Passion fruit, gender wise

A passion is like first love, undeniable and unexplainable. It is something whose mere mention lights up the eyes and ignites a wide smile. A child without a passion is emotionally unhealthy while an unhealthy adult needs to find one. Objects of passion can be largely gender driven, for whatever reason, in the sense that 950 out of a thousand people of that gender and 50 people of the opposite gender share it, more or less. Clearly, there are special items of passion, small in numbers of passionatos but great in terms of their intensively, like those who love restoring windmills (yes, such groups exist) and collectors of specific animal figurines.  At the same time, there are universal items that mainly light up either men or women.

For example, most women love desserts with cream.  Men do enjoy such desserts but they don’t go starry eyed. It appears that women get adrenalin rushes just from seeing them. Whether a mille feuilles or cheese cake, the more cream, whipped or not, the better. Big boned or petite, there is always room in the heart of a woman, not to mention her stomach, for a tasty creamy patisserie. It is unclear why a dainty slice of cake is irresistible but a no less creamy ice cream is not but the latter can be ignored while for the former must be worshipped, at least as far as I have observed. Call it hypnotic or whatever you like.

The male equivalent of love at first sight is the simple ball.  Even before there is peer or parental example or pressure, upon seeing a ball of any size, 98% of boys react by wanting to interact with it in some way, kicking, holding or hitting it to the best of their ability. Tellingly, this instinct never dies.  80-year-old men, encountering a stray ball rolling in their direction, immediately line by their body for a proper corner kick even if, alas, the body (and kick) are suffering from not a little rust. No matter, no male can ignore a ball even if the fact that he is wearing a suit and tie prevents him from acting on the urge. I can’t think of any evolutionary benefit to this instinct but not everything has to have a purpose, right?

In terms of transportation or fascination, shoes seem to have a hypnotic effect on women.  Regardless of the number of shoes they may or may not have, almost no woman can resist looking at the shoes displayed in a store window. Since I cannot read minds especially those of the opposite sex, I have no idea what exactly they are thinking as they examine the pairs.  However, it cannot be denied Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley and Johnny Debb together on their best days are no competition for a pair of leather boots. I imagine that there are women that are apathic to footwear, but I have not met any.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OT4jGJdAf6s

By contrast, men, especially American men, have had a long romance with cars. I don’t know how they reacted to their horses before automobiles were invented but I do know how most men (not me in this case) relate to their car: they anthropophyte it. Specifically, they select their vehicle with great care, comparing all relevant and irrelevant features. This is contrast with most women, who primarily care about its color, safety and gas efficiency. They maintain, clean and protect it religiously and are personally wounded if the love of their life is scratched at a parking lot. In secret, they look at advertisements and videos of coming models and dream of owning a Ferrari or Lamborghini. That such diamonds are far beyond their means does not reduce their pleasure as the mere thought of driving one is a high while an actual chance to drive one of those gods is better than sex. This love of cars, the more powerful the better (it takes a bit of effort to get excited by a Fiat Uno), could be just part of a power addiction but what difference does it make.

Please do not misunderstand me.  I am not mocking the human species. As I wrote above, it is far better to have a passion, no matter how ridiculous, than to lead a humdrum life without sparkle.  My personal passion, I confess, is Balkan dancing. The sound of a triti piti or kopenica make me forget any worry that I have. However, I also admit to enjoy playing tennis maybe because there is, yes, a ball involved and trying to sound more knowledgeable about cars than I really am because I am supposed to be. However, cakes and shoes are fine but no more than that. In any case, vive la passion.

The sound of silence

The volume of poems, songs, books and research on the subject of love is almost deafening.  From beginning to end, from the boundless extasy of falling in love to the seemingly bottomless pit of pain of breaking up, human beings are well prepared, at least theoretically, for anything that can happen in this process.

Unfortunately, there is one aspect of love that very few people mention but is becoming ever more common. Admittedly, it is hard to imagine and unpleasant to contemplate. Still, with life span increasing, it is something that many will experience. Specifically, I am referring to the challenge of loving people that, due to chronic pain, mental deterioration or medical problems, have changed so much that they have become completely different people. Kind, patient and generous partners turn into mean, impatient and self-centered individuals. Warm, loving homes turn into battlegrounds. Heaven turns into hell.

I have seen that various degrees of this transformation with friends and family. My father has not adjusted well to being handicapped and getting old as he approaches the age of 94. One of my friends told me how difficult it was to recognize the woman he married in his bed-ridden, grumpy wife. I do not judge these people because I cannot say how I will be if and when I reach that state.

Making that situation worse, there are no words of wisdom, magic formula, rosy outlooks or even lights at the end of the tunnel to this martyrdom. We are all left alone, trying to remember our loved one as they were once upon a time, a bit like looking an old smelly dog and remember the wild puppy of yesteryear. Memory and fortitude are the only tools in this truly final chapter of love.

In praise of the human species, the vast majority of people stand by their partners and take care of them despite their extreme emotional suffering. Caught unprepared in all ways for the challenge, they cope as best as they can in the same silence they previously encountered regarding this transformation. These people have my sympathy and admiration. As the French say, chapeau. As the Jews say, may you never know.

Les Misérables of the 21st century

Human life has always involved a certain degree of suffering.  There are even those who would claim it brings you closer to God. Clearly, it is certainly heart wrenching to see destitute people on the street or pictures of starving people in Africa. Yet, our level of actual commissary varies, depending on the circumstances.  Growing up in the United States whose underlying ethos is Protestant self-responsibility, there is always a feeling, not always justified, that alcoholics or drug addicts, not to mention people those with mental illnesses, can and should turn their lives around.  In other words, we share a mixed feeling of sympathy and distain.  By contrast, those individuals whose fate has been determined by factors outside their control elicit much more sympathy. It is easier to give a donation to causes helping hurricane victims and abused dogs.

I am fortunate and clearly appreciate that I work from home.  My getting to work involves five steps from bedroom, with only an occasional traffic jam caused by two cats running in front of me. The college where I work is a 10-minute drive or 20-minute walk away. However, for the vast majority of working Americans, Europeans and Asians, getting to work involves hours of travels and constant traffic jams. For example, in Los Angeles, a half hour drive is considered close with many commuters stuck on the road for almost two hours each way. Cities with good public transportation systems provide slightly more friendly environments but all cities and their peripheral road networks suffer from heavy traffic jams.

The costs of this long commute go beyond gas and wasted time. The drivers themselves suffer whether or not they are aware of it. People day in and day out get up knowing that, if everything goes right, they may only have an hour moving at a snail’s pace. Even worse, after a long day’s work, it takes great effort to maintain the patience and attention required to get home safely. All this stressful time in the car, even if slightly mitigated by music or good company, leaves people exhausted. Overtime, most commuters become numb, fortunately, but the stress remains with its accompanying fatigue. Just like a homeless that have lived many years in the street, commuters don’t know any other way of life.

Clearly, they did not create the situation nor do they have any significant ability to improve the situation. Still, as a non-commuter that occasionally has to join the crawling masses, I am moved to pity when I realize that people do this every day. Like Jean Valjean persecuted to the end of his life, working people in the West will suffer until they retire. It may be not at the level of the starving in Africa but they are still les Misérables of our time.

Base instinct

Reading Nien’s Cheng’s Life and Death in Shanghai, an account by a Chinese woman arrested during the Culture Revolution in the 1960’s, I am disturbingly reminded of an oppressive book I read as part of my Russian Studies program, namely Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago.  Curiously it is not the cruelty of the regimes depicted in this book that is so disturbing but instead their callousness. To paraphrase Hannah Arendt, while the Nazi regime wanted people, mainly non-Germans, to die, Stalin and Mao simply did not care if you died, whether you were of the same nationality or not.  Tens of millions of Russians and Chinese perished, with the exact toll impossible to determine. In any case, the numbers are numbing to the mind and ultimately impossible to comprehend.

Regardless of the political background of the individual killing waves, including collectivization, the Great Purge, the Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution, to name a few, one of the most puzzling aspects is the genuine public support or at least acceptance of these extreme measures. To a large degree, many of the citizens of these country had no problem as their fellow farmers, professionals and closest friends were cruelly punished for nothing. Clearly, in the pre-Internet years, most did not have access to any other information aside from the official channels. Also, by nature, many peasants and workers did not actively seek the “truth’ or think it was wise to do so. Yet, beyond the impact of behaving politically correct, I sense the cynical use of one of the basic instincts of human nature, envy.

Max Weber describes peasant thinking in terms of a zero-sum world. The term refers to the concept that everything, both material and spiritual, is limited in quantity and cannot be expanded.  Therefore, if someone receives more food or love, their extra is ultimately at my expense. In the context of Russia and China, both of which were very peasant before and during the revolution, a kulak, technically a rich peasant, had one more cow than you while a bourgeois had a slightly bigger house or a better job. Stalin and Mao exploited this natural joy in seeing someone get his/her comeuppance and were able to perpetrate the greatest massacres of their own populations that history has recorded. This mass murder was not committed with viciousness but instead, and maybe even worse, with apathy.

There is a Russian proverb recounting that a peasant, offered anything that he wanted on condition that his neighbor received twice of it, requested to have one of his eyes removed. If the horrors of the Russian and Chinese revolution as described in the books mentioned above were aberrations, I would be less disturbed. However, today’s politicians have more tools than ever to exploit the basest instincts of the public to their own good and no less inclination. That is what is so scary.

Ghost guest writer

Thanksgiving is a family holiday.  Each family has its unique transitions, whether special spins of tranditional food or quaint customs.  In my case, since my father was a journalist for many years of his life, he always brought up the following column by Art Buchwald, who wrote daily for the Washingon Post until his death in 2007. It was written in 1952 and reprinted every year when he was alive.  So, as a tribute to him, my father, good humor and fine writing, I present “Le Grand Thanksgiving” by Art Buchwald:

This confidential column was leaked to me by a high government official in the Plymouth colony on the condition that I not reveal his name.

One of our most important holidays is Thanksgiving Day, known in France as le Jour de Merci Donnant.

Le Jour de Merci Donnant was first started by a group of Pilgrims (Pèlerins) who fled from l'Angleterre before the McCarran Act to found a colony in the New World (le Nouveau Monde) where they could shoot Indians (les Peaux-Rouges) and eat turkey (dinde) to their hearts' content.

They landed at a place called Plymouth (now a famous voiture Américaine) in a wooden sailing ship called the Mayflower (or Fleur de Mai ) in 1620. But while the Pèlerins were killing the dindes, the Peaux-Rouges were killing the Pèlerins, and there were several hard winters ahead for both of them. The only way the Peaux-Rouges helped the Pelerins was when they taught them to grow corn (mais). The reason they did this was because they liked corn with their Pèlerins.

In 1623, after another harsh year, the Pèlerins' crops were so good that they decided to have a celebration and give thanks because more mais was raised by the Pèlerins than Pèlerins were killed by Peaux-Rouges.

Every year on the Jour de Merci Donnant, parents tell their children an amusing story about the first celebration.

It concerns a brave capitaine named Miles Standish (known in France as Kilometres Deboutish) and a young, shy lieutenant named Jean Alden. Both of them were in love with a flower of Plymouth called Priscilla Mullens (no translation). The vieux capitaine said to the jeune lieutenant :

"Go to the damsel Priscilla ( allez très vite chez Priscilla), the loveliest maiden of Plymouth ( la plus jolie demoiselle de Plymouth). Say that a blunt old captain, a man not of words but of action ( un vieux Fanfan la Tulipe ), offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in these words, you know, but this, in short, is my meaning.

"I am a maker of war ( je suis un fabricant de la guerre ) and not a maker of phrases. You, bred as a scholar ( vous, qui t'es pain comme un étudiant ), can say it in elegant language, such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, such as you think best adapted to win the heart of the maiden."

Although Jean was fit to be tied ( convenable très emballé ), friendship prevailed over love and he went to his duty. But instead of using elegant language, he blurted out his mission. Priscilla was muted with amazement and sorrow ( rendue muette par l'étonnement et la tristesse ).

At length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: "If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me?" ( Où est-il, le vieux Kilometres? Pourquoi ne vient-il pas auprès de moi pour tenter sa chance ?)

Jean said that Kilometres Deboutish was very busy and didn't have time for those things. He staggered on, telling what a wonderful husband Kilometres would make. Finally Priscilla arched her eyebrows and said in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, Jean?" ( Chacun a son gout. )

And so, on the fourth Thursday in November, American families sit down at a large table brimming with tasty dishes and, for the only time during the year, eat better than the French do.

No one can deny that le Jour de Merci Donnant is a grande fête and no matter how well fed American families are, they never forget to give thanks to Kilometres Deboutish, who made this great day possible.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/11/23/AR2005112302056.html 

Thank you, Mr. Buchwald.

P.S. Come back, we need your sense of humor more than ever.

The good old, old days

In Michael Crichton’s book Timeline, one character, Andrė, decides to remain in the past, specifically the year 1357, because he finds life then much more to his taste. Many readers probably identified with the longing for idyllic past with all of its simple charm and without any of modern life’s stresses. Alas, life in the pre-industrial age was not a bowl of cherries.  It may be that it was slower and less stressful but it involved much hard work and many limitations unimaginable today.

Let us discuss the basic needs for heating, cooking and light. Pre-electricity means wood or charcoal stoves, which often served all three functions. Someone, generally a lower-class woman, had to get up before dawn and get the fire going. Depending on the size of the house and its design, this limited heat did not necessary get to all of the rooms. Cooking and baking on a wood stove is an art that takes year to learn in terms of controlling the temperature. As for light, aside from the fire, people only had relatively expensive candles to extend their day.  To give a perspective, for the wedding of the daughter of the French King, Louis Phillippe (the Bourgeois) in the early 19^th century, the cost of lighting the ballroom was higher than the cost of the bride’s dress.

On the subject of clothes, pret-a-porter had not been invented, meaning you could not just go to the store and buy a pair of pants or a dress, not to mention underwear. Someone, a tailor or seamstress, had to make it specifically for you.  Each item was expensive, meaning that even the wealthy had very limited wardrobes.  As for cleaning it, without any washing machine, each item had to be taken to the river and cleaned by hand.  Talk about time-consuming and strenuous work.

The other great necessity, food, was also rather limited.  Food transportation was by wagon or boat only. Anybody distant from the few good roads or a body of water lived on what was locally available, which could lack variety and even quantity depending on the area and season. It is no surprise that most local peasant recipes involve maximum effort to attain the most benefit from any locally available food.

Of course, money solves most problems, even then. Unfortunately, money was also an issue.  The pre-industrial age was a time without bank credit, credit cards, checks or even paper money. Money was all about valuable metals and weight. Spain became rich because it plundered lots of millions of pounds in gold and silver, literally.  However, given the limitations of weight, transportation and raw materials, peripheral locations often lacked the money to conduct basic financial transactions. Those fur farmers in North America in the 17^th and 18^th century even traded in buck skins to complement the limited number of British, Dutch, French and Spanish coins they could get their hands on.

So, I personally am less excited about living the cold, dark, dirty and difficult life of 400 years ago. I am willing to put up with cell phone calls at inappropriate times, around-the-clock emails, bank account vigilance and even smog for the privilege of feeling warm, clean and fed and being capable of buying almost anything and going anywhere in this world. 2018 ain’t so bad, really.

Divinely great but confusing

A few days ago, as I was driving along the main road to Acco and passing a neighboring Arab village, I noticed a message painted on the exterior of a house in clear white English letters: God is great.  My initial reaction was not theological but linguistic.  In other words, I wondered which God the houseowner meant.

To explain, if the letters had been in Arabic and read Allah Akbar, I would have known the sign was referring to the Moslem God. Likewise, the sign saying Dieu est grand in France would be referring to the Catholic God although the same sign in Algeria would probably refer to Allah. However, back to our allah akbar, in Iraq, it is not clear whether the Shiite or Sunni master is the subject of the sign.

For that matter, a German Gott ist groß is no less ambivalent as Germany is historically a mixture of Protestant and Catholic provinces. By contrasts, in the American south, that sign in English would most probably refer to the Baptist or other Protestant diety. Likewise, in Spain or South America, Dios es grande is directed at the Catholic commander-in-chief.

The Hebrew version possesses another question.  While there is no dispute among Jews about the identity of the Chief Engineer (we focus our disputes on what exactly he wants us to do), the expression Elohim Gadol has two twists. For some, it imbibes the omnipotence of God.  However, the term is also used in slang to express a complete lack of control.  For example, if asked whether the contractor will finish the job on time, someone could answer Elohim gadol, the English equivalent being God knows.

So, upon seeing that sign, I responded in a typical Israel way: Yes, but.  That is I did not formally disagree but immediately complicated the issue.  Theology can be so confusing.

18 Karat Israeli

I have spent half my life in Israel. I married Israeli women. I raised my child in Israel. I no longer feel at home in the United States. I would never live in another country.  Still, I am not 100% Israeli nor will ever be.  I have to accept that fact.

My impurity goes beyond my accent or love of American football and baseball, remnants of my previous life. It is expressed in subtle things, experiences shared by most Israelis but not by me. It is too late to correct them either even if I so wanted.

First of all, I do not eat or like bamba, a fried peanut snack adored by Israelis of all religions. In my mind, it reeks of burnt peanuts but for people of my adopted homeland, brings back memories and causes their mouth to water. The closest American cultural equivalent is root beer, a non-exportable American product.

Likewise, winter in Israel is not snow but instead krembo, a sweet, fluffy marshmallow foam in a thin chocolate shell wrapped in aluminum foil. Traditionally, ice cream production stopped in September and was replaced by these krembo.  The debates on the proper technique for eating it are as elaborate as those regarding Oreo cookies. In my mind, it is a waste of calories but good luck persuading any Israeli of that.

In terms of coming of age, aside from getting sick drunk, a universal ceremony, there are two rites that almost all Israelis go through.  The first one occurs in 7th grade, when all school children are required to prepare their family tree, at least for a few generations back, and interview their grandparents, a one-time honor for many of the golden age. In the past, this search for the past could be a little difficult, even strange, as the Holocaust erased many of the people behind the names but that is less true today. I have to admit that I have very little idea of my distant roots nor am I, even today, that interested in it.  Still, Israeli children, albeit under coercion, know from whence they came, not a bad thing really.

The other rite is the famous bakkum even if not experienced by all Israelis for one reason or another. It is the sorting center of the Army where potential recruits go at the age of 18 after they finish high school.  From what I understand, they are poked inside and out, assessed and classified and then sent to prospective training bases or home, as applicable.  I was 28 years old, married and suffered from hypoglycemia. IDF was not sufficiently desperate for manpower to want me, as Uncle Sam would say. So, I never passed through that gate. In some ways, I do regret not having passed down that road as it would have an interesting experience.  On the other hand, as my first wife once said, I have no idea of how to probably make a bed.  Oh well, it is far too late to remedy.

Lastly, most Israelis have spent a day at the beach in Tiberias, a town located next to the Sea of Galilee, a name no less misleading than Greenland. To explain, it is a fresh water lake 166.7 km² (64.4 sq. mi) at its fullest, which was some 20 years ago at least, and located in a basin. In the summer, it is the largest natural sauna I have ever seen.  The beach itself is mainly sand, to give it credit, but neither very long nor deep. Any beauty the location has, mainly very early morning, is ruined by the mass pilgrimage of Israelis of all ages to its beaches on holidays, especially Independence Day.  Every square meter is occupied.  Imagine a Tokyo subway with barbeques. One man’s poison is another man’s meat. 

Don’t get me wrong. I love living in Israel but everything has a limit.  The search for purity does not justify being totally miserable. I am perfectly contented being 18 karat Israeli.

Musical normalcy

It is hard to unlearn a mistake.  Whether first learning how to play an instrument or having heard a song sung in a certain way, once it gets into your brain, the error become a norm and refuses to leave.  For example, those that first read National Lampoon’s Bored of the Rings will eternally think that Frito and Pepsi are the actual names of the lead characters. In my cases, I can recall the lyrics to several songs from youth but not exactly those that would be found in the Wikipedia entry.

 

For example, there is the famous Disney classic from the movie “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs”, whose lyrics are as follows:

Heigh ho, heigh ho, it’s off to school we go

With switchblade knives and forty fives, heigh, heigh ho

Heigh ho, heigh ho, it’s off to school we go

With handgranades and razor blades, heigh heigh, heigh ho.

It should be noted, in all fairness, the movie version does not describe the manner of their return at all. So, we merely added details.

See: https://youtu.be/HI0x0KYChq4

Regarding that same love of school, being forced to go to Hebrew school, some of us used to chant:

Why do we have to rush, rush, rush? why do we have to rush, rush, rush? Why do we have to rush, rush, rush, to go to Hebrew school.

I just asked my wife what the real words are:

Hava narisha, rash, rash, rash, repeat, vaharishim.

It is actually a Purim song, rather joyful: https://youtu.be/HNxMmJPBgtg

Another song that we (collective responsibility) massacred is the classic “David Melech Israel, chai , chai vekiam”, which came out as follows:

Coca Cola, ginger ale, hi fi, pizza pie

Slightly different, I admit, but sweeter in a certain way and much more modern.  The original (as sung by more innocent children):https://youtu.be/u4dvFDLRPro

Of course, popular songs did not escape our damage.  One of the most important influences of my youth, MAD magazine, thoughtfully provided the lyrics to a leading single of the time, Downtown by Petula Clark:

Here is just a sample:

When you're at home and life is getting so hungry,
There's a meat you know,
Ground round.

You're in a hurry, but there's no need to scurry
It will help to know
Ground round.

Just mix it with some mac and cheese and you will look so witty
Add some Campbell's beef stock and your eatin' really nifty 
"How can you lose?"

There is no way you can err.
Some of the recipes double, and go in the fridge, cook slow

Cook brown
All meals taste great for sure
Ground round.
Use any place that your
Ground's sound
Won't taste like leather of shoe

For the full Mad lyrics, see http://www.amiright.com/parody/60s/petulaclark8.shtml

And the original https://youtu.be/Zx06XNfDvk0, not bad in their own right.

Nobody was safe from our mischief. Even the Beatles had their famous submarine dirtied:

We all live in the yellow submarine.

It used to be green but we couldn’t keep it clean.

Actually, our version showed much more creativity than the original, which merely repeated the words “Yellow submarine” as you can hear yourself:

https://youtu.be/m2uTFF_3MaA

So, this small sample shows how normal is how normal was learned, for better or worse, the latter in the case of my piano playing.  I am sure everybody has a catalog of songs in the brains whose lyrics do not match the youtube version.  As they say, variety is the spice of life.

The importance of apprivoiser, Candidely late

That trite expression, youth is wasted on the young, has a grain of truth. For example, there are many supposedly children’s books that are only fully appreciated long after adolescence.

To demonstrate, as part of my Advanced Placement French program in high school, I read Saint-Exupéry’s famous The Little Prince in the original French. While I was somewhat aware of the existence of its more profound points, I concentrated on the charming story as have millions of readers.

However, recently I remembered a certain incident, more specifically a word, from the text, namely apprivoiser.  The dictionary translates the word as to domesticate, win over or tame, the latter appearing in the English translation. In the context of the story, the word is applied in regards to the friendship with the fox (chapter XXI), the value of friendship and its price.

Alas, I would strongly disagree with the translation of the word into “tame” both in terms of linguistics and emotional intelligence. The fox does not become compliant as a tame animal would. Instead, it is won over, like a cat, free to act but choosing to create a tie.  I would consider translating apprivoiser as “to make special” even it does not fit the literary style of the book because it better expresses the concept of the word.  Moreover, my divorce, subsequent second marriage and wild voyage with my daughter has taught me the importance, even essentialness, of apprivoiser.  To have a strong social structure, you must make the people important to you feel special by investing time in them. Like the fox said to the Little Prince, go back to your rose. All roses may be created equal but we can and should choose to make certain roses special, whether they are plants or people. The price may be occasional tears but you gain, as the fox says.

So, now, several decades later, I finally understood the morale stated in that chapter: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." Or as Voltaire wrote at the end of another deceivingly simple tale, Candide, “il faut cultiver son jardin” (let us cultivate our garden).

Valencia, plus or minus

My wife and I recently visited Spain, more specifically Valencia, for the first time, spending a total of a week in that city. The purpose was to attend a conference (see previous post) but we also played tourist. Seven days does not make you a connoisseur of a city but still creates clear impressions, however errant they may be.  So, I apologize in advance for any rushed judgments.

As the name of the city suggests, the oranges and orange juice were plentiful and good.  For that matter so were the coffee and beer, which I thoroughly enjoyed (but did not abuse). As for the Sangria, I am allergic to grapes and chose to avoid it but not because of its taste.  In terms of meat, there was lots of jamon (ham) and its cousins.  Of these porcine delicacies, I acquired a tasted for certain sausages (whose name escapes me but they are small and red) but found the bacon rather limp. We spent the whole time in the old city and ran into two phenomena, churches and smiles.  Our walking guide said that there were 24 churches in only the old city only, albeit with only a few actually regularly active. They do provide interest, both architecturally and historically, but that is a matter of taste. Actually, the most interesting site to visit in the old city is the covered market. It is clean, large and filled with tempting food, especially oysters, one of my favorite foods.  The oysters I sampled, twice, were among the largest I had ever eaten. In terms of atmosphere, the smile and good humor of the residents is contagious.  The Spanish way of rolling through life is a nice contrast after the tension of Israel.

Less is not always worse but sometimes detracts. For example, the level of knowledge of English outside the hotel was close to absolute zero.  For example, I had to ask a question at a bank and entered a branch of a major European bank.  There were at least 10 bankers, assumingly with college degrees, but only one could speak French while none could speak English.  I was rather surprised to see this level of monolinguism in a city of 1 million people.  Likewise, the desserts and pastries in particular were far from tempting and not worth taking seconds. I find this surprising given the high-quality raw materials that we saw at the central market. A bit spoiled by my French heritage, I also found local use of spices in food to be a bit minimal and unbalanced, aside from saffron, of course. Furthermore, the lack of light in the sky until 8:00 in the morning was almost uncomfortable but the Valencians are not to blame for that. On the other hand, I was impressed by train system in Spain.  We took the express train from Madrid to Valencia and sat in the quiet wagon.  The trip was indeed fast and quiet.  Speeds reached some 300 kph with almost complete silence in the cabin.  We took advantage of it on the way back to Madrid and enjoyed our siesta.

On the bright side, we didn’t see much of the three things and were quite happy to make do without them: sugar, salt and litter. Those sweets we did eat lacked the overbearing sugar content typical of American and many Israeli desserts. Likewise, people with high blood pressure can relax in Spain, apparently, as cooks don’t overdo the salt, at least where we ate. Finally, the Valencia I saw is a clean city, almost without the plastic bags, cigarette buds and sunflower seeds that are typical of many Mediterranean cities. You can  call it addition by subtraction.

All in all, we had a wonderful time, discovering an unknown world and fueling a desire to explore other regions in Spain. Writing this post, I thought of Alexander Dumas, who funded his writing by writing travel guides, including to Spain and Russia, funded by hosting governments of course. I paid my own way but enjoyed the never-ending process of unfolding the world and discovering alternative realities.  Hasta la vista, Spain.

Premature death notice – in translation

My wife and I just attended the IAPTI (International Association of Professional Translators and Interpreters) conference in Valencia, Spain. Some 200 translators and interpreters from five continents participated. A good time was had by all. While there was no formal theme to this conference, we learned (as we already knew) that the reported imminent disappearance of human translation is mistaken. On the contrary, translators and interpreters can look forward to a long, fruitful career.

The conference began appropriately by bridging the past and present. Emily Wilson explained her new translation of Homer’s Odyssey into English in terms of elucidating the many individual perspectives embedded in the narratives of that book, which had been often ignored by previous translation. In other words, her modern translation emphasizes the diversity of viewpoints. On a similar level, Sergio Viaggio make a strong argument for interpreting from the first language into the second language in handing testimony of witnesses in international crimes against humanity hearings by emphasizing the importance of strengthening the voice of the victims, even at the expense of the ease of understanding of the justices. This need to amplify the voice of the underprivileged, a modern concern, was present in many lectures, including in regards to women’s rights, the handicapped and IAPTI African initiative. These were only a few of the lectures and topics.

As for the future of the profession, it is clear that human translators will continue to exist, albeit with adjustment to the modern world. Clearly, machine translation, whether neural translation or Google translate, will take on an increasing role in both general and standardized texts. However, whenever complete understanding is necessary, professional translators have a clear role. As several lectures explained,  one role is to transcreate, transferring the message without using the exact and inappropriate words of the original. Moreover, as Ralf Lemster explained, translators have two main paths to success: attack the mass market applying the technical time-saving tips that Xose Castro succinctly and enthusiastically provided or specialize in narrow area applying the business savvy of Allesandra Vita.

In any case, we left Valencia with hope, direction and optimism and fueled by the content of the lectures, lecturers and participants. The challenge they consciously and unconsciously posed to the translators, that is to grow, observe, adapt and improve, is a bit daunting but actually quite achievable. If we do so, translation will be alive and kicking for a long time to come.

Going native

Natural and foreign are relative concepts.  A good example of that is my personal perception of foreign language use in Israel. I will explain.

Hebrew is official language and, more importantly, the language of daily use for almost 75% of the residents of Israel.  Thus, in contrast to pre-State Israel, speaking Hebrew is a natural act for most Israelis.

 Likewise, at the college where I teach, Muslim, Christian and Druze Arabs speak Arabic to each other as they would do naturally in their own villages and families.  That makes complete sense.

In my neighborhood, there are many Ethiopians. In the morning, I can hear from my office the older generation talking to each other in Amharit as they sit on the benches surrounding the playground.  Many barely know Hebrew. So, Amharit as a language belongs to Israel.

Likewise, in cafes and squares, older Hungarians and Romanians sit and discuss the world in their mother tongue as they have for some 50 years, at least.  As the song notes, this is a tradition.

French is also heard throughout Israel. Older immigrants from North Africa and recent ones from France are more comfortable using their mother tongue than their adopted tongue, something I can understand.

In ultra-religious neighborhoods throughout Israel, but mainly in Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, and Zefat, the street language is Yiddish because Hebrew is a holy language that should not be used on banal matters. While I would disagree politically, I have to respect a person’s choice to use a language.

All this brings us to English. Immigrants from numerous English-speaking countries have come to Israel, including myself.  Many came as families with English as the language of communication in the house. Not only that, there is no need to learn Hebrew as almost everybody can understand English. Yet, for some reason, I find the use of English in the street foreign and even offensive, however illogical that is.

The only reason I can find for this feeling is that I am imposing my ideology on my fellow Anglo-Saxons. Specifically, I came to Israel determined to be Israeli and use Hebrew in my personal life.  While I teach English in English, I have always spoken Hebrew with my family and friends. It is a matter of pride. I find it lazy and unacceptable for English speaking immigrants not to try to speak Hebrew. Of course, I don’t hold that standard to speakers of other languages.  That is another story, isn’t it? So, I concur with Bertrand Russel who said, “"Man is a rational animal — so at least I have been told.”

[Rendering of an ancient picture of the Tower of Babel from a 2500 year old, one of four such images from http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2080375/One-earliest-drawings-Tower-Babel-ancient-stone-tablet.html]

Childish name calling

All languages label important stages of human development. It is even more vital in a modern society where services and expectations are dependent on the age of the human being.  For example, people over 60 are called senior citizens so discounts, health services and funeral arrangements can be directed at them. The fact that a 60-year-old can be a full active member of the workforce, an invalid or world traveler is irrelevant to the label. However, the manner of this labeling does vary. For example, English treats stages of child development by their practical impact while Hebrew tends to be descriptive.

In English, babies become toddlers as they learn how to walk. In fact, the word toddle is a rather archaic word for unsteady walking. Then there is a rather unclear stage of several years between mobile independence and forced schooling referred as children or preschoolers. After this stage, they become school age children, a rather industrial description. Then, the fun begins, unless you are a parent of course.  The responsible child becomes a young adult, excuse me teenager or is that an adolescent? The first term is either hopeful or sarcastic although there are moments when 15 years old do behave like  adults. The second term is based on the teen suffix in the numbers between 13-18, giving hope that this too shall pass, sometime around the last “teen”, 19.  That last term is much clinical, coming the Latin term for growing up, which is technically correct even it does not always seem so.  As you can see, there is no much judgment in the terms themselves; the speakers need to add the correct tone of voice as in: listen to me, young lady (man)!

Hebrew has slightly more explicit terms. A  תינוק [tinok] becomes a פעות [paot] as it learns to walk, from the root meaning small, who then enters the  גיל הרך [gil harach], the period when children generally obey their parents. The last term is literally the soft age, implying the period of time when children must be protected. Then begins the fun. The word נער  [na’ar] means young and applies to someone in junior and senior high school. The parental term is טיפש עשרה [tipesh esre], which is based on the words for stupid and teen (as in the numbers 13-19). This word more accurately describes the behavior of the age group although, to be fair, I know quite a few senior citizens who are even more foolish. The word מתבגר [migbager] is the equivalent of adolescent.

As a word of disclaimer, my daughter is now 21 years old. Even she would admit that she often acted very foolishly during those years. Fortunately and unexplicably, we both survived the experience. So, happily, she can walk, does not need protection (as she has a rather scary dog, a bull terrier), is no longer is forced to attend school, sometimes acts like a lady and is noticeably growing up. She is now an adult, whatever that means.

*Picture by Toa Heftiba and not of my daughter