a matter of time before I find the time to head back to the Old City. I just hope that after all the anticipation, I actually like it!

My search for knafeh in print began on the Israelity blog.

My wife Jody and I ran the 10K in the Jerusalem Half Marathon last week. I’ve been running 3-4 times a week for over a decade already, but never in a competitive race. We didn’t come in first, but we were satisfied with a respectable time of an hour and six minutes.

We arrived at the athletic stadium at Hebrew University’s Givat Ram campus at 9:00 AM, picked up our number plates (see my picture), our plastic shoe dongles (to electronically read our finishing time) and a couple of free granola bars, before sitting back to survey the scene.

There must have been close to 3,000 participants for both the 10K and the full half marathon (26 kilometers). Some were practicing loops around the track, others milling around in their spandex shorts and tops. There was a preponderance of good looks and buffed bodies.

I imagine this must be what the pre-race environment looks like at any competition around the world. But there were a few uniquely Israeli elements, too.

The first was a group of runners for charity, raising money for Shalva, the Association for Mentally and Physically Challenged Children in Israel. The fundraisers, decked out in white t-shirts with the Shalva insignia, were surrounded by kids from the program, some of whom played percussion in a small band crooning Israeli pop songs.

Music was another reminder of where we were. It seems that every event or ceremony in Israel is infused by Shlomo Artzi classics. At our son’s swearing in ceremony for the army last year, it was “Uf Gozal” – “Fly Little One” (see my post here). Today, “Kmo Az (“Like Then” – lyrics here).

Then there were the soldiers: hundreds of them, many decked out in full uniform which they peeled off prior to running, laying their rifles carefully next to their kitbags on the bleachers.

At just before 10:00 AM, we lined up at the starting line, adrenaline pumping. I had been warned not to run too fast at the start, despite the excitement of the crowd. Jody and I were about two-thirds of the way back and, when the countdown reached one, we were quickly overtaken by speedier competitors from behind.

I kept to the recommendation though, gliding down the hill towards Nayot without overexerting myself. As the route neared the Gan Sacher park, I heard a loud whooping noise coming from behind me. A sea of red was approaching.

It was a group of hundreds of army paratroopers running, playing, kibitzing. They had bottles of water, which they rained on their compatriots. I had no choice but to stand aside and let them pass. As they did, I saw the words on the backs of their t’s – “Achrei” – “Follow Me.”

At about the halfway mark I decided this slow and steady approach was not serving me well. Jody was already way ahead. We were headed up a hill from the park to the Israel Museum. I do particularly well on hills. I ratcheted up my speed and started passing runners who were temporarily walking as they trudged along. It felt good.

Before long, I could see Jody up ahead. I ran faster, reaching her, giving her a grin before sprinting forward. But my energy wasn’t endless, and we eventually ran side-by-side, actually holding hands as we crossed the finish line some 20 minutes later.

Sweat dripping on this warm spring morning, we felt a profound sense of accomplishment as we picked up our complementary popsicles and commemorative medals. Nearby, the parachutists were on the ground, doing push ups, still whooping and having a grand time.

For me, the marathon has a special significance. A year ago, I was in California for my father’s funeral while the race was taking place back home. He had died very quickly after being diagnosed with lymphoma less than three weeks earlier. I had still been training for the race only days before I hopped on the plane.

My father had polio as a child and was confined to a wheelchair in his later years. As I ran the 10K, I imagined he would have been proud of me for taking on such a challenge. It was nevertheless a bittersweet triumph, a sad reminder of a painful milestone.

Will we be back at the Jerusalem marathon next year? We certainly hope so. Or maybe even before that. The Tel Aviv Marathon is coming up May 14. See you there?

(I posted about the marathon first last week on the Israelity blog.)

I really hate the rain. And these past few days have been tough ones for the anti-rain parade. Oh, I know it’s good for us and the country desperately needs to refill its reservoirs. I just wish we could get all our rainfall at night, when I’m sleeping.

Getting caught in a daytime downpour is one of my most dreaded activities. It’s cold, my glasses get pelted so I can barely see, and I’m always afraid that sloshing through puddles will ruin my shoes.

Now, my wife Jody and I are regular exercisers. Our main workout is running – we head to the streets 3-4 times a week, on several different circuits in southern Jerusalem. Our favorite is along the Sherover and Goldman Promenades, overlooking the Old City. We also run up to the Ramat Rachel kibbutz and back, and through the German Colony.

Sunday morning, the skies looked ominous, but at 9:00 AM, the ground was dry. We decided to chance it. Strapping on our iPods, we headed out on the closest route to home towards the Old Katamon neighborhood.

About five minutes into our run, we felt a few drops from above but not enough to turn back. I can deal with a light drizzle as long as it stops and starts. Which is exactly what it was doing. So far so good.

10 minutes into the run, the rain started coming down harder. We were in San Simon Park and ducked under a tree until the rain lightened up. Then we were off again.

As we turned back onto Kovshei Katamon Street, the skies opened up big time. There was a bus stop across the street. We dashed between oncoming vehicles where we took shelter to wait it out.

Only this time, the rain didn’t abate – it intensified. The streets began to fill up. It’s amazing how quickly water can come cascading down a slight hill in the midst of Israeli city. It was easy to imagine how a flash flood could appear out of nowhere in the desert.

As the gullies deepened, the splashes from nearby cars loomed closer. When a truck rumbled by, it soaked us from head to toe. We knew it was time to head home…regardless of the weather.

For the next five minutes, we sprinted through the streets as if wading in a freezing swimming pool. We were up to our ankles in a gray and brown Jerusalem liquid mix. Since I was running blind (the glasses thing, remember?), if there had been a pothole, I would have been a goner.

We made it home and our teenager daughter laid out large beach towels at the door to mop up our mess.

All I wanted at that point was a nice hot shower. I threw myself under the water, only to realize too late that there had not been enough sun that morning to power the solar heater and we had neglected to turn on the electric timer.

Sitting in the kitchen, sipping a cup of tea, Jody tried to lighten the mood, pushing a more optimistic agenda. After today, she said, it couldn’t possibly get any worse.

That’s when we heard the drip-drop of the rain again. We looked up. It was coming through the roof.

Did I mention I hate the rain?

Two years ago, Israel’s capital introduced the “Jerusalem Card” which provides discounts on a whole range of Jerusalem attractions – from restaurants and museums to music performances and even discounts on parking and taxis. We bought ours at the opening to the annual Hutzot HaYotzer arts and crafts festival for only NIS 18 (around $5) and it’s paid for itself many times over.

Last night, the city decided to celebrate the card’s birthday with a festive concert featuring the Idan Raichel Project at Jerusalem’s International Congress Center. Card holders got in for only NIS 50 ($13) instead of the non-resident price of NIS 140 ($37). In an age when concerts by big names are going for hundreds of shekels, this was a can’t miss deal.

That, apparently, was what half the city seemed to think too. The concert was sold out within hours of tickets going on sale and the performance hall was packed.

Raichel is one of Israel’s most unique talents. Bursting onto the local music scene in 2002, he’s assembled an 11-piece band composed of performers from around the world that sings in Amharic, Spanish, Arabic, English and, of course, Hebrew. Flute, sax, oud and mandolin could all be heard, along with a unique percussion instrument that involved pouring water into buckets. It’s true world music…with a rock beat.

The crowd was a unique Jerusalem mix of young and old, completely covered up religious and scantily clad secular. It was encouraging to see the way that music can bring together an increasingly polarized population.

That may have been due in part to Raichel’s multi-cultural and pluralistic emphasis. He punctuated the 2 hour plus concert with anecdotes about the texts he uses for his songs, many of which come from Biblical sources and have double meanings – love stories about longing for God that at the same time year for a more physical partner.

Perhaps the most poignant moment came when Raichel recounted the band’s performance earlier this year for Martin Luther King Day with U.S. President Barack Obama in attendance. On his return to Israel, though, he received a call about several young children under the age of four dying from cancer. His father picked him up at the airport and they immediately drove to the hospital.

The concert in the U.S., by comparison, Raichel realized, was all “shtuyiot” (“unimportant” or “nonsense” in Hebrew). He then proceeded to play an emotional ballad that had the crowd alternately cheering and crying.

Our Jerusalem Card is due to expire soon. There’s no question that we’ll renew it.

You can watch a clip from the concert above or click this link.

My friend Cliff called this week to say he was getting rid of an old air conditioning unit and would I want to take it off his hands…at no charge? Cliff knew that I had spent much of the summer sweltering in my top floor home office.

I have an air conditioner already but, at only ¾ horsepower, it’s woefully underpowered and on a hot day, I can’t get the room temperature to less than 28 degrees Celsius (that’s over 80 Fahrenheit) – not a particularly conducive environment in which to work.

My predisposition for a bargain however was tempered by a counter thought: was this kosher? I don’t mean whether the assembly of the air conditioner was supervised by Chabad. Rather, would adding another air conditioner into the world mesh with Jewish law?

Now, of course, there’s nothing in the Torah or Talmud that forbids keeping comfortably cool, but what’s the point of scrupulously keeping the minutia of halacha if doesn’t promote concern for the planet and ultimately the welfare and continued survival of the people who live in it (including the ones keeping all that Jewish law)? After all, on Yom Kippur you first have to make peace with your fellow men and women before anything supernatural can kick in.

It turns out that Jews have been thinking about the environment for awhile. In the late 1970s. Rav Zalman Schachter-Shalomi coined the term “eco-kosher.” His point was that it’s not enough to make sure the meat you’re eating is slaughtered according to Jewish law; the animal has to be treated humanely, the environment must not be harmed, and the workers who toil in the kashrut factories cannot be exploited either.

This has been a hot topic in recent years with the revelations of scandalous conditions at Agriprocessors, the leading kosher meat producer in the U.S., involving a variety of issues including health, safety, the environment and animal welfare.

It’s only logical to extend the concept of eco-kosher to the environment as a whole. Rav Zalman noted that while a Styrofoam cup might be useful to someone keeping kosher, it would not be a good choice for someone concerned with the environment. A more hi-tech example would be whether it’s politically correct to buy printed books and newspapers that deplete the rain forests when electronic versions are growing in popularity (run out and get a Kindle).

In this light, whether to accept Cliff’s air conditioner was no longer just a personal choice; it had become a metaphor for how to conduct one’s life ethically and socially as a traditional Jew. One must ask: is the air conditioner “green” enough (in Cliff’s case, since it was a very old unit, probably not)? Are there other alternatives? Would a strong fan be sufficient?

This need is even more pronounced in Israel where we can, as a sovereign nation, make a real difference, if not on a planetary level then at least in our little corner of the Middle East.

There are a number of Jewish groups already active in this area. These include the New York-based Hazon organization and its Jewish Climate Change campaign. Another – called The Green Prophet is an “environment news site reporting on the Middle East, Israel and the Arab world.” It recently co-sponsored a 2-day workshop in Madaba Jordan called “Blogging for the Environment” with the aim to “bring 15 prominent journalists and bloggers in Arabic, Hebrew and English to meet and brainstorm new ways to report on and instigate environmental change in areas of activism, design, urban health, religion, and clean technologies.”

Michael Kagan’s “Jewish Climate Initiative” strives to ground a Jewish approach to the environment in classic texts, bringing Hilkhot Shekhenim as a source addressing the key issue of pollution as it influences climate change.

That text, writes Initiative staff member Rabbi Julian Sinclair, explores “the diverse ways in which neighbors damage one another through their domestic and economic activities and the redress that is available in each case.” And while “the rabbis did not imagine our situation in which coal-fired power stations in Michigan may contribute to drought in Mali,” today we clearly are causing damage to “neighbors” whom we will never meet.

Kagan told me in an email that one way to make the issue of climate change more accessible is to “forget greenhouse gas emissions” and rather look at “the terrible state of the oceans…of food production, health…air (and) water purity.” There is no doubt,” he adds, “that these are all human made devastations upon the well-being of the planet. Let’s clear up this mess, then global warming will fall in place.”

Philadelphia-based Rabbi Arthur Waskow suggests that even the message of the recent holiday of Hanukah, where a single day’s supply of oil lasted for eight days, can serve as a trigger to focus our attention “on energy conservation and breaking our dependence on fossil fuel,” After all, if the Macabees could milk the most out of a limited amount of fuel, modern society should be able to invent vastly more powerful technology.

In light of these various approaches to the intent of Jewish law, I am perplexed by the phenomena of climate change deniers, particularly the Jewish ones. Jonathan Rosenblum, writing in a recent issue of the Jerusalem Post, pulls out all the stops in trying to discredit the global warming community as secular “high priests” who lay claim “to certainty based on human intelligence,” relying on unproven hypotheses regarding “imminent catastrophe.”

Rosenblum cites the recently released hacked emails to and from researchers at the University of East Anglia’s Climate Research Unit as proof that there is no scientific consensus and that the agenda is being driven by “tremendous financial incentives for the alarmists to keep ratcheting up their hysterics.”

There’s no question that those emails paint a not-so-straightforward picture. But Rosenblum uses the controversy to bolster his underlying thrust that when humankind claims to know more than God, nothing positive can come from it.

An opposing religious perspective comes from my colleague Tzemach Yoreh, author of the Religious Atheist website, who writes that prayer may serve a model for engaging Jewish tradition in the service of the greater good.

“The common denominator uniting much of our prayer,” he says, “is that much of what we speak of is beyond our power as individuals, and that it can only be accomplished through a concerted communal effort. By praying, we validate those communal aspirations and give ourselves strength to continue.”

I’m not saying that we all need to start praying. But the value of prayer and its role over the past two millennium in the history of the Jewish people may give us an authentically Jewish starting point from which to galvanize our efforts.

The time to act is now. In a recent interview on the NPR program On the Media. George Monbiot, a columnist for the British newspaper The Guardian, pointed to opinion polls that show only 57% of U.S. citizens believe that climate change is man-made. The numbers in the U.K. are even lower at 41%. And they’re dropping fast.

Monibot compares this response to looming environmental disaster to what happens when a doctor tells someone that they have cancer. The patient initially sinks into denial. If that’s the case with the climate change challengers, what will happen when the prognosis turns terminal?

I’m certainly no expert, but from what I’ve read, the overall science remains pretty conclusive. And so, when it comes to that air conditioner, I’m saying no. It’s a small step for sure, but it hopefully won’t be the last as my own social consciousness grows. And a billion small steps can add up quickly.

The Jewish people has a critical opportunity…no, a responsibility to lead the charge against the deniers and to do its part to help save the world. In this way, we may be able re-frame for modern times our historical role as a light unto the nations. The planet is counting on us.

A shorter version of this article appeared on the Israelity blog.

The popular TV series “Srugim” is returning to the airwaves tonight after a year and a half hiatus. Season Two of the show, about a group of young religious singles living in the Jerusalem neighborhood of Katamon (known affectionately as “The Swamp”), has been anxiously awaited by its fans (who have established several active Facebook pages like this one) and aggressively promoted by the Yes satellite service that broadcasts it). I originally wrote about it here.

While it was probably not Ana Efneh (“Where Will I Turn?” – lyrics here), the show’s infectious opening theme music, that turned Srugim into a bonafide hit, the song did thrust singer and composer Erez Lev Ari into the national spotlight. So when posters announcing Lev Ari’s performance at the Jerusalem Lab last night appeared on billboards around town, we were first in line (I took the clip below from the concert itself).

Lev Ari is part of a new generation of recently religious rockers including Ehud Banai and Etti Ankari. His guitar driven ethereal power pop, which include elements of Middle Eastern and progressive strut work – think Pink Floyd from “Wish You Were Here” – is reminiscent of the early days of the classic Israeli rock band Mashina.

Lev Ari loves his guitars – he played at least five of them during the show. The band included two bassists, keyboards, percussion, electric violin, and a harp.

The audience was mellow – perhaps too much so – clapping along reverently rather than dancing in the aisles, in keeping with Lev Ari’s mostly downbeat psychedelic jams. Given Lev Ari’s positioning as a religious musician, it’s not surprising that over half the attendees wore head coverings of some kind.

While much of Lev Ari’s music covers the usual rock topics – love and longing – most are infused with language from Jewish texts – from piyutim and Psalms to the Biblical “The Song of Songs.” At the conclusion of the performance, Lev Ari thanked his band, his sound man, the audience and God.

Now, having seen Lev Ari in concert, I feel suitably prepped to dive back into Srugim. The latter will be broadcast at 10:10 PM Sunday night on Yes Drama with a repeat on Monday. Episodes are also shown online.

This story originally appeared on Israelity.

You can catch more of Erez Lev Ari on YouTube and MySpace.

Israeli bureaucratic institutions have been slowly but surely modernizing over recent years. You can get in and out of the infamous Interior Ministry in less than a day…and you don’t have to line up at 8:00 AM just to shove your way in through the heavily guarded front door.

The health funds now have computerized kiosks that print out the name of the doctor, his or her room number and the time of your appointment; a flat screen monitor tells you when it’s your turn.

Ditto with the banks and the post office where you can now kick your feet up and relax while you wait for your number to flash.

The tide of advancement, however, has apparently not yet washed over the shores of the Education Ministry which, naturally, is exactly where I had to be recently. I had been considering taking a government-run tour guiding course and, to be admitted, I needed to have my non-Israeli Bachelor’s and Master’s Degree diplomas officially “approved.”

The Education Ministry’s building is a formidable mass; a wide arching wall of concrete with identical small window slats all facing towards a forlorn courtyard. Once inside, a spiral staircase winds its way to “Room 124″ – a tiny cubicle of an office where a lone clerk sits to satisfy the academic supplicants’ demands.

There is no brightly-lit waiting room, just a scattering of chairs along the walls and up against the staircase railing. To the Ministry’s credit, there is an old-fashioned paper number dispenser; when I first made aliyah 15 years ago, you just plopped yourself down and asked “who’s last?” A fight would inevitably ensue when someone arrived late and claimed that he or she was “here earlier” and was “after” some naive looking stranger who quickly disavowed any knowledge of the presumptuous intruder.

There were 17 people ahead of me – a true melting pot of Israeli immigrant society. I heard smatterings of foreign tongues – Russian, Arabic, French, Spanish, and of course English.

When my turn finally came – after an hour and a half wait – I braced myself for an abrupt confrontation with Israeli officialdom. To my surprise, my clerk was a bundle of buoyancy. When she started speaking to me in English rather than Hebrew, I asked where she was from. “Albania.”

What a pleasant turn of events: the woman in charge of the immigrants was an immigrant herself. As my forms were duly stamped, we traded travel stories. She told me that you can fly to Turkey and rent a car to drive to Albania by way of Bulgaria and Macedonia.

Given this week’s distressing news about the tourism training industry in Israel, maybe I should think about leading such Mediterranean road trips. After all, I now have the stamp of approval from the Ministry of Education.

This article was originally posted on the Israelity blog.

How did a non-beer drinker wind up in a micro-brewery this past Saturday night? That’s a question I was asking myself as my wife and I joined our friends Debbie and Eliot at Jem’s, a hot new gourmet beer factory in Petach Tikva.

Jem’s was established by two immigrants from the U.S. – Daniel Alon, a former Wall Street lawyer, and Jeremy Welfeld who worked as an events manager in the White House during Bill Clinton’s tenure.

Their new Israeli endeavor sports a large open space with wooden tables for drinking and dining; a chill out zone with low couches for kicking back; great music (we heard everything from Prince to Ehud Banai); and a set of oversized steel vats where the beer is brewed in house.

About the beers: there are six on the menu: Stout, Amber Ale, Pils, Dark Lager, “Special” (not sure what that was) and Lochness. Our waiter brought us shot glasses with a taste of each; I insisted on the Lochness, which had a light fruity taste, and actually enjoyed it enough to down a whole glass.

Truthfully, I’m more of a food guy and was delighted to find a whole section on the menu with just hot dogs. But these were no ordinary franks. They had playful names like Diablo (spicy enough to erupt like the volcano it’s named after) and the Bombay, made with spring chicken and Indian spices. We ordered the Jem’s house dog which had a combination of lamb, entrecote, over and fried onions. I guess Bill C. liked the gourmet version of down home Southern picnic fare.

If you get too heavy from all the meat and suds, there’s a basketball court outside to work out between courses.

Jem’s has lines out the door on Saturday nights; reservations are highly recommended. A pitcher of Lochness cost us NIS 66; the hot dogs were NIS 54 for each plate. There are great beer batter fried onion rings too.

Check out the Israeli TV interview with the Jem’s founders on their YouTube channel above.

There’s a map to Jem’s and hours of operation on their website. And oh yes, it’s kosher.

This article originally appeared on the Israelity blog.