The Good Lord, having some time on His hands one day, and being in a particularly good mood, decided to have some fun. He would create a series of rivers and lakes that would allow the humans (who would sooner or later live in the area) to start out way up north, in what would become Canada, and travel inland from the Atlantic Ocean and then south and west, traveling all the way to the Gulf of Mexico by boat. However (however!), it shouldn’t be too easy. I know; I’ll put a waterfall in one place and some rapids in another. I’ll make sure that there are plenty of other obstacles as well. Let’s see how long it takes for the humans to figure out how to deal with all of them so they can travel the whole way without setting foot on dry land.
When the word got out that we were planning a visit to The States and that our first stop would be the Windy City, two of our friends, originally from those parts, got excited, very excited, maybe more excited than we were (well, than I was). Bryna Lee went so far as to notify some old friends of theirs that we would be in their neck of the woods and suggested that they invite us to spend Shabbat with them in W. Rogers Park. A series of emails followed between us and Sherwin, and we were duly invited.
What could they feed us; what could we bring them? I understand, Sherwin, that you are a coffee drinker. Shall I bring you some extraordinary coffee from my supplier? No thanks, I drink instant these days. How about some wine? My wife drinks wine; I’m OK with grape juice. I get the picture: a good guy with simple tastes.
The doctor knows best: Tina was cleared to end her COVID isolation and reenter the world at large – as long as she continued wearing a mask for the next two days. That was a sensible arrangement as far as we all were concerned. And so, Fri morning, Tina drove the family car – with Milo secured in his car seat in the back – into the alleyway behind the houses on the block between Goethe and Schiller Sts. (You can figure out the ethnicity of the original occupants.) Head back up N. Welles St. until the end, make the 45° left turn, go a respectable distance, and then pull into the parking garage across the street from where we need to be.
So Fred, how was your flight? Can we agree that the less there is to say on this matter, the better off things have been? We’re dealing here with the hoped-for absence of negatives, as in, no news is good news. No, our flight was not delayed for ten hours, making us camp out at the airport. No, we didn’t miss it altogether because of the long lines going through Security. No, the plane to Chicago was not re-routed to Newfoundland. No, our luggage was not misplaced, mishandled, nor misdirected. No, they did not forget our kosher meals. No, we did not suffer any ill effects from consuming said kosher meals.
We – and that includes Scottie, the Evangelical we had met at Ben-Gurion – arrived in one piece at O’Hare Airport at the crack of dawn after twelve hours in the sky. Barbara texted Tina that we had arrived, prompting a flurry of back-and-forth’s, the upshot being that, on our way out of the terminal, we espied a young woman holding a sign: CASDEN, Barbara.
It wasn’t as ‘certain’ as some other activities – dealing with mortality or money owed to the government come immediately to mind – but it was ‘inevitable’ that our family’s social director would begin considering and then planning a journey to The States. Granted, we should have been back last year, marking the brother’s and my milestone birthday – postponed by you-know-what – but I felt no sense of urgency in making up for lost time. There has been a meeting of the minds among people we know that now is not the best time to be hanging around airports, let alone going skyward to unnecessary destinations far away. But even if ‘now,’ were somehow better, who wants to sit in an airport for hours on end, waiting to board a plane; who wants to be squished into an airplane seat designed for tiny people; who wants to eat airline food? Granted, there are much worse scenarios to contemplate, but very few anyone would freely choose to undergo.
Let’s begin this episode (Part 2 of ‘We keep getting back on the bus’) with a quiz – ‘cuz why not? Here’s the question: In which of the following places here in The Land would one be likely to find an art museum?
Atop Har Halutz (where The Levines live)
At the northbound rest stop on route 6 (next to the Chabad trailer)
On the grounds of the historic Kibbutz Ein Harod
In the alleyway outside Power Coffeeworks on Agrippas St. in Jerusalem
Are you surprised that the correct answer is #3? Would you be more surprised that the Mishkan Museum of Art is the oldest art museum in Israel? Would you be even more surprised that the museum is a National Heritage Site and is considered one of the three top art museums in the country? OK then, how is it that I never heard of it before? That’s my question. For that one, I have no answer, but there you have it. That’s the reason for these Study Trips, so you might learn something amazing to share with invited guests around a Shabbat table.
There we were, being ushered into the museum, where we would be guided by Deborah Liss, the curator of their Judaica collection. She had arrived in Israel as a starry-eyed young person with a background in Art History and began working at the museum thirty years ago. (Thirty years ago?Did you study Art History in kindergarten?, I asked her. But then, at my advanced age, almost anyone under fifty looks like a recent high school graduate.)
No matter, there was work to be done. Standing in the main gallery, she first gave us a general introduction to the museum and its collection. (‘Standing’ doesn’t do her justice; perhaps ‘gliding,’ dancing,’ ‘moving to the rhythm of her speech’ would be more to the point.) The main exhibit on display when we were there (they do change their exhibits from time to time, plus they were in the process of reimagining, reconceptualizing how to use their space) was a potpourri of work by, shall we say, mostly not-as-well-known Israeli artists who are deserving of quality wall space to show their stuff.
Debora Liss
Then we headed to the curator’s pride and joy, the Judaica gallery. The museum administration had noted, over the years, a general lack of interest in their collection of Torah covers, parochets (the curtains that are hung in front of the arks where the scrolls are kept), and the other paraphernalia found in your standard shul. Of course, if you can see similar items on display in your standard shul…? (I’ll be waiting in the bookstore, Martha.)
Why not mix it up a bit; do a little compare-and-contrast; intersperse the tried and true with some more contemporary items in serious need of display time? Here’s a fellow who took some of his late father’s effects (shirt collars, ties) and made them into Torah covers. That’s different; I like it.
But what Ms. Liss wanted most to talk about was an old parochet that, if I were just walking by, I wouldn’t have given a second glance. It’s quite large – meaning it was made for a large aron kodesh in an impressive synagogue. But look what it says about itself. I was donated to the xxx synagogue in Wurtzberg, Germany in 18xx by so-and-so, the son of what’s-his-name and his wife, what’s-her-name. This large piece of red cloth was among the kazillion items stolen by the Nazis, some destroyed, some kept as a reminder of the chutzpah of the Master Race. Many of these ‘souvenirs’ were repatriated by the Allies in 1945 and distributed among Jewish organizations in Israel and the Exile, which is how this parochet came to Ein Harod.
I imagine that every art curator worthy of his/her name is also a detective of sorts. Given the information carefully provided in Hebrew letters, what more can we find out about the provenance of this parochet? It’s from Wurtzberg; if nothing else, they keep good records in that part of the world. Our fearless curator contacted a German source. You’re reading it wrong. It’s not so-and-so, the son of what’s-his-name and his wife, what’s-her-name. It’s so-and-so (the son of what’s-his-name) and so-and-so’s wife, Mrs.-so-and-so. That’s different! With that emendation, the Gentile lady in Germany was able to figure out who was the generous donor. Most likely, the donation was made in honor of the birth of a daughter, the so-and-so’s tenth child. As a bonus, the source was able to do a little genealogical research. There may be a very distant relative alive in Israel today. That’s quite a story, one I would not have heard if I were on my own, wandering on an afternoon through the museum. As I’ve said before, that’s the value of these trips.
We meet more women named Deborah along the way
When we walked into the Emunah Children’s Home in Afula, we were met by a Deborah and a Debbie, both officials of the organization, who welcomed us effusively. We were one of the first post-COVID groups to visit the facility. (I see they have set out a little spread for us, but didn’t we just have lunch?) However, it was Shlomie, the person in charge of the facility, who gave the main presentation. Whether or not he had planned to talk about the specific situation, it was definitely on his mind. Years before, a man had killed his wife, the mother of his eight children, all of whom were placed in various foster facilities, which is how the boy in question arrived at the Children’s Home. He stayed there for a number of years and was adjusting well; he had been selected for a pre-army program that would assure him a spot in a prestigious IDF unit. Then, just before graduation, he fell apart – who knows why – and started to act out big time. He had to leave the Home and go elsewhere. Everything was going wrong for him. Ten minutes before our group arrived, however, he showed up at Shlomie’s office. At least for the moment, the young man was back on track. Let’s hope.
What Shlomie emphasized – although he didn’t have too (at least for me, who spent twenty years working in Child Welfare in NYC) – was that the boys and girls who reside at this facility or are in their after-school programs are not just random kids off the streets. Every one of them has had something terrible, something tragic, something abusive, happen to them in their young lives and would need a lot of support and intervention to overcome their childhood disasters.
We would get to meet some of these young people. There would be both a baking and a woodworking workshop, and we could participate in either one. For most of the couples in our group, the guy left to go elsewhere for the woodworking session and the wife stayed where we were for the baking. But you know we’re not normal. I flunked woodworking in J.H.S., and it’s been all downhill ever since. I stayed put, hoping to get some photographs to share.
About a dozen girls, ranging in age from –I’m guessing – eight to fourteen came in and sat down on one side of a long table, with our women, all of whom are mothers and grandmothers, sitting facing them. Both sides pitched in and rolled the prepared dough into cookie-sized pieces, which were taken into the kitchen and baked. (Yum!) I have a few excellent shots that I’d love to share of the interaction between these young ladies and our somewhat older ones, but we were admonished: NO SOCIAL MEDIA, so I can’t. One thing you would notice right off the bat is that these girls – and the other boys and girls we encountered playing ball outside – don’t look like the victims they in a sense are, which I guess is the point of the program. Those of us who had gone out to watch the woodworking came back with souvenirs: little wooden boxes. That’s OK; we got cookies. I couldn’t help but remember my failed attempts in Mr. Dicristofaro’s shop class back at J.H.S. 80. That was almost seventy years go – but who’s counting.
Sami Sanchet, front and center
A few Study Trips ago, Sami Sanchet got the assignment to ferry our group around. Our travelers were so impressed with his driving and his helpfulness that they asked, insisted, demanded, that he be the regular driver on all future trips, which is what has happened. When he’s driving our group, he leaves his home in Kafr Manda, an Arab village in the Galil, at some insane hour in the morning, drives down to Jerusalem so we can board the bus and be on our way by 8 AM. He’s with us the entire time. When our four day excursion is over, he drives our group down to Jerusalem and then drives back to his home up north. That’s a lot of driving, but, as he told us, for him it’s easy.
Make of it what you will, but usually at breakfast and dinner at whatever hotel we’re staying at, the bus driver – whoever he might be – usually sits by himself, maybe with another driver, once in a while with the tour guide. This trip, Barbara, being the special person she is, invited him to join us for some of the meals. So we got to learn a little about his life.
For many years, he made a good living printing patterns onto fabrics. And then….. Remember my reference in Part 1 to the large we’ll-steal-whatever-you-come-up-with nation in the far-east. You guessed it; all the work in this industry headed their way, and Sami was out of a job. For most of us, driving a bus is not anything we would choose to do – especially driving the length and breadth of The Land for days on end. (For one thing, you’d need a better bladder than I have.) But, as Sami said, for him it’s easy.
On the last trip (#182), Sami suggested to the powers-that-be (a/k/a Jeff Rothenberg) that on the next visit to the Galil we visit his village. Now that’s different. Just about everywhere we go on these trips, there will be other busloads of people seeing the same thing – if not exactly when we’re there, then sooner or later. But who gets a guided tour of Kafr Manda? The offer was duly accepted, and off we went.
Kafr Manda, for those who are interested, has been part of Israel since the very beginning (think 1948), and its residents, from what I’m told, are reasonably satisfied with that arrangement. The person doing the telling was Mahmoud, a brother of our driver, and the principal of one of the middle schools in the village. Sami, after giving us a short ride around the town, pulled up his bus in front of the school. From my seat, I could see the Israeli flag fluttering on a pole atop the building. We were met by a few of the teachers, including the English teacher, a conservatively dressed Arab woman, who actually spoke decent English. (Unlike the Russian woman who taught The Levine’s son Ari in years gone by, whose English was as good as my Hebrew.) We were ushered inside into Mahmoud’s office and from there upstairs to a classroom – unfortunately empty. (We were supposed to meet some of the students, but there just wasn’t time for that.)
Mahmoud, who doesn’t have a background in education, was brought in several years ago to straighten out the school, and he evidently has done that. Eighty percent of the kids in his school pass their ‘Bagruts.’ The building looks in a lot better condition than the schools we go to in Ma’ale Adumim to vote. (Sadly, I can see another such visit coming shortly.) The principal told us that if there is something he needs from the Ministry of Education, he can pretty much get it. The funding arrangement has been changed; all the money for the school comes directly to him instead of to the village administration – so no sticky fingers get in the way.
When Mahmoud was done, it was time for questions. Actually, one of the questions came from the English teacher. Why did you come here? Well, Sami invited us and drove us to your doorstep, that’s why. But could we give a better answer than that? My wife accepted the challenge. She pointed out that we are surrounded by Arab villages, but we never get to go to any of them. (What she didn’t say was that there are big red signs with white letters telling one and all that it would be dangerous for Israeli citizens to set foot within.) Here was our opportunity to see how our neighbors live. Point well taken.
I had hoped to ask a question, but, again, there just wasn’t time. One woman we know teaches in a school in Ma’ale Adumim. She is constantly frustrated by the lack of discipline in her school. Every parent here ‘knows the mayor,’ and if there’s a problem with her little darling, the parent will threaten you. (There are often attempts to solicit people like moi, who are qualified to tutor English in local schools. Are you nuts???!!!! You couldn’t pay me enough to deal with Israeli teenagers. The best performing school in Israel year after year is in a Druze village somewhere up north. What’s their secret? They don’t take any b.s.; not from the students, not from the parents, so the kids learn. Simple.)
I was wondering how they deal with discipline in Mahmoud’s school and what kind of problems they face, but, again, there just wasn’t time to find out. Sami’s family was preparing a modest spread for us, which turned out to be enough for lunch. He had worked with Aliza to make certain that we could eat everything –no glitches, no embarrassment. We sat in the yard next to Sami’s house. (In typical Arab fashion, he and his wife occupy the first floor, with the second floor reserved for a son when he comes of age.) Were we in an Island of Sanity in a troubled world? Perhaps. If only good will were as contagious as stupidity; we’d all be better off.
Fatima, Sami’s wife, and other family members
Just as every other Study Trip we’ve been on, this one was coming to a close. We first bid farewell to Aliza, our tour guide. Her husband was meeting her along the way, and the two of them were heading down to The Gush for a wedding. As I mentioned, Sami would drop the group off in Jerusalem and head back up north to Kafr Manda. He thanked the group for coming to his village and for inviting him to join us in the dining room. I began to realize how much these gestures meant to him. He wasn’t just somebody driving a bus; he belonged. Isn’t that how all of us want to feel – that we’re not some random stranger, there to do a job and then goodbye? That we belong? That we’re Somebody? Food for thought.
There’s this old truism, what goes up must go down. You’ve heard it once or twice in your lifetime. As it applies to yours truly and the social director, having been on a tiyul to the Upper Galil, inevitably we would wind up getting back on the bus headed to the Lower Galil. And that’s what happened. We came back last week from another AACI study trip (#183, if you’re counting), similar in concept to the ones we’ve been on before, getting to places and meeting with people we would never be able to on our own. Led by our wonderful tour guide, Aliza Avshalom, we began our exploration of the region at kibbutz Magal, home of the Netafim drip irrigation systems.
Almost always, Nachum’s shiur (between mincha and maariv on Shabbat afternoon) is just that, an opportunity for him to present the material he has prepared, with only an occasional question or comment from the Peanut Gallery. The previous Shabbat – when the Torah portion read in The Land was Kedoshim – was different. It was the first Shabbat when we weren’t required to wear masks in shul, and the somewhat larger group in attendance was feeling somewhat frisky, perhaps thanks to our newfound ability to breathe. Plus, Nachum began his talk with a question, inviting us to put in our own two cents (although there’s no coin of the realm that small in Israel).
They’re having the party at Beit Boyer, which is on Efrata in Jerusalem. Do you happen to know where that is?
I replied, I know exactly where that is. We (Encore!) rehearsed there for the longest time until – I guess – they got tired of us using their space. I could find Beit Boyer in my sleep.
It does help, if you’re invited to something, to know where you’re going. And we were heading to a belated celebration of Batya’s getting married – well worth a trip out to the far reaches of Jerusalem.
I still have fond memories of the time, ages ago, when we visited the nature reserve at Hula Valley with June and Jeff. It was then peak season – at least for the cranes. There were thousands of the birds hanging around with a collective knowledge that a strange beast would show up out of nowhere and scatter food for them all around. We were there in the late afternoon, and when dusk came, one part of the flock would ascend in unison, flying to where they would spend the night. When one group was finished, then and only then would another group take off, until every single crane was snug and comfy for the evening – all without an F.A.A.-approved tracking system. Makes you wonder.
This was another place that would fit into the Yeah, we’ve been here before, but it’s worth another visit category. But now, when our bus pulled up to the entrance to the nature reserve, it was well past peak season. Most of the migratory birds were already on their way to their summer quarters in Eastern Europe, meaning they would be flying through the Ukraine – not the safest place to be these days, but old habits die hard.
Therefore, our experience was not the same. We had the blind (a moving set of bleachers that would take us through part of the preserve) all to ourselves, with an English-speaking guide to provide commentary. There was little to break the silence around us, so any sound or avian movement was magnified in importance. It was the undisturbed, everyday quiet of the evening, at least as profound in its way as the touristy Hula Valley we had experienced before.
Priorities
We did have one additional stop that day, and, to my mind, it was more about priorities than anything else. (Visit the Neot Art Studio & Gallery and Teva Naot factory store at Kibbutz Neot Mordechai.) We had about an hour to spend at the kibbutz, and we were each given a choice: either spend the entire time at the shoe store or half the time at the ‘art gallery’ and the rest at the store. For Barbara and me, option #2 was a no-brainer. I had purchased a new pair of sneakers months ago, so I was good-to-go as far as my feet were concerned. Barbara? Let’s just describe her as tabernaphobic, a fancy term I just made up, which means someone who hates shopping. (If it’s OK with you, we’ll just watch the shuffleboard tournament instead.) Let’s first check out the other place. Of course, it wasn’t an art gallery as is commonly understood. It was instead your typical crafts shop, full of hand-made items to use around the house, framed pictures, ‘antique’ clothing, and the like. I wound up buying two bars of soap at 24NIS apiece. (Gotta buy something…)
But we listened to the two women who ran the place describe their efforts to provide a venue for local artisans to display and sell their wares. Fair enough, and bully for them. The world can always use a few more tchakeles.
We had previously visited another Teva Naot outlet down in the Gush, so we knew what to expect: a store that combined full retail prices with a wholesale shopping experience: hundreds of shoes spread out on tables and racks for the avid shopper to search through, maybe finding something suitable, possibly in the right size. Many of our party chose to ogle the monochromatic display of footwear for the whole hour, but they were given a choice, and they chose. As I said, priorities.
Life on the border
And then there was the category, I have no idea what this one is about, but it might be interesting. The next morning, we were scheduled to ‘Hear about life in the shadow of Hezbollah from local resident, Eitan Oren, at Kibbutz Malkiya on the border with Lebanon.’ They weren’t just talking through their hat; the kibbutz is as close to the border as you’d ever want to be. And Eitan Oren definitely fits into the category of special people we would otherwise never get to meet. Here’s a guy who’s been around the kibbutz a few times, spending a lot of it with his eye focused on a mountain across the border where trouble, and nothing but trouble, (spelled H-E-Z-B-O-L-L-A-H) is afoot. For a long time, he was the head of the civilian patrol that works closely with the IDF, although these days he lets some of the younger guys with a little more speed and stamina take the lead. However, for P.R. and taking folks around, he’s the guy.
Like the communities near Gaza, the kibbutz is dotted with shelters. The whole bunch of us went down the stairs and huddled together in the underground shelter set aside for children right next to their school. The kibbutzniks have made a reasonable effort to fill the place with games and toys, but there’s only so much you can do to make an underground bunker seem cheerful.
In the short time before Eitan showed up to take our group around, most of us had drifted into the community store. Remember, it was right before Purim, and we were told that we would be meeting some soldiers, and maybe they would like some Purim nosh(?). That’s all the hint the group –most of whom were bubbies and zadies – needed. Like locusts – or maybe cranes – cleaning out the crops from a field, these super-Zionistic elders bought out every sugar-filled and salt-covered snack in the place, just in case the soldiers wouldn’t have enough to eat without our junk food. (I purchased a box of hamentaschen to add to the pile.)
If we were going to meet soldiers, it wouldn’t be in downtown Malkiya. We would have to go out to the nearby fields. One of the interesting factoids we learned on the trip was that a hefty percentage of the kiwis grown in The Land come from this kibbutz. That’s where we were headed next. Most of the fruit had been picked, but there was enough prudently left on the vines from pre-shmittah to hand out samples to visitors. Eitan reminded us several times to stick together as a group. This area is closely watched, not only by Hezbollah, but by our own troops – actually, a passel of young women staring at monitors around the clock, watching for any suspicious activity. Any one of us wandering off might produce a jeep or two full of soldiers coming to investigate.
A little too close to the border for comfort
A jeep did show up as we were standing with Eitan amidst the kiwi vines. The man who got out – past middle aged – was not a soldier, although he had been once, part of the South Lebanese Army that had fought alongside of the IDF in that bygone campaign. He is now living and working on our side of the border. Part of his family is here; one son is in The States, and it is only through that son that our man is able to communicate with daughters still in Lebanon. I have a fine photograph of him and Eitan, which I was going to include. Then I thought, is that a good idea, to show his face? To be on the safe side, I’ll show you one of Eitan peeling his kiwis.
Eitan peeling a kiwi
Awhile later, an IDF jeep showed up. Maybe they had sniffed out the goodies awaiting them, or maybe it was a routine patrol. We loaded enough junk food in the back of the jeep to keep them snacking for a long time. Eitan prudently withheld a small selection of treats just in case. We were supposed to meet with more IDF-ers, but it turned out they were on maneuvers or some such at the time. We left our remaining goodies with another jeep that passed by. I guess that’s part of their training: sniffing out parcels of food from well-meaning visitors. The food on the base isn’t always the best, or so I hear.
Now that we had come across a real live member of the South Lebanese Army, it was only fit and proper to head up to Metula and visit the Good Fence, and the new memorial – long overdue – to the Lebanese soldiers who were not as fortunate as the fellow we just met. While most of our group wandered around the memorial, a few of us more adventurous guys with actual cameras, began exploring the ghost city, the forlorn remains of what had once been the border compound. So much real-life drama had occurred here not that long ago, and now…. Well, see for yourself.
What is left of the border crossing
The Overlooked Slab
The final day of our tiyul took us back to Rosh Pina and the cobblestone streets of the artists colony. We were welcomed into the old synagogue, built by the Rothschilds – we’re talking about 140 years ago – that, in a way, typifies the community. When the original Zionist pioneers came to the area, it was winter, meaning rainy season. When they came back in the summer, bringing with them boats to traverse the lakes they assumed would be there, they realized their folly. They dismantled the boats and used the timber for the roof of the synagogue, painting clouds all over it. Like the rosh pinah of the psalms (the overlooked slab that became the cornerstone – I’m not sure of what), the synagogue suffered from its own neglect, as in no daveners, no minyans. Now there is a rabbi, the kind that makes you feel you belong there, which is not every guy with smichah. There is renovation and restoration throughout the building, and, most important, there are now regular minyans, which is only fit and proper for one of the original Zionist settlements in The Land.
Jacky Sivak and the rabbi
If you’ve ever walked on cobblestone pavement, you know that they are picturesque but hard to deal with when they’re wet. It had rained on and off that morning, so we carefully and gingerly walked up the hill to Nimrod Observation Point. We were supposed to meet with the builder of the site, Hezi Segav, the father of Nimrod, who, along with several young men under his command, was killed in battle during the Second Lebanon War. The senior Segev, however, was elsewhere, so we missed his talk. We walked around and looked at the signs, but it wasn’t the same without the explanation. (Which is exactly my point!) However, the view from the top looking down at the valley was quite impressive.
I didn’t even notice the wind chimes that graced the observation point. The only reason I finally realized they were there was because we spent part of the afternoon with Ofer, in whose studio, Pa’amonei Yerushalayim, (he started out in Jerusalem) these chimes were made. Wind chimes are not a big feature in the Casden household, Barbara taking after her mother, who once disabled the clatter from the offending device in a neighbor’s yard. Still, his explanation about the science of making a set of properly tuned chimes was fascinating. He claims that there is a meditative quality to the chimes, but the jury is still out on that one.
Nestled behind a gas station was the Woodsong Studio of Peter Isacowitz, who makes an assortment of musical instruments: harps, xylophones, and weird contraptions that must have names, but I don’t know what they are. Barbara had an idea, actually a good idea. We needed to get a gift for Liel, our step-grand-daughter. We were considering the usual: a book, a puzzle, or some such. How about a kalimba instead? I figured that she and her parents would either love it or hate it, but it’s worth a try. It is different, after all. She apparently did appreciate it. I hope they’re not just being polite.
Peter Isacowitz
From there, our bus headed south and east, making the same stops and winding up back in Jerusalem. And that was our trip. (Needless to say, our purchases from the Adir winery were properly stored in our luggage and made it home safely.) There’s another one scheduled in May, and we’re going –whether I like it or not. Of course, I will like it; I have strict instructions to that effect. (Remember: always listen to your wife!)
alittlebiteast 