The day Michael Jackson died I got to speak to my ballet teacher for the first time. we usually nod or smile but yesterday when I came to the studio the word about MJ's mysterious/ surprising death was just out and we happened to be in the same spot. At this historic moment, everyone, fan or no fan, needs to share, or ask something. These are the moments when human connection triumphs over the ordinary manners and boundaries tend to evaporate.

People got out of class, they have been perspiring for the last 90 minutes in a closed studio and mixed messages have started to drip in. "Farrah Fawcett died!!", "No! Michael Jackson just died". "What? No way!...Farrah AND Michael?", "Is that related?" Odd.
And then I heard the sentence "Michael Jackson is dead" in Japanese, Korean, Chinese and Italian over and over again.

Two hours later, I was back in the outside world. I couldn't really decide how I feel about this, but I knew something big occurred. It smelled like a moment of "where were you when". Especially if you're an 80's kid. Good day for News Papers.
Passing by 19th St. between Broadway and 5th, I hear an unfamiliar song playing. I think it's coming from a store but when I look closer I see an old bulky tape recorder, no one near it, just a few bags of empty tin-cans, trash, some newspapers covering the half stair. I couldn't tell what song it was, but it was easy identifying the singer. There was no doubt - it was a classic 90's tune.

Fabric Softner

There was a football game on the flat screen TV. Mexico - Venezuela*.

The two girls must have been four-five years apart. The younger, maybe 10 or 8 or 12, had that tired sloppy walk of a young mom. Her pajama pants moping the floor as she crosses the public laundromat. A big pile on top of little arms, carrying cloths from a washing machine to a drier. She was sitting patiently on the yellow chairs next to me.
Big sister storms in, wearing basketball shorts and a spaghetti strap top. She says something in Spanish, bumping her leg against the younger one's and causes her cellphone to fall on the floor. I think I heard her say "you're fat", although that would make absolutely no sense at all.

I was reading a book and calculating the remaining washing time but I wasn't really doing either. All I could think about, was universal sisterhood. About siblings dynamics and how we, the firstborn, get nasty sometimes, drunk with power only because we were here first.

I was cool, hiding my interest in the most interesting laundry program available. Or maybe it depends where your dryer is. I'm sure there were a couple more short cycle or delicate dramas going around in the 24/7 florescent space.

Mexico won 4-0. I put my legs on the cart, and she puts her legs up too. lying on the other chairs.
16 minutes later , older girl pops and asks in the sweetest voice, if little girl wants to go up. She doesn't. Wise little girl, she wasn't going to let her be the bigger person now.
when I picked my dry warm items, I passed by the girls. All of a sudden I hear a small voice: "Byyeee".
I answer with a surprised bye, smiling (unintentionally) at the older one. All I could walk away with, besides an Ikea bag full of cleaner stuff, was the hope she thought her little sister was really awesome, making older friends in the Giant laundromat.


*I am still thinking in Celsius, Meters and Football, but yes - I realize soccer is the more appropriate name in this part of the planet.

The Holy Tripod

There's a saying. In New York, even the non-Jewish are Jewish. Today in B&H, aka 'Dosiland' (ultra orthodox amusement park), I felt as non-Jewish as one can possibly feel ,among the nicest, sweetest religious people. Noticing my not so subtle Hebrew accent, I got treated like queen Ester. Then, the warm hospitality turned a little sour, when young Shlomo had to share another famous saying. "Any Jew, even the bum outside the subway, is more important than the most important goy... Yes, even from President Obama" he assured. Well, Shlomo, I am sorry to be the one that says that, but someone there lied to you. You are not more important than Obama, and maybe it's better this way. I know he meant well, and the last thing he wanted was to upset me by repeating a sentence that goes back hundreds of years, but it just doesn't work this way, and it really shouldn't. President Obama is more important then you and me, my good Jewish cameras and camera accessories expert.

Coming up next on the blog; "The Countdown; getting ready for Tel Aviv, summer 09"

Global Colding

My socks are not happy today. Well, that makes the three of us.
I was trying to avoid the weather topic but I failed. It's pouring. On the ten day forecast, there might only be one flip-flops-weather day - a weekday! It is starting to feel like little Britain.
Sometimes I get this feeling that I live in "The Truman Show", this morning was one of those moments. I'm starting to believe that this whole shitty weather shpil was created especially for me. I actually wonder whether the minute I am underground or asleep, the sun comes out , the clouds dissolve and people walk around in their standard June clothing.
Are we getting an extra month of summer instead of June? Is October negotiable? What if Summer just doesn't come???

But enough about the weather. More important or exciting things are brewing in the world.










Union Square, yesterday: Because we all had our vote
stolen at some point

If we're not going to be destroyed by another Ice-Age there's still the good old nuclear bomb scenario.
This is the first time in the 11 months that I've been here, that international news makes front pages for a few consecutive days. The economy and swine flu expended and reached the CNN interactive world-map media circus, but this time, it looks like it's too big a story for the Americans to ignore. Yesterday, on my way from work, I saw some people who even took it to the streets. That's how much they care (not sure if it's they or we?).
Today, however, is not a day for political activism.
I think that Mr. Weather will have the final word over Mr. Ahmadinejad's. So who am I to play it tough?

Local Patriotism

I didn't get to say goodbye to Alice. Not fully dressed anyways. It was my last session and I think despite of how good Alice was at hiding her feelings, she enjoyed our time together. She told Kelly, her assistant, to let me know I should call to make another appointment, in case I feel it is necessary. I don't think it will happen though.

I'm gladly returning to the low-maintenance girl I used to be, giving up my newly found appeal to China Town (that probably originates in the appeal I find to Jack Nicholson). Although it's raining I'm walking slowly, happy to be heading to the ultimate East at the end of the day. Not the Middle one, not the Upper but two stops on the L east to the Island - Brooklyn 11211.

China Town

It's been two weeks since my back ache incident, or as I prefer to call it: my ballet injury. I have fully recovered from a surprisingly sore experience with a stupid spasm. Now that the pain is gone, I can note that this occurrence– as unpleasant as it was – brought some wonderful new encounters along with it. Not only did I rediscover the wonders of western sedation (god bless America for the Valium they throw at you); but I got to go to China Town on a twice a week basis. I got to meet Dr. Alice.
While Alice stuck needles in my body, I would fall asleep to the soft vague tunes of 'Elton John's greatest hits' by a Chinese pianist and small little lamps warming my toes. After 35-55 minutes Alice comes in, takes her needles out, while I am trying to get myself together. Before she sends me home, I take a little milk and honey candy from a heart shaped glass bowl. The tiny, round, innocent treat injects just enough energy, for me to get back out to Canal Street, to a sea of clocks and belts and many, many rushing people.

The first story on how this blog started.

I got into ‘Eat Pray Love’ because it was readable and about traveling in Italy. Of course I thought it would be classic if I only read the ‘Eat’ chapter (also because it’s the part about Italy. I don't care as much for India or Indonesia) but my uncompromising fight for language equality didn’t allow me to put it down. There were a few beautiful ideas and word tricks but mainly it helped me realize that I can write those kinds of thoughts too. I was already writing them, but not collecting or sharing them. Of course that was in Hebrew and when I thought I knew something about this thing called the Internet.
These days, though I focus on the short term goals, in my passive aggressive war on English, I am reading the papers. The New Yorker and I are going to be good friends. But until then, I read it folded in the common method of thirds, to help me blend in. The cover is always hiding anyways, so people can’t tell it is three weeks old.

Can God be traced on Google Analytics?

Thunderstorm in June. Seriously? Is this a joke? Is it something I said?

09:25 am. it’s dark and damp outside. It is the first time I am walking in my rain boots and although I would much rather be walking in Converse right now, I have to admit there is something very liberating in those green plastic monsters. I am fearless and carefree - until it comes to stepping down stairs (you would think a rubber shoe will be a bit more flexible than a splint). Trying to splash as many puddles as possible in a ten block walk, I enjoy feeling like a four year old superhero on her way to an ordinary high-tech kindergarten.
I do not have many readers – yet - but after posting yesterday about my longing for summer - a simple, normal consistent summer - it feels like someone very powerful somewhere read my blog and decided to comment. Just for spite. Another tease, to see how weather resistant and waterproof I really am. Hence the rain boots debut.
* Promise my next post will not be a weather report. Unless it’s snowing tomorrow.

Is It Summer Already???

Can't do this Hot-Cold Game

I am new to seasons. Just as I was new snow, blazes, flurries, spraying and the irritating 'wintermix'(for my dear readers across the ocean, these are all different kinds of precipitations).
Last week, first week of June, It's been raining, 15 degrees (62) and 'feels like' shit. Like a mid Tel Aviv December, i.e. the typical winter day for the average beach girl I used to be for 20 something years. And this girl bravely survived her fair six long months of winter. The winteriest winter ever. And now, the cold war is over. Or is it?

This whole four season thing is ridiculously overrated. Right, it sounds romantic and indeed extremely pretty here five weeks a year, but hey, wouldn't you prefer just warm and warmer climate?

Seasons’ changing isn’t good for anything or anyone but the allergies (and the pharmaceutical companies for that matter). But all these theories and conclusion on seasons and changes are not relevant in the post-Al Gore era. We got tropical thunder and Indian summer and who knows what more surprises the future weather has for us. This new “New York Snow white” shade I currently the owner of, (something between the “GRE pale” and the “Pino Grigio” yellowish white) is just another characteristic of the new me. I guess I better embrace it. Or hope the 20 days I will soon enjoy at home, will fill me with ample solar energy and help my friends and family recognize me after being away for full four seasons.

How can you not have a huge crush on Obama?

The Cairo Speech. He had me at assalaamu alaykum



Any comment will be an understatement. Just go ahead, get your daily stimulus package: 55 minutes of brilliance