One in a Million

If you've never seen one before, that's how a saint looks like.

Meet Prof. Leonard (Lenny) Bliden, the kind and energetic cardiologist. He really likes his job. That's why, at 73-years old he's still seeing his patients three times a week.

Somehow, he managed to keep his South-African elegant style and accent even after more than five decades in the aggressively raw Israel.

I was a few months old when my mother and grandmother brought me to his house in Ramat Hasharon on a Friday afternoon exactly 30 winters ago.

A few months later, my little blue face turned baby pink.

Throughout the years, I always liked coming to see Prof. Bliden. When I was six, I told him about my engagement with the art of ballet dancing. He asked that I demonstrate my first and second positions. There I was, 1.20 meters, dancing and spinning in his office. It was almost as if he cared to get to know ME, more than he was interested in learning about my health.

This month, at our 30 year - surprise reunion at Beilinson Hospital, I understood the rare brilliance of this man - with his patience and sensitivity - he gained the deepest understanding of my heart and knew exactly what to prescribe. More dancing!

Coming in for a check up, on a rainy day in a grey hospital turned out to be one of the highlights of my visit. We've both changed a lot since our first meeting but he remained exactly the same.

Before we left the hospital, my mom and I chatted with his secretary. "Tomorrow," she said, "is a very special day. He's very humble, you know, but Prof. Bliden is receiving a life achievement award at the Knesset."

Almost whispering, she continued, "some people here at the hospital recommended him. I guess management received a lot of letters over the years".

Before saying goodbye, we went back and congratulated him. He mumbled something uncomfortably and quickly changed the subject. He told us he's going to a yahrzeit for his best friend and tennis partner. He died last year, just hours after his second tennis match that week. But he didn't let us leave with a serious-sympathizer face.

"He was 94 years-old," the professor said and smiled.

America. socialism and patriotism in one ticket

In the summer of 2003 I spent six weeks in Firenze.
I remember how in one of my many strolls around the city, when the Ponte Vecchio was revealed to me for the first time. I asked Hanna; do the people who live here wake up every morningwith astonishment? how could they not?
I couldn't imagine someone becoming indifferent to this sight, making coffee in the macchinetta, without feeling the luckiest girl in the world.

Then, I asked Luigi, who lived in Firenze for seven years (but was originally from a tiny village in the tip of the heel) if he looks up every day, when he goes to work, to look at the beautiful bridge and colorful houses.
He said there are too many tourists, they're blocking the view.

And now I'm in New York.
And my school is in Times Square.

It's been a while, maybe a year, since I experienced my "firsts" - first time I saw the skyline on a ride on the Williamsburg bridge at night, the first time I saw snow, or covering the presidential elections (and going out to the street in my pajamas to celebrate with all the hipsters at midnight). Since then, I managed to forget how fortunate I am.

Last week I saw 'The Sleeping Beauty', and this feeling was awaken once again.
The New York City Ballet, at Lincoln Center, left me speechless for a change.

It wasn't only the live orchestra playing Tchaikovsky, or the technique of Princes Aurora (Megan Fairchild of Salt Lake City) but also the fact that the front seat tickets to the two hour fantasy were bought at the price of $26. Socialism in America.

You may not have health coverage, you can be a struggling student who can't afford to breath the city's polluted air, but nights like these remind you why it's probably the best city in the world.

And then you walk out, to a windy 10 degree cold night (minus something in Celsius) and wait 15 minutes for the train, to hear the announcement that the downtown 1 train will not be running on the downtown track. It won't be another hour before you'll get to the other side of the bridge.

p.s. ballet teacher Peter Schabel disagreed on the quality and interpretation of the NYCB's sleeping beauty. "It's not like the Russians'". Well, the socialism is not quite the same either.

[This is a different sleeping beauty. The beautiful Sofiane Sylve, according to youtubers.]

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.