More on Being in St. Petersburg

Bored in St. Petersburg; how blasé can one get?  Yet business travelers understand.  Sightseeing gets old; eating out becomes a chore, the unfamiliarity itself is soon a burden.  There are only so many museums and cathedrals that one cares to see.  Today was the Russian Museum, with several items I recognized from art history and Russian art in particular.  It was pleasing to see them “live” but only for the moment.  I long for my own bed, my own kitchen, the rest of my own clothes.  Troubles at home matter but don’t prevent me from being homesick.  Perhaps if the class were more lively, perhaps if I felt more positive feedback from the students, I’d be more energized about St. Petersburg.  But it isn’t so, and I must persevere.  I count the days, the number of classes remaining (two), the number of showers (ditto), the number of—well, anything that is part of the routine.  I am grateful for the university WiFi that services this hostel.  It failed for a few hours yesterday, reminding me that things could always be worse.  I would gladly have forgone a kitchen to have been put up in a real hotel, with not only Internet access but also cable-TV.  What little Russian television I perused on the set in the living room convinced me that TV was the same all over: news, kiddie shows, police shows and soap operas.  I could even have derived interest from CNN.

In this post-communist Russia, so much has been grafted on of Western consumerism that I wonder what is “West” and what is merely “human.”  Do we all gravitate towards discount prices and brightly colored advertising?  Is all this universal?  There’s also a lot of English word and Roman alphabet mixed in with Cyrillic letters.  How does that mesh in a Russian’s consciousness?  Is it just an exotic touch or is it considered snobbish?

I went to the synagogue yesterday, a long walk through nondescript, almost uniform streets.  The architecture here does not vary and the stores do not have plate glass or bright awnings.  They barely stand out from the facades of the buildings they occupy.  The result is to make the streets look blank and dreary.

The synagogue is large and well maintained.  Two nattily-dressed middle-aged women entered as I left.  The place was empty otherwise; not surprising, because no services mid-morning.  Traditional architecture, with the women’s gallery on top, domed, with small towers flanking the main sanctuary.  Gift shop and kosher café off to the side of the courtyard.  Private security guards at the gate, who gave only a cursory look at my fanny pack.  There’s a massive photo of the Wailing Wall wallpapering one of the sides of the courtyard.  I emptied my wallet of kleingeld into the pishke in the lobby. The Lubavitchers run the place with their usual thoroughness and attention to halakhah.  The Website sports a dating service along with times for services and events for the holidays—all of the holidays.  I was sorry not to have had a Friday free to attend services but I was not motivated enough to attend Saturday services.  My loss, as one might say.

Another CILS Teaching Stint - St. Petersburg

I had to see if I could duplicate the Riga experience, so I put in for another Senior Lawyer "professorship."  I was assigned to St. Petersburg, the Herzen Pedagogical University, Faculty of Law, for April 15-26, 2013.

My quarters are on Kazansky Street, in a student hostel, which is like a residency hotel on the Upper West Side.  In fact, the neighborhood is rather like the Upper West Side, with lots of little restaurants and cafes. Griboyedov Canal is a block away and parallels the main commercial street.   Kazan Cathedral marks the eastern end where Kazansy Street meets Nevsky Prospekt, St. Petersburg’s Fifth Avenue.  Can’t ask for a better location for this city, redolent of history and past glamour.

I have an entire apartment: bedroom, bath, sitting room, dining room, kitchen.  It faces the building courtyard.  Empty benches surround a pile of dirty snow along one half of the open space, a line of trees and hedges behind them.  The other half of the courtyard is bare concrete.  The walls are yellow-dun, lined with windows.  There are dezhurnayas on the floors to provide hot water for tea but the kitchen is equipped with a plug-in teapot.  A small convenience deli is right off the lobby and there are also small grocery stores nearby.  I stocked up on some easy food: cheese, salami, bread.

Jet lag is still a problem; I cannot wake before 10 a.m.  At 4:00 I met my contact, Marianna Muravyeva, for a brief tour of Herzen campus and help with class preparation.  The campus is a little world within the city, a series of courtyards surrounded by dun-yellow and sea-green 19-century buildings.  It was initially an orphanage, then a teacher-training school, now a university.  No special fame, except age (230 years or so).  I tagged after Marianna through halls with parquet floors overlaid with fading red runners, making appreciative noises at paintings of tsars and former rectors (the tsar paintings were hidden during the Soviet era).  I learned where the law department was, learned how to get the room and equipment keys from the dezhurnaya, and where the civil law faculty room was.

Marianna helped set up the equipment in the room and introduced me to the class.  I have 16 students, 12 of whom are women.  They seem friendly and respectful.  The first presentation was just a get-acquainted one, mostly about New Jersey and me.  It lasted all of ½ hour of a class that is scheduled for an hour and a half.  My confidence sunk as I frantically wondered how to fill the time.  I gave them a 15-minute break, and then told them to spend 10 minutes reading the hypothetical cases in class.  I then asked them one by one to describe their aims in the legal field.  That got some conversation going on land use law, civil rights law and mediation.  When I dismissed the class, about 10 minutes early, one student approached to continue the discussion on land use law.  I enjoyed describing planning board politics and prerogative writ cases and was gratified to hear him say it was interesting.

Dinner was at a US-style hamburger place on the Griboyedov embankment, offering a score or more of hamburger variations (including the “Brooklyn”) and decorated with videos of early ‘60s US rock ‘n’ rollers for atmosphere.  The hamburger wasn’t all that bad.  St. Petersburg’s past seems so unreal, the communist world like something from fiction.  Yet as I sit in my apartment, I wonder whether the hall outside once rang with the tramp of KGB footsteps in the ‘30s, whether late-night knocks on the doors and police cars were a feature of life in this shabby building.

On Reflection

On our last night in Jerusalem, my cousin Tammy took us to Talpiot, to the grounds of Government House Hill, former HQ of the British High Commissioner, now HQ of UNTSO.  It’s a handsome park, overlooking Jerusalem from the southeast, about 3 miles away.  The sky was cloudy, a soft haze diluting the light: Jerusalem of silver, not Jerusalem of gold.  Along the walkway, there are places to stop and look out over the hills.  A plaque on an overlook had been scratched out, the labels for various landmarks defaced and “Al Quds” and “Palestine” scrawled over the top.  The muezzin calls swelled and faded down the hillside of Silwan.  We were in mixed territory, Arab villages interspersed with Jewish.  We saw the security wall snaking along ridges far in the distance, practically blending with the dun-colored buildings.  A boy raced a grey Arab down and back on a short trail below us, his two pals watching.  We rounded Government House, noting the white vehicles in the lot with large “UN” lettered in black and the security fence surrounding the compound.  An Arab family was finishing their picnic grill outside.  We walked up to the Tolerance Monument, off Goldman Promenade and peered down at the city.  The Dome of the Rock paled into the hazy blue-gray background as the street lights came to life.  A young boy waved and said “hello” and we said “hello” back.

It was a treat to see Israel through the eyes of a non-Jew.  It was like tasting a new “flavor” of spirituality; it was like a rounding-out of the historical and religious experience of the land, of the sights and most of all, of Jerusalem.  The experience was mutual; Kevin grasped the sense of being at the Wall, as he described it.  Whether from the ostensible nearness to the shekhinah (God’s “presence”), which is supposed to emanate from where the Holy of Holies is, or whether it was from the fervor of the worshipers there, it was the same experience that I had at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.  If only all people, of all faiths, would understand that faith is merely a search for the divine, not its capture, we might be able to avoid religious strife.  If only.

On Spirituality in Jerusalem

“I love this city,” said Kevin, gazing on the Jaffa Gate as we approached it Monday morning.  “Not surprising," I replied, “This is the city of God.”

A Christian pilgrim’s first stop is the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.  My previous visits there were cursory.  This time, I went with someone to whom it mattered and I paid attention.  I was immediately and intensely moved as we entered, not by the Stone of Unction just inside the doorway but by the fervor of the pilgrims who draped themselves over it, kneeling, kissing, rubbing the flat stone, sprawling in prayer.  “Now you get it,” said Kevin, “it’s the search for God.”  “I’ve always known that,” I replied.  “The point of observing 613 commandments is not to get the observance ‘right’ but to keep God in mind as we go about our daily lives.”  That having been established, we continued into the church.  My burst of emotion faded as I watched pilgrims jostling to get their photos taken touching the rock of Golgotha and kneeling in the niche said to have been Jesus’ tomb.  Kevin explained that the rock in which the niche was located had been cut down so that a shrine could be placed over it.  The church was subsequently built over the shrine.  Over the centuries, the shrine was rebuilt in different styles.  Its structural integrity has been compromised by earthquakes, and it is supported by steel scaffolding.  But it can’t be rebuilt or remodeled because the different denominations controlling the various parts of the church can’t agree.  Yes, I remember reading about this in Simon Sebag Montefiore’s book Jerusalem, The Biography, I thought.  We have our “who controls the Wall?” and they have the free-for-all over the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.  Funny, the ways in which religions are similar.

From the church we went directly to the Western Wall for a kind of religious balance.  The women’s section of the wall was crowded, people were standing three and four deep, reaching over the women sitting down and praying so they could touch the stones and stuff wish-notes into the cracks.  I was barely able to stick my little piece of paper in, which I had decided to do at the last minute.  After saying shehekhayanu, I turned my back too early to walk away – one is supposed to back away from the Wall, the closest physical spot on earth to God’s presence according to Jewish tradition.  I quickly corrected and hoped God wasn’t too exasperated.

We next stood in line to run the gauntlet of security men and machines to walk up the ramp to the Temple Mount.  Muslims enter freely at the north side from the streets of the Muslim Quarter.  That entrance is also an exit for the non-Muslim tourists, who must enter only through the ramp, which is located in the plaza at the Western Wall.  Perhaps someday archeologists will ponder the remains of this ramp as they now ponder the remains of Robinson's Arch and Barclay's Arch, two ancient access ramps to the Temple during Herod's era.

The Temple Mount is essentially a vast plaza, a paved-over park.  The Dome of the Rock is one-third of the way from the north end and the Al Aksa Mosque is up against the southern end.  There is a large fountain in the middle for the hand- and foot-washing required before prayer in the mosque.  There are small groves of trees and benches off toward the eastern end; a couple sat amicably under a tree.  The north side of the Mount, behind the Dome of the Rock is entirely paved over.  There weren't many people around.  Two separate groups of men sat under trees by the central fountain, listening to what appeared to be lectures.  A few women and children strolled into Al Aksa.  Capitals and drums of Roman-era columns were displayed next to the mosque.  Non-believers are no longer permitted to enter the Dome of the Rock, we were told; they were never allowed into Al Aksa. The area seemed empty of feeling as well as of people, despite--or perhaps because of--the passion it generates.  Perhaps it's something like the eye of the storm, a deceptive calm, the stasis of a place that could lose its balance and hurtle wildly out of control.  One misstep, one forbidden act of worship (all non-Islamic prayer is banned on the Temple Mount), could cause an eruption in this vast plaza that would reverberate around the world.

Returning to the street, our next stop was “David’s City,” the excavations south of the Wall, which are introduced by a walk through the Davidson Center, a touristy exhibition of Temple history.  Seeing old tumble-down stones got “old” before long but I made it through, tired as I was from the previous hours of walking.  Along the southern retaining wall of the Temple Mount are portions of the original stairs that led up into the Court of the Gentiles, the largest of the three courts of the Herodian structure.  Other notable finds are traces of the arches supporting Robinson’s arch and shops cut into one of the piers of that arch, inscriptions on some of the giant Herodian-era stones and a gigantic pile of tumbled multi-ton stones, lying where they’d been hurled 1,942 years ago by the Romans when they destroyed the Temple.  Underneath those giant ashlars, the paving stones are buckled.  That made it real.

After four visits over the years, I have had my fill of the mundane aspects of the Old City.  The main streets of the Christian and Muslim quarters are a gauntlet of trinket shops, all selling items I could easily live without.  The vendors buzzed around like mosquitoes: “Hello, lady, how are you today, would you like to come into my shop, where are you from, would you like to see some nice …?”  I smiled, shook my head and kept walking.  Kevin finally had enough.  “I wouldn’t buy water from them even if I was on fire.”  We concentrated on modern Jerusalem that evening.  Mamilla is a mall surrounded by a luxury high-rise apartment complex.  It’s Jerusalem’s stab at elegance and is a very pleasant place – a couple of good restaurants -- but I doubt that Jerusalem can ever develop a functioning secular economy.

On Tuesday, our first mission was walking the battlements of the Old City wall from the Jaffa Gate to the Zion Gate.  I had walked them in the opposite direction, from the Jaffa Gate to Herod’s Gate, six years ago, alone and blithely confident.  This time, I sidestepped up and down the steep steps along the towers, legs wobbling, clutching the railings like a little old lady, utterly terrified that my hat would blow away, that my overshirt, draped over my shoulder, would blow away, that I would slip on the ancient stones and lie with one foot dangling over the precipice under the iron safety balustrade.  What happened to my confidence?  I who hiked along the Palisades with nothing between me and oblivion over the Hudson River, on a path that was just as wide as the rampart path, with no guardrail.  Perhaps it was the comfort of being in nature—or maybe just wearing hiking boots. My walking shoes, while comfortable, tended to slip on the Jerusalem stones.

Muezzin calls echoed each other down the Hinnon Valley as we peered through the parapets, imagining crusaders and Turks and bandits and who knows what else.  The muezzin calls were not as melodious as church bells, but I appreciated them nonetheless, for the idea is the same.  Below us, the Armenian Quarter gave way to the Jewish Quarter.  We gradually lost altitude, which was comforting.  Exiting the Zion Gate, we took a taxi to the Mount of Olives.  Kevin specifically asked the driver for the Church of All Nations, quite easy to spot by its multiple gold, onion-shaped domes.  After shaking free of the traffic tangle in front of the Zion Gate, which is the closest entrance to the Western Wall, we headed up a winding, steep road wide enough for one car only and enclosed by high stone walls on either side.  The driver kept his hand on the horn all the way, to warn other cars as well as pedestrians.

He deposited us in front of a green door set in the wall, asking if we wanted to go farther.  He told us the church was closed and sure enough the sign said open until 11:45 a.m. then closed until 2:30 p.m.  Kevin tried the door and was about to turn back when it was opened by a caretaker, no doubt alerted by our noise.  We were told that this was not the Church of All Nations but the Church of Dominus Flevit - the Church of Jesus Weeping. Kevin quickly dismissed the cabbie, who was all for taking us back down the hill for an extra fare, of course.

The caretaker invited us in and said we could wait on the property for the church to open.  Since every other church on the Mount of Olives was closed for lunch, it made sense to accept his generosity.  The church is about 2/3s of the way up the mountain and its garden provided a spectacular panorama of the Old City, including Mount Zion across the valley and the Jewish cemeteries next door to the church.  I rested my feet while Kevin and I discussed the nature of religious belief and its parallel, political ideology.

When the caretaker returned to inform us that the church was open, we entered and found a small jewel.  Completed in 1955, the church is named for a passage in the Gospels where Jesus contemplates Jerusalem and weeps over the fate he foresees for it.  The church has a teardrop-shaped dome.  The floors have fragments of first-century mosaics.  It’s a small church, could seat maybe 50.  The caretaker said the church has excellent acoustics and invited us to try.  I had that typical brain freeze when one is asked to sing a song, any song.  I rapidly inventoried my repertoire, looking for something appropriate in Latin.  Carmina Burana or Gaudeamus Igitur were the only things that immediately came to mind and they were obviously not going to be suitable.  Then I thought of the Hallelujah Chorus and began to sing.  My voice grew stronger and I more confident on the “For the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth.”  Maybe it was the church; maybe it was just my voice getting exercise.  It seemed like the right sort of song to sing even though it is associated with the Church of England, while Dominus Flevit is Catholic.  The echo effect was unusual, perceptible but not detracting from the sound.

We went back downhill, past the Jewish cemetery. I explained that many pious Jews want to be buried in Jerusalem to get front-row seats at the return of the Messiah.  We never found the entrance to the Church of All Nations, but Kevin wasn’t looking for it anyway; he was looking for the Garden of Gethsemane.  It’s down near the bottom of the Mount of Olives.  The garden is small, neatly kept, divided into four quarters by graveled paths.  Olive trees have been planted by pilgrims since the 17^th century and their gnarled trunks are surrounded by flowering bushes.  Kevin went into the church.  I hung back but ultimately entered briefly, to see if it had the same spiritual “presence” that I felt in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.  It did.

We walked back to the Old City, entering through the Lion’s Gate.  There, the Bethesda pool and Church of St. Anne was our first stop.  I stayed in the churchyard while Kevin walked through the ruins of the Byzantine-era church built over the pools where Jesus healed the sick.  I’d had enough of spiritual tourism, but Kevin waved me into the Church of St. Anne, restored in the 19^th century on the ruins of the 12^th century Crusader church that Saladin had turned into a school of Koranic law.  He said there was singing and indeed, a Filipino chorus was engaging in a spontaneous sing-in.  They sang “Amazing Grace,” which did indeed sound quite nice in the medieval setting, like an organ, swelling against the vaulted walls.  A photographer took a group photo when they were finished and they were then scurried away by their tour guide to a waiting bus.

We continued walking through the Muslim Quarter down the Via Dolorosa, which begins at the Lion’s Gate, following the discs on building walls that denote Stations of the Cross and being badgered by souvenir sellers and would-be guides.  I was agonizing over an as-yet un-bought, un-selected gift for a friend, trying to avoid the kitsch, yet getting desperate for something suitable.  One shop we passed had just the right item; I knew it was right when I saw it.  Perhaps there really is “something” in Jerusalem after all.

On Going to Jerusalem

Going to Jerusalem should not be easy.  One should not be able to just “pop into” the holy city.  One’s arrival in Jerusalem should be the result of difficulties overcome and dangers averted, the kind of trip that turns the traveler into a weary, thankful pilgrim.

That was why our car was covered in bird poop Sunday morning when we emerged from the hotel in Tiberias.  We had parked it at the only available spot near our hotel when we returned from our Kfar Kama/Nazareth odyssey.  Since it was Shabbos, no one had moved their cars and we felt lucky to get the space.  But it was under the pedestrian crosswalk from the hotel to the swimming pool and the local birds make it their motel.  I was reminded of Mel Brooks’s parody of Hitchcock, High Anxiety.  We searched in vain for a car wash despite the directions we were given and wound up cleaning the car ourselves at a nearby gas station, using the squeegee and plenty of paper toweling.

In a streaked and encrusted car, we left Tiberias looking for Jordan River water to bring home to a couple of friends.  We first tried Degania Bet, one of the oldest kibbutzim in Israel and built near where the river flows out of Lake Tiberias.  The receptionist at the guest house directed us to Kibbutz Kinneret, a short way back north along the lake.  The kibbutz has built (or someone has) a tidy, well-organized access area, with multiple ramps for pilgrims to step into the water.  A biblical verse referring to John's baptism of Jesus, translated into many languages (some quite esoteric), was written on tiles inlaid in the limestone walls.  Yes, there was a gift shop, but one could easily ignore it.  When I got my first look at the narrow river, bright green between low-hanging trees, I was moved in a way; I did experience a spiritual moment.  I then realized that for me, spirituality is more connected with natural surroundings than with, say, the venerable streets of Sfat.  A couple of bold muskrats crawled right up the steps that led into the water and stared at us, hoping for treats.  Two very large catfish swam near the steps, among many smaller fish, minnows maybe among the others.  A turtle swam by.  A kingfisher swooped back and forth along the farther bank.  A pigeon and a dove fought over space in the rafters.  I filled my two bottles and watched a group preparing for total immersion.  One man alone, somewhat off from the group, was sunk in the water up to his neck, just contemplating.  I thought of spirituality, how it originates, whether it is intrinsic to the place or whether the place becomes important by chance and the successive generations of people who venerate the place pour their spirituality into it, leading to a feedback effect.

Thus inspired, we resumed our trip.  But Jordan River water was not enough to ward off the challenges of traveling to Jerusalem.  On highway 65, I gradually became aware of a strange noise from the car.  It didn’t fade, even when the road surface changed, and I finally pulled over.  Our right front tire was shredded.  Oh great, tires aren’t included in our insurance, I thought.  And here we are on a busy main road, on the shoulder, trying to change a flat, with cars and trucks whizzing by…just what we’ll need, a careless driver to smash into us and we with no flares….  Such were my cheerful thoughts as Kevin jacked up the car and changed the tire. And we had run out of Handi-wipes, so we made ourselves as clean as we could with Kleenex and spit.

I re-took the wheel gloomily, wondering what next.  Every whine of the road sounded to me like another tire blowing.  I suddenly became aware of the “idiot light” glowing – now what?  Again, I pulled over to the side; Kevin checked the oil (after puzzling out how to open the hood).  No, the oil was fine.  That’s a relief, but let’s get to the next gas station, he said, there are a couple of other things I can check out—this car’s a Ford Escort; I have some familiarity with it.  We pulled off the highway to a hotel with gas station attached and parked in front—and at that moment I realized the emergency brake had been on while I was driving and that was the reason for the warning indicator.  We didn’t say anything to each other; words would have been futile.  We just exchanged sickly grins and headed back out onto the highway.

Still worrying about car trouble, I drove west, then south, then east, skirting the West Bank to get to Jerusalem.  My cousin had reminded me that morning that today was Jerusalem Day, when Jews celebrate the re-unification of the city; she said traffic would probably be heavy.  We decided not to try any detours; we’d had enough trouble already, so we stayed on the main highway all the way to the city.  Fortunately, we did not hit any serious problems.  In fact, the only real delay was way back at Afula, where construction reduced the road to one lane and we crawled agonizingly slowly.

Highway no. 1 to Jerusalem climbs through hills full of pines, planted by the Jewish National Fund as a reclamation project since the beginning of the century and subsidized in part by little Jewish kids like me selling coupons for 10 cents a piece in the ‘60s.  If Nazareth is spread out over three hills, Jerusalem seems to be spread out over a handful.  Arab villages cluster at the bottom of the mountains.  Apartments and other buildings spill over every hillside.  I said the prayer of thanksgiving, the shehechayanu, as we entered the city on the ring road curving north.  And a prayer for not getting lost or having any more car trouble as we negotiated the maze of streets near the Old City.

We could not wait to turn in our accursed car, but one last task remained: to find a gas station.  Our contract required us to return the car with a full tank, and what with the excitement of the flat and emergency brake and trying to thread our way through the streets of Jerusalem, we forgot to look for gas.  Well, we found it: right across the street from the rental agency.  No fool, that gas station owner.  We handed over the car and with great relief schlepped our suitcases to the hotel a couple of blocks away.

We passed through the thick of Jerusalem Day partying.  Our hotel was on King George Street, a major thoroughfare that was blocked off to traffic.  A band was playing.  Around the corner, at Independence Park, another band was playing.  Young men, virtually all Orthodox, were dancing horas.  Everywhere kids carried flags.  At 6:30, the parade began.  We watched from our window as the line moved from King George to King David Streets.  The Old City and the King David Hotel were a far backdrop; the gold of the Dome of the Rock barely visible.  I looked over the roofs of the city out to the Mount of Olives, over to Mount Zion, hard to distinguish from the buildings covering it.  I saw the far, bare hills to the north and east.  The parade continued below my window along G. Agron Street connecting King George with King David Street.  After almost 2,000 years, I thought, Jerusalem is back with whom it belongs; politics be damned.

On Being Off the Beaten Track in Israel

On Shabbat, when most of Israel takes the day off one way or another, it seemed only logical to head off to Christian sights.

On our way to Nazareth, we stopped first in Kfar Kama, the Circassian town.  It was eerily quiet and spotlessly clean.  Blundering our way without signs, we parked the car and walked aimlessly.  Very few people were out on the streets, most of them at the local grocery store.  In a combination of Hebrew and English, and after asking 3 or 4 different people, we found the cultural center.  It’s fairly new, built only 5 years ago, the young man who took us around said.  It has 3 rooms showing costumes and implements of traditional Circassian life.  We were the only Western tourists.  There was a party of Arab women behind us but I don’t know where they were taken; to the mosque, perhaps.  We had our own private PowerPoint screening of a short history of the Circassian ethnic group.  Originating in the Caucasus, their traditional homeland is bordered by the Black Sea, Georgia and Russia.  Like the Jews, they have 12 tribes.  Also like the Jews, the majority of them don’t live in their homeland.  The Russian tsar declared war on them in the 17^th century, even though the Circassians had adopted Orthodox Christianity.  Forced to flee, they turned south to the Ottoman Empire, which offered them asylum if they adopted Islam.  “Religion doesn’t mean much to us,” explained our guide, and there was no reason for them to feel any loyalty to Russian Orthodoxy given the treatment they received.  He said the Circassians had even approached the Caucasian Jewish community about conversion but the Jews told them they did not encourage converts.  (Too bad, I thought, they’d have made pretty handy converts, given their fighting tradition.)  They migrated south to Turkey, Syria, Iran, Iraq, Jordan and a small group to Palestine in the mid-19^th century.

World Circassian population is 3 million, with a plurality (about 1 million) in Turkey.  About 50,000 live in the US.  I told him we were from New Jersey, where there is a sizable Circassian community, and he said his wife’s brother and his family live in Wayne.  The Circassion warriors, shown in the PowerPoint presentation, look very impressive in their coat-like caftans and turbans.  They always carry a cutlass and a dagger as well as a rifle.  Their dances are fascinating combining foot-stamping, arm and hand motions and high kicks, primarily by the men.

After the presentation, our guide (I never got his name) led us through the display rooms.  He spent rather more time than I needed describing traditional Circassian infant care and toilet-training techniques, which involve swaddling, nursing one hour then sleeping five, shunning diapers for cutting a hole in the kid’s cradle for the waste and sending boys off at age 7 to live with foster families, not returning until he's 18.  This is to instill responsibility and a dose of reality.  The mother stitches the boy’s adult garment while he’s away, a long kaftan combined with a cloak.  The children are all supposed to have very thin waists, so they are corseted at a young age.  The girls also wear long caftans but are not corseted quite as tightly as the boys.  Our guide, while quite presentable, showed no signs of having been corseted.

Continuing his spiel, he said men and women had equal status in Circassian society.  He said children are never allowed to criticize each other on the basis of gender.  Young women choose their mates independently; at a gathering or when there is communal dancing, a girl will indicate her interest in one young man.  They then see each other secretly for several years; they won’t tell their parents or acknowledge each other in public.  But when they feel—or, rather, she feels—ready, she will tell her parents.  The two sets of parents will then meet and plan the wedding.  Alternatively, if the girl’s parents object, the couple can plan an elopement if the girl decides to marry despite her parents’ disapproval.  The young man rides up to her house on a pre-arranged night; she slips out to meet him; he throws her over the pommel of his saddle and fires one shot. They then ride off.  Then a wedding is performed (those details were somewhat dim), with only her brothers in attendance.  The couple comes back to her parents’ home and he fires three shots to announce the marriage.  Circassian men’s caftans have cartridge pockets where other men’s suits have breast pockets.  And oh yes, they are expert horsemen.  I briefly discussed horses with our docent, who much prefers the Circassian breed to the Arab.

Circassian warriors eat squatting, with one hand always on their sword pommels.  (Presumably, this is only when they're on patrol.)  They squat down before a small circular table set on the ground, arranged so that they can never be taken by surprise at a meal.  Our guide said that if any Circassian man ever met his death at dinner, his companions would not bury him.  They would leave his body to rot as a lesson for his carelessness.  He added that Circassians do not approve of public appearances and that was why we didn’t see people on the streets.  All entertainment and socializing takes place in the home, he said, adding that they are also strict about keeping their environment tidy.  The village, population 4,000, appears not only well-tended but comfortable, even affluent.  The Circassian language, he said, was unrelated to any other and when he spoke a few words it was easy to accept that this was a unique language.  A lot of sibilant "shhhs" start many words and there is almost a tonal quality to some of it.

The village mosque is built of bands of alternating black basalt and white limestone and looks quite striking.  We spent about an hour all told in Kfar Kama and went on to Nazareth.

After the calm of the village, the unruly traffic and noise of Cana and Nazareth were jarring.  We didn’t get to visit any churches or shrines but we did wind up in a reclamation project sponsored by Benedict XVI and the Jewish National Fund, a forest on top of a mountain overlooking the city.  The city had 500 people in Jesus’ time, but Jesus wouldn’t recognize the hometown.  It flows over three hilltops, the old quarter probably buried somewhere behind shopping streets and hotels.  It was hard to find the churches, even with road signs—which are not all that efficient to begin with.

To get to Nazareth, we took the road through Kfar Cana, the town where Jesus  performed the marriage miracle.  The main road was tortuously slow.  Both towns are mainly Arab and therefore Saturday was just another day.  Schoolkids with backpacks, trucks making deliveries, buses hauling tourists and commuters.  We were ultimately relieved to get out onto the highway to Tiberias.

Back to Tiberias, we stopped at Magdala, an archeological site opposite the village of Migdal and being developed as “Mary Magdalen’s Village,” the next tourist attraction for the northern shore of Lake Tiberias.  The site was closed but we indulged in a bit of trespassing, Kevin taking photos and I looking at the excavated areas, remembering my own stint at archeology in England and trying to make sense of the tangle of basalt foundations and floors that had been uncovered.  It was hard to determine which foundations belonged to individual houses, let alone where streets might have been.

The evening was the same as the night we arrived.  Post-Shabbos, Tiberias returns to full steam; all restaurants open, all kiosks in the street fair ready for business.  Dining on the Promenade, overlooking the lake-- it's a privilege being able to contemplate this scene, this locale where world-changing events occurred.

On Returning to Sfat

Sfat-Safed, city of medieval mystics, the highest-situated city in Israel, was the goal of my trip this time.  I was there in 1965, but barely.  My father and I sat on a low wall while my mother and a family friend tried to find the “main synagogue,” the one famous for the mystical rabbis.  I think they were looking for the Luria synagogue, named for Rabbi Isaac Luria; I think they found it, but it was closed in preparation for services.  This time, I found the Caro synagogue, nestled along with several others, Luria’s included, on a narrow covered street lined with artsy-craftsy shops.  It’s almost hard to find these synagogues unless you’re looking for them, for their narrow entrance gates are easily overlooked amid the assault of jewelry and Judaica shops, artists’ kiosks and street peddlers.  Like Luria’s in 1965, Carol’s was closed in preparation for the Sabbath.

Sfat has burgeoned, not just grown, in 47 years.  Modern apartment buildings march down the hillside south of the old quarter.  The old town is thoroughly picturesque and we wandered the cramped streets happily, climbing steps and slipping down the stones worn smooth by centuries as we tried to find our way around.  Ultra-Orthodox Jews have made peace with the artists who have discovered Sfat and made it their homes, studios and inspiration since the late 1950s.  Some of the artists are themselves observant.  I was amused to see Hasidic men in all kinds of dress.  Although most wear the traditional 19^th-century outfits of their founding rabbis, I saw young men in T-shirts and tank tops, their payiss brushing their shoulders.  Women, of course, never stray from modesty: long-sleeved shirts, long skirts and stockings even in the May heat.

The artwork, alas, did not fulfill my hopes.  I leafed through a few prints and drawings and ducked into many galleries and workshops, but nothing moved me to purchase.  There were many colorful designs in Hebrew calligraphy, any of which would make a fine decoration, yet they struck me as verging on mass-produced.  Perhaps it was the effect of seeing so much artwork on sale in one small place.  I didn’t care for the pottery or glasswork I saw and I couldn’t help wondering if there was some street, some tucked-away studio I had missed.  But really, why would a genuinely talented artist be somewhere where the public couldn’t find him or her?

The drive to Sfat wound through hair-raising hairpin turns as the valley of Kinneret/Lake Tiberias receded below.  The landscape is not beautiful, as England or southern France would be deemed beautiful; rather, it’s dramatic, even brooding in places where the rocky outcroppings defy cultivation.  It’s hard to imagine people scratching out enough of a living to build a civilization, yet build it they did.  As I wrote in my previous post, history is made in prosaic places.  The hills and valleys of the Galilee are a very muted backdrop to the vivid human dramas that were played out in and upon them.