3901News

Sefer ha'Zfira: the Zom Tamuz War

2006-07-19T16:17:00.000-05:00

I apologize, but I haven't yet gotten a copy of the super-fun miklat pictures. So you'll be stuck reading my writing for the time being. I should give credit: I have no camera, so all of the pictures I've posted so far have been due to Yaniv and Gilad. (I suppose that's also blame. Where're the pictures, ah?)

At first, the katyusha attacks in the North meant very little. Another kidnapping, another response. I heard only the second of the first two Ra'ad Wahad (Thunder 1) missiles strike Haifa on Thursday as I walked up the stairs to make an Indian dinner at the house of a Russian couple. We cooked, listened to the radio, and despite constantly walking to the window and looking north, my coconut-mango rice pudding turned out delicious. (I also need to get pictures of that...)

And then it was quiet, no real problem. Work as normal. My schedule before the violence was already one of crazily late nights, so it wasn't unusual for me to be dozing lightly at 9am on Sunday -- when more rockets landed. Up, out of bed, grab my friend from down the hall, into the miklat. I had been planning to do a big shop in case of exactly this happening, but "this" got the best of me. There was no siren. These were loud blasts, and even the Israelis were a little jarred. But during a pause, I skipped upstairs to grab a bowl, a spoon, Multi-Grain Cheerios, and milk. Some Israelis brought in some fruit, a nicer radio. They discussed cellphone plans that could get on the network, get reception in a steel box underground -- Cellcom was great, Orange and Pelefon no good.

And the day calmed down even more. I headed over to another miklat with Gilad, my German exchange-student flatmate. There we met Liora (Israeli) and Camli and Walid (Druze), along with Sara (American -- was at the Russians with me). A little snack, a narguileh -- outside, on a bench in the shade. It was a picnic, a break.

A couple of people suggested getting a van-taxi to drive us to Tel Aviv. A holiday, quiet, some time to get real work done, great cafes and bars -- who could resist? As that was being worked out, Liora and I head upstairs -- to the third, uppermost, and most dangerous floor (sorry, Mom) -- to make some omelets for sandwiches, food for the road. Just as I finished the first omelet -- yogurt for fluffiness, chopped parsley, some sauteed onions inside -- another siren rang. Off goes the gas, run downstairs -- only one blast. Wait twenty minutes, back up to finish the rest. And before we knew it, we were past Binyamina and Zikhron, in Hadera, safe.

So what does all of this mean? Is Haifa a warzone? What about the North, about Yarca and Zfat and Kiryat Shmone? And what about Lebanon?

The North is rough. A shopping mall in Yarca was hit twice -- empty at the time, of course. Zfat and Kiryat Shmone everyone has seen. But people aren't stuck inside their miklats, doing nothing all day. Neighbors get together, now that they finally have nothing else to do. And though thousands have fled, most wait patiently. It's a long, boring, and occasionally nerve-wracking block party.

Why do I write so blithely about the North? "There are missiles, no, rockets falling on them!" A katyusha is like a rock, a thrown rock. You don't want to be hit by a katyusha. You don't want to be anywhere near them. But it's not a missile, it doesn't level houses, it doesn't explode violently. Miklats are completely safe -- despite a story I've heard of a door being blown shut. This isn't the Gulf War.

Haifa is a different story. The Ra'ad Wahad, the Thunder 1, is longer range -- bigger. The hole a katyusha blows is no more than thirty centimeters in diameter, a foot; a Ra'ad tore the roof off of a warehouse, leveled two floors of a building in Bat Galim. This is the reason the attack is an escalation: not just because of the range, but because of the size of the munition. (Some people think the missiles are Ra'ad rockets; others Fajr Arbiye or Hamsa. No one was saying on the Israeli news, and both missiles are of Irani manufacture.)

Nonetheless, grocery stores are open, some cafes are open. Oh, how I miss my favorite falafel, which might also be open! The staff are returning to the Technion. My friends -- Gilad included -- are going back soon. (Gilad is in fact a saint, since he'll be packing up my things and sending them along.)

This all begs the question: "If all of these weapons are so weak, why is Israel responding with such force? This seems unreasonable, uneven, unfair." Israel is big and powerful; it can blockade a country of its own size in a few hours. Hizbollah has around 4,000 militants; perhaps half of Israel could be called up for Army duty.

But the Israeli force is targeted,not just looking to kill. Katyusha batteries are bombed shortly after missiles are launched; this way nearly 30% of Hizbollah's attack capacity has been eliminated. Citizens are caught in the blast, as Hizbollah forces people to stay near installations in the South, keeps villages hostage. The situtation is complicated and tragic.

And from afar, I would say, "Let them take a pot shot. It's not doing a lot, let them waste their resources. They'll be embarrassed." I said this to Israelis when Kassam rockets flew from Gaza into empty fields near Sderot. They laughed, or were angry. You can't let someone attack you, they argued, and not respond. All that does is invite more attacks, make you seem weak.

When I called my girlfriend to tell her that I was alright, she was mad. "I can't believe they're doing this. Doesn't either side realize this isn't going to get them anywhere?" I was taken aback. This was one of the first things out of her mouth. Didn't she care that rockets were being shot at my city, at me? It doesn't seem ugly
to me at all to worry first about my family and well-loved friends in Haifa before I worry about politics, or Lebanon, or what France thinks.

Now I agree with many of the Israelis -- lefties themselves, but with a caveat: when you are attacked, and your attacker smugly claims to be the first defeat you, you cut him down. He can be the smallest little nothing, but you stop him. And I hope you who read this understand that I'm as pacifistic as can be, am against the war in Iraq, want Israel out of Gaza and eventually out of the West Bank. But some positions are only tenable from a distance.

It feels good to be back. My mom went a little crazy, insisted I return early. I flew first class: the duck was overdone, but everything else was perfect. I'm well rested and performing some of the East Coast rounds.

I can't think enough of my friends back at home. Gilad is the greatest, packing up my things for me. He must be very pleased that I left my narguileh behind. Yaniv is still very shaken, but I'm sure he's calmer by now -- his grandparents seem to make him nervous, since they keep the news on all the time. Camli went down to Tel Aviv to work -- the companies are paying 150% time for workers, plus hotel rooms. She's only been to Tel Aviv twice before, so Liora is showing her around. What a shame! Even inside Israel's borders, Arabs don't get a fair deal. (See? I told you I was a lefty.) Walid visited home, but headed back to the Technion to get work done.

And to think, I was complaining to Liora only weeks ago that Israel was boring, and that I wouldn't miss it. Israel is an exciting place, full of energy and hope that I can barely believe; and to miss it? The easiest thing in the world.

Life in Israel

2006-07-03T16:58:00.000-05:00

For those of you have escaped my mother's constant bragging about what her sons do: first, congratulations; second, I've spent the last year in Haifa, studying computer science at the Technion.

The truth of the matter is that the place doesn't suit me. I learned a lot, but if I could change the past, I would have spent only the spring semester here. Part of the problem is that I don't much get along with the Jewish Israelis. Apart from other exchange students, my best friends are Druze.

I visited Daliat al'Carmel, the biggest Druze settlement in Israel, before I met Camli and her boyfriend Walid. It's famous as a center for shopping and cuisine. I went back with Camli, meeting her parents and exploring more of the town itself. (They call it a village, but with around twenty thousand people it's no village.) Three weeks ago, Walid had a huge birthday party. I was supposed to be שר הבשר "the minister of the meat", but Walid's uncle Tufik totally outclassed me on the grill. Nevertheless, we got along fabulously, and Walid eventually suggested visiting his hometown, Yarca, to see his home, family, and Tufik. Who can pass up an offer like that?

So last Thursday we followed through: I went with Walid to Yarca, with most of the other exchange students tagging along. The town is northeast of Akko, and it wasn't a long drive. The first stop was Kfar Yasif, a Muslim and Christian Arab town on the way to Yarca. The first agendum was a "nargilly", as Benjamin Disraeli would call it. Afterwards, we were hungry -- I hadn't eaten all day. Walid knew a place nearby, Lebanese shawarma. Oh man, it was good. We watched them bake the lafas (large, flat, pocketless pitas) and slice off the juicy, juicy meat.

Gilad and Yaniv look much more normal when they're not chewing, I assure you. But Bas always looks like that. Gilad has been one of my best friends here in Haifa; we've shared an apartment since September. Yaniv came in March; his English fluency (and company) have been another component of my happiness.

After stopping off at a few churches in Kfar Yasif, at which we were the subject of considerable wonder, we headed over to Yarca. Coffee at a friend's house -- the door was open, why not walk in? Another cup of coffee! A quick aside: why is Arab coffee so good? (Hint: that's a rhetorical question, and I'm about to tell you.) Because they put crushed cardamom pods in it, making it קפה נחלי "cafe nahli" rather than just coffee beans. I don't think I'll ever go back: cardomom forever.

Awakened from our collective food coma, we headed to Walid's house. It wasn't just a house, but a complex: an older home belonging to his grandparents and parents and another, bigger one for his uncle; floors intertwined, each occupied by one of the six brothers in Walid's generation. Parts had an unfinished patina -- most people take part in the construction of their own homes, I was told, and the temptation to stop at "good enough" must be great -- but the interiors were beautifully decorated. I haven't seen many nicer dining or living rooms. Depressingly, much of it seems rarely used, if ever. I wonder how much they could have saved if they didn't feel the need to display such fine things. My favorite part of their house, other than the grape-vine trellised porch, the pomegranate tree, the expansive herb garden, and the heirloom plum tree -- was the view.

Unfortunately, it was a bit too hazy to take good pictures. But trust me, you could see to Haifa, to Rosh ha'Niqra, and further on into Lebanon. You can see the sea at the edge, under the cloudy glare. (The pollution got worse through the night; the moon changed colors from bright white to deep orange.)

We drank another cup of coffee, watching the sunset, dutifully smoking another "narguillet". I tasted the sweetest watermelon I've ever had, along with some cherries and the sour, unripe grapes that hung above us. The watermelon wasn't local to the village but is rather a testament to the quality of Israel's fruit produce.

Once it was quite dark, we got a phone call from Tufik -- it was time to head over for the מנגל "barbecue". We got in the cars, Walid taking his father's cab instead of his vintage 1973 VW Bug. (Unfortunately, I only have interior pictures; it's a really great car.) I was surprised to pull up to a huge group of women and a fantastically steaming pot. We weren't going to Tufik's yet; first we had to see the burghul. Walid had been talking about it all day, but I still didn't have a good image. Here's a good image:

You may be asking what burghul is. Go ahead: "What's burghul?", you ask? Burghul is bulgur: boiled wheatberries. It's eaten throughout the Middle East, where it's generally called burghul; it's 'bulgur' only in Turkish. We got out of the cars to an immediate offer of juice from Tufik's wife, which is of course not to be declined. She proceeded to translate for me as I asked one of the women working the pot how much wheat is in there (150 kilos) and how long you boil it (about two and a half hours). (She was amused when I understood only some of the numbers in Arabic. "Two hours?" I said. "No, no, two and a half," she corrected. Presumptuous Jews with their newfangled language...)

The beautiful thing about the bulghur is that it was a neighborhood effort. On an errand for more pita later on, we drove by other corners of Yarca boiling their own wheatberries. Each little section of town boils a couple of "units" (70 kilos, which can be bought for about 50 or 60 shekels) of wheatberries to share; everyone gets together to do it, helping to build the fire, arrange the pot, and fill it with the wheat. After boiling, the group goes from house to house, pulleying the boiled wheat up to be spread across the flat roofs, were the sun dries it. Once burghul is fully dry, it's ready for kibbeh (a burghul and lamb pastry) or tabouleh (crushed burghul mixed with tomatoes, cucumbers, parsley, mint, and lemon).

The neighborly feeling is remarkable; it's very satisfying to see people working together for their food. Walid and I talked about it later. He appreciated it not only because it was delicious and neighborly, but because it's so local, so unglobalized. I have to agree.

After tasting the fresh burghul plain and with sugar (delicious either way, like a less nutty quinoa), we finally headed over to Tufik's place. It was similar to Walid's family's house, only smaller -- it was built more recently, and lacks the twisty passages caused by iterative expansions. It, too, had a beautiful interior with unfinished edges and a tendency towards ostentation. One thing was different: their kitchen was clearly used and loved. That night was no exception, of course. Tufik set me about as his sous chef -- something I'm sure my girlfriend Beth appreciates on a very deep level, as well as my flatmates.

The meal consisted of a few things: kebabs, which are meat patties; shish kebabs, which is meat on a stick; and an overflowing plethora of salads. The kebab was made at Tufik's place, being a mix of lamb, beef, and turkey. The shish kebabs came from Walid's mother: chicken and a few lamb. The vegetable salads -- tabouleh and a cabbage salad -- were made in the kitchen, but the hummus, tehina, and labneh (thickened yogurt) were purchased. And, of course, before we even started to cook -- a cup of coffee.

Tufik and I were mostly on kebab duty. Which meant I was mostly on chopping parsley and holding things for Tufik duty.

Good kebab. He uses his own spice mix, also grating in onion, hot pepper, and tomato. He thought my suggestion of adding an egg to help it stick together was heresy, but I secretly hope he'll try it sometime -- I think it'll round them out. He did fine without it, certainly, since he used a grill basket. A good idea for burgers, I think.

That was our night. Tufik's younger daughter (perhaps seven years old?) showed me her school grades; everything was mumtaz, excellent. I duly flattered her, calling her "Mumtaz" the rest of the evening. We talked with Walid, with Tufik, with a few friends from the neighborhood, extended family. It was surprisingly free of the senseless language and culture talk that usually goes on; we talked about food, about the World Cup (auf gehts Deutschland!), about music.

We stayed late, until around 1:30am, when Gilad had to go pick up his mother from the airport. Yaniv and I rode back in the Bug with Walid, taking a detour through the Akko harbor. Perhaps not the safest place to go at 2am, but it was beautiful.

Yarca will remain one of my fondest memories of Israel; for me, it is a kernel, a condensation of its country -- a distillation of the best and the worst, of the whole.

Pictures from Kew

2006-07-02T17:57:00.000-05:00

Aviva in front of the monkey tree

2006-07-02T17:54:00.000-05:00

A lane of azaleas and rhododendren

More Photos from Kew

2006-07-02T16:08:00.000-05:00

Aviva and Amy
asserting their womanhood

Little BIrd

2006-07-02T16:06:00.000-05:00

Hannah Mathilda makes her
little bird mouth, indicating
that she wants to be fed

Hannah Mathilda

2006-07-02T16:00:00.000-05:00

A serious pose

Hannah Mathilda and her Ema

2006-07-02T15:58:00.000-05:00

Deb converses with H. Mathilda

Hanging with Hannah Mathilda

2006-07-02T15:36:00.000-05:00

As many of you know, I am spending the summer in L.A. helping out with our newest family member, H. Mathilda Weisz. She is ADORABLE (though she is not exactly delicate given the snorting, snoring, and farting that goes on). It is my first long-term encounter with caring for a baby girl and I must confess that it is disconcerting at times. The sense of adventure/beat-the-clock that one has changing a boy so as not to get sprayed just isn't there for a girl. I can't say that I miss it, but I am aware how much less anxious and efficient I am at changing her diaper than I was for my own boyz. I am impressed by all the fabulous new gadgets that didn't exist when my boyz were young, particularly a NASA-inspired foam crib lining that prevents head denting while sleeping. She sleeps like a baby, which I guess is only appropriate. The wisdom nowadays is that babies must always sleep on their backs (twenty-three years ago I was constantly flipping David Greenberg back onto his stomach, which was the requirement then, and irritated him immensely. Sorry David, you were born before your time.) I hang with Hannah Mathilda from after midnight feeding (anywhere from 12-2) until she wakes up again and has a bottle with me (pumped milk from Deb) and then we both go back to sleep. On a good day, I can have Hannah Mathilda with me from midnight to six so Deb can get a block of sleep. After depositing H.M. with her parents (anywhere from 6-8 a.m.), I return to sleep and rise to hang with the family, particularly Emmett, about whom there will be a separate post. If all adults have had a chance, to eat, shower, and go to the bathroom, it's a red letter day. There are some days where we walk around unshowered and in a fog, but more often, we are getting basic needs met. A load of dishes and a load of laundry is always running. I am feeling spoiled by the easy availability of kosher meat. Last week, I made meatballs, which Emmett and I called "spicy meat-a bahlls," much to our mutual delight. Turns out, I have the perfect sense of humor for a 2 year old. But that will come as a surprise to few of my loyal readers. Enjoy the pictures of Hannah Mathilda above!

Edina and David

2006-07-02T15:27:00.000-05:00

Edina and Dave in David's apartment

Ben, David and Edina at the Castle

2006-07-02T15:23:00.000-05:00

On the castle hill

Ben, Edina, and David

2006-07-02T15:20:00.000-05:00

After a meal at a Thai restaurant

Edina and Ozzie

2006-07-02T15:18:00.000-05:00

Edina and her
cute little dog,
Ozzie

A Trip to Heidelberg

2006-07-02T15:14:00.000-05:00

Right before we left London, Ben and I took a side trip to Heidelberg, where David is working. David was accompanied by his girlfriend, Edina and Edina's dog, Ozzie. We walked the central market pedestrian shopping area, saw the schloss (castle), and the botanical gardens, but the highlight was meeting Edina and spending time with her and David. I even warmed up to Ozzie (who receives all his commands in Hungarian). Those of you who know my general aversion to dogs will be amazed that I actually found the little hot dog (dwarf dastchund) non-threatening and even cute. Edina was a joy to finally meet (she and David have been together since December of his junior year). Edina cooked some fabulous meals and was extraordinarily welcoming to me and Ben. She will be spending July in Spain, waitressing and working on her Spanish. Edina speaks Hungarian and fluent English. At University she plans to study Turkish and Arabic. I suppose that if you come from Hungary (they met while David was studying math in Budapest) you get good at other languages. David and Edina regularly switch back and forth from Hungarian to English with ease. I asked Edina whether David has an accent in Hungarian and she replied that he has a Russian accent. Hmm... This from a kid who barely passed high school Spanish. David's German is functional , his Russian excellent, and his Hungarian, at least in talking to the dog, flawless.

Graffiti Near the Train

2006-06-09T10:58:00.000-05:00

It’s Global Warming Stoopid
Holloway Road Tube Stop

Fettered Pleasures

2006-06-09T10:55:00.000-05:00

Never made it to this sex shop down the
block, so my pleasures remain unfettered

Saigon Surprise

2006-06-09T10:50:00.000-05:00

Alas, the Vietnamese place is closed. I think we were supporting it single-handedly. When we returned from holiday, it was out of business. Their noodles with tofu, chili and lemongrass was a thing of beauty.

2006-06-09T10:43:00.000-05:00

Buddhist Center (tan building)
and Library (limestone)
2 blocks from our home

2006-06-09T10:35:00.000-05:00

Ben on the Computer in our bedroom.
Yes, it really was that color.

Our doorway

2006-06-09T10:29:00.000-05:00

Walk past the wrought-iron gate
and down into the first floor

The other half of our block

2006-06-09T10:23:00.000-05:00

Counsel (low income) Housing on Courtney Rd – The apartments built on the bombed out part of the block are covered in scaffolding because the windows were being replaced

Our House on Courtney

2006-06-09T09:20:00.000-05:00

Our block was bombed in the blitz
Our half of the block remained.
Our stairway is behind the right-most
evergreen

Farewell to Frieda

2006-06-05T10:04:00.000-05:00

My Great-Aunt Frieda, who died recently, was a force of nature -- witty, accomplished, good-hearted, impatient and very, very fast. She had an explosive laugh and a true presence. Her last five years were robbed by Alzheimers, but I was heartened to realize that everyone remembered Aunt Frieda in her frenzied, inimitable prime. She was the last of my grandparents siblings. Uncle Abe (Savta's brother) died last year. It is the end of an era of titans. Below is what my mother said at Aunt Frieda's funeral:

Frieda Pusin was my beloved aunt, one of the first people in my life. She and her twin sister Rose, z'l, lived with my parents in Durham, North Carolina, when I was born. I adored them. Frieda became my friend and mentor. She took me to my first play, and made me feel like a grown-up when she let me stay in her apartment in the village during my teen-age years. She also was my personal historian. Frieda used to say that if she hadn't been there, nobody would have believed that I could talk before I was 10. She claimed to remember and she repeated all my "hochmas"; actually, with her wonderful and incisive wit, I think she made most of them up.

Frieda was an extraordinary resource & model. She was the person to go to if you wanted a recipe or a word to complete the Sunday crossword puzzle, or advice on a serious problem, or the telephone number and the latest news of a relative anywhere in the world -- from NY to CA, from England to Israel & Australia. She was the glue that kept the family connected.

And she had a wonderful talent for friendship. There was no better friend than Frieda. She was a model of hahnasat orhim - of generous and giving hospitality. Her dinners were legendary - not just because she was an such an excellent cook - Uncle Max said that it was the Peking Duck that first enticed him - but because everything was prepared with love.

When Jehiel and I got married, we asked Frieda to be our Maid of Honor. She was a radiant and beautiful one. I realized only much later how hard it must have been for her to be in the wedding in that capacity - she was not married at a time and in a family that made a single state difficult for a woman. But she was so happy for us that I never suspected. It's not that Frieda didn't have many opportunities - I can give you a long list of names - but Frieda would not compromise until she met her beshert. And, of course, she was right. One of the smartest things she ever did, one of the greatest, most precious gifts that Frieda ever
gave us, was to marry Uncle Max, whom my Bobe, Frieda's mother, called her "brilliant" her diamond. He is just that. And because of Frieda's determination and wisdom, Jehiel & I and our children have also been blessed with having Rusty & Nikki & Steve & Sam & Marin & Aliza & Jenna & Molly & Noah as part of our closest family.

When I was a very little girl in Durham, Frieda taught me to sing the Star Spangled Banner. My mother later told me that when I came to the last line, what I sang was - "From every mountainside, let Frieda ring." That may not have been what Francis Scott Key wrote, but it was correct. Like freedom, Frieda was a major force. Her talent & intelligence & goodness rang loud and true, & will continue to serve as a model and inspiration for me and for all those who were ever lucky enough to know and love her.

On the Street Where I Live(d)

2006-06-05T09:39:00.000-05:00

Goodbye to the Old Neighborhood

For our last two weeks in London, we’ve moved out of Courtney Street in Islington (Zone 2) and right into the heart of things on Bloomsbury Square (Zone 1). We miss the our nabe (short for neighborhood, Szonyi, who is a busy man often abbreviates words, hence the term “refridge.” But I digress). Our new place is much larger, but also sparsely decorated and used exclusively as a rental. None of the homey touches of Courtney Street such a teletubby stickers on various surfaces or Noddy and Mr. Men dishware. In fact, there’s nothing on the walls here at all and it looks and feels like a 2-star hotel, down to stained carpets and the small sliver of soap and threadbare towels they provide. (Although in fairness, the guy who came by to fix the oven, toaster, lamps and replace the rubbish bin was horrified and promised to shampoo the rugs by tomorrow morning the latest). Still, this new, not so swanky place comes to us at a cost of more than double our rent in Islington. We are across the street from a beautiful sqaure. Our living room is on the third floor, facing west, and we see the sunset on the rooftops of London. Chim chim cheroo. Alas, in the basement of the fancy Victorian place across the street there’s a bowling alley, and the drunken Brits can be quite loud after knocking down some pins and some pints.

Above is a pictorial tribute to the old neighborhood of which we are very fond. (Less fond of the landlords who charged me £20 for damage to a desk that was already beyond hope, and whose immediate trashing of the place made my careful cleaning irrelevant and stocking of the fridge friar-like. Oh well. I am so blessed by having Yvonne stay at my house that I tried to emulate her level of care. )

Moonlighting

2006-06-04T12:02:00.000-05:00

Although I tend to be free with advice, it may nevertheless come as surpirse that I am a genuine advice columnist (true, it is for the Fort Fairfield Maine "alternative" paper, but a gig is a gig). Here are my latest columns. Feel free to send me questions, in fact this is the first column for which I don't have to make them up, a trend I'd like to continue.

Dear Aviva,
I am currently in a relationship with a man who is wonderful inmany ways -- funny, handy, good-looking, and generally kind, but he recently did something that really disappointed me. When my father was ill, my boyfriend did not seem to understand that I needed to be with him in the hospital. My boyfriend was angry at the time I spent away from him and intolerant of my time with my family. I am surprised because he is very family-oriented and we often spend time with his parents and brothers. I don't feel comfortable approaching him about this, but I can't forget his attitude, even though my father is home now and is much better. Should I forget about it or forget about him?
Sincerely, A Confused Girlfriend

Dear Confused,
It seems obvious that your boyfriend behaved badly. The questions are: (1) Why? and, (2) What does this mean for your relationship? Perhaps your boyfriend was jealous of the time you spent with your father. Maybe he is just a self-centered jerk. Or perhaps he freaks out when confronted with hospitals and illness. It sounds as if you don’t really know the answer.
Should you continue to date this guy or was his insensitive and demanding attitude a “deal breaker?” My late Aunt Frieda famously (at least it was famous in the family) quipped: “Everyone has faults; you need to find a man with the right faults.” No boyfriend will be perfect and whether you should end the relationship depends on what you need and value. Only you can determine which faults are intolerable.
Actually, the thing that struck me as most problematic was not his behaviour but rather the fact that you don’t think you can talk to him about it. In my opinion, you need to understand why he behaved as he did, and he needs to hear how you feel. I would be curious whether he accepts some criticism and whether he tries to change.
Everyone makes mistakes. But if your boyfriend can’t tolerate an honest discussion of how he hurt and disappointed you, that for me would be a deal breaker.

Aviva,
What is your advice on how to handle the public school’s showing graphic sex videos to 10 and 11 year-olds?
A Concerned Parent in Fort Kent, Maine

Dear Concerned,
Your Editor, David Deschesne, has kept me informed about the controversy concerning the Human Growth and Development curriculum at St. Francis. As an indication of the graphic nature of the videos, my porn filter rejected David’s first email describing the video.

That said, I think there are really two questions here. (Hmm, there may be a theme to my answers – see the two questions organizaton above). First, what is the right way to introduce ten and eleven-year-olds to issues of sex and sexual maturity? Second, what are the rights and responsibilities of parents and educators in trying to perform this delicate and sensitive task?

I must emphasize that I haven’t seen the video. Also, unlike some people opposed to the curriculum, I don’t necessarily think that talking about erections, ejaculations, and wet dreams is a problem. The graphic depiction of a male penis in full erection, however, might be overwhelming for kids that young. The very explicit nature of the film seems to be, in the words of my best-friend, Ruthie, TMI (too much information).

The danger, however, is even graver, if such information comes too late. By age twelve, many boys are having nocturnal emissions, aka wet dreams. Boys need to hear about them from responsible adults and be reassured that such things are normal and signs of a healthy, developing body. My three boys all knew in advance about wet dreams, and their occurrence was no big deal. They informed me by starting to wash their own sheets and pajamas.

Girls are in similar need of information. My grandmother was terrified when she received her first period at age eleven – no one thought to talk to her about it and she thought she was in serious danger when she started to bleed. It was a negative experience she could recall seventy years, two children and five grandchildren later. I know of twelve year olds who have gotten pregnant. So, the ten-to eleven year-old set is a crucial audience for information about sex.

Sex ed is simply vital and, in our day, life-saving. Responsible people, however, can disagree about how explicit it should be and at what ages information should be dispensed. I do believe this is a job for public education and that we cannot count on parents alone to relay all the info. Parents can be too embarrassed, or may themselves not have fully accurate information. Parents also may under- or over-estimate the amount of information and detail their kids can handle. My inclination is to trust our trained educators on this.

But let’s face it, this is not a debate about reading methods or whether the kids should have math drills. With such a sensitive topic as sex, with its relationship to health and morality, the school system must act in partnership with parents, affording parents full respect.

I can understand the frustration of educators who can’t be expected to run every aspect of a state-wide curriculum by each parent. However, a take-it-or leave-it approach to sex ed does not seem fruitful. Parents must be involved because sex ed is not just about information. It is also about morality, religion, and behaviour outside the classroom.

I recommend that parents not enter the school during school hours – that is disruptive to learning and subverts the authority of the school. Instead, the administration should offer some time after school for parents to view the video and the other materials associated with this curriculum. This will help parents prepare their kids for the information to follow, and improve the kids’ experience. If parents feel very strongly that the video is inappropriate, their children should be excused; but then the parents have a heavy burden of making sure their children do not suffer emotionally or physically because they lack crucial information.

The Grandmothers with Baby Hannah Mathilda

2006-06-04T09:58:00.000-05:00

Forget the kid, check out
Sylvia's new do.

House of Lords Visit

2006-06-04T09:41:00.000-05:00

Okay, this post is impossible to do without a ridiculous amount of shameless name-dropping and bragging about history, so here goes:

Lord Richard Acton, descendent of the famous Lord Acton who famously observed that "power tends to corrupt, absolute power corrupts absolutely," gave me, Szonyi, and the other teachers in our program a tour of the House of Lords. Because we were such a large group, another Lord (Lady?) Ruth Rendell, joined to sponsor us for the tour and the tea. Both are Labour life peers, though Lord Acton also has an inherited title. He is a descendent of Balfour and Charles II (though since Charles II never married, the bragging rights on that branch of the family tree are offered with a wink and a nudge). Ms. Rendell signed copies of her mystery set in the House of Lords written under the nom de plume, Barbara Vine.

Our tour included the Robing room where the Queen readies herself to open a session of parliament, the chambers where the Lords and Commons meet, a lot of bad art, and ornate design (think toned-down, slightly seedy Versaille) and most memorably, the records room from the House of Lords, containing every act of Parliament. We saw the original stamp act and viewed the House of Lord's copy of the Declaration of Independence. Szonyi was in heaven. It was all pretty cool, and the tea was delicious.

Amy P. Comes for a Visit

2006-06-04T09:21:00.003-05:00

I've known Amy since 8th grade, but we were reacquainted about twelve years ago at a Seder at Max and Frieda's. Since then I've visited her in Boston and Becket (in the Berkshires) and she's come out to Indiana. Our most recent rendez-vous was in London where we did the town up right. We went to the globe to see Coriolanus and to the West End to see Guys and Dolls (in the standing room section). [The Globe is an open-aired theatre in the round. I enjoyed it so much I went back to see Titus Andronicus, this time in the standing room area, which meant mingling with the actors and dancing at the end.] On her own Amy went to Borough's Market, the Tower of London and strolled along the river. We saw the British Museum, the Victoria and Albert, the Royal Academy and the National Gallery. We walked our tootsies off.

My favorite day was the (one) sunny day which we wisely spent at Kew Gardens, botany and beauty rolled into one glorious balls of fresh smelling sweetness. I particularly liked the nose-gay garden with herbal plants. I now know how to cure the "purples" whatever those are. Amy is investigating.

Another highlight of the trip was scandalizing Ben who was entirely non-plused when we announced at 10:30 that we were going out. "Where?" he asked incredulously. "A pub," Amy answered, demonstrating once again to my children how she is way too cool for me.

For part of her visit Szone was in Swizterland visiting mishpacha. I was very grateful for the fabulous company. Amy reminded me that the one thing missing from my London experience is the company of good friends.

2006-06-01T08:33:00.000-05:00

Proud Pops with Big

Brother Emmett Alfred

2006-06-01T08:32:00.000-05:00

A slightly older and more mature
Hannah Mathilda

2006-06-01T08:29:00.000-05:00

An early photo
of Hannah Mathilda
and her Ema

Welcome, Hannah Mathilda

2006-06-01T08:05:00.000-05:00

Hannah Mathilda (in English) Chani Liba Esther (in Hebrew) was named yesterday in a special Brit Bat service welcoming her into the Jewish Covenant. I have provided two pictures of the little one, both with her mother.

The name Mathilda is after Nana Mathilda. Liba is after my Savta Libby. Esther is in memory of Aunt Frieda, who died only recently.

Baby, Ema, Pops and Emmett Alfred are all doing well. Emmett informs his Ema every time Hannah Mathilda cries: "Baby Sister crying." The jury is out on whether he is concerned, irritated, or highlighting himself as the non-crybaby.

Mazel Tov to All!

Some Revamped Favorites from Sara Kober

2006-06-01T07:51:00.000-05:00

My cousin Sara sent me a list of some retooled favorite songs for us agingBaby Boomers. .They include:

Herman's Hermits -- Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Walker.
The Bee Gees -- How Can You Mend a Broken Hip.
Bobby Darin -- Splish, Splash, I Was Havin' a Flash.
Ringo Starr -- I Get By With a Little Help From Depends.
Roberta Flack --The First Time Ever I Forgot Your Face.
Johnny Nash -- I Can't See Clearly Now.
Paul Simon -- Fifty Ways to Lose Your Liver
The Commodores -- Once, Twice, Three Times to the Bathroom.
Marvin Gaye -- Heard It Through the Grape Nuts.
Leo Sayer -- You Make Me Feel Like Napping.
The Temptations -- Papa's Got a Kidney Stone.
Abba -- Denture Queen.
Tony Orlando -- Knock 3 Times On The Ceiling If You Hear Me Fall.
Helen Reddy -- I Am Woman, Hear Me Snore.

Something Awfully Funny

2006-05-31T16:22:00.000-05:00

Ben introduced me to a fun site, somethingawful.com. I am sure there are some really objectionable things on it, but some parts are very funny. For instance, the site offers romantic advice for men on various methods of breakups. I particularly enjoyed this one:

Method #1: Passive Aggressive Attempt to make both her and yourself as miserable as possible until she decides to leave you. The advantage to this is that since you’re the one who was dumped, you can play it for sympathy with your friends and family, and you might even be able to wheedle out of work for a day or two if your boss is the caring sort. The disadvantage is that this process can take up to fifty years and often involves marriage.
http://www.somethingawful.com/index.php?a=3838

We Needed (a) BATH

2006-05-31T05:21:00.000-05:00

In late April, Szonyi and I spent a long weekend in the Cotswolds, primarily in the Ancient city of Bath on the River Avon. We stayed at the Three Abbey Green, a pricey but elegant and centrally located B&B. The Ancient Roman hot springs, after which the city was named, are truly spectacular. They are the best Roman ruins I’ve ever seen (including Israel and Rome). A beautifully preserved Gorgon’s head, from a temple that seemed to mesh the Celtic and Roman Gods was found near the Baths. The whole set-up was luxurious, involving lots of slaves, schleppers and people to loofa the dead skin off of you. (Dead skin from famous galdiators was sold as souvenirs to ardent fans). As I understand the process, first come the hot baths and steam rooms, then the cold plunge, and then the tepidarium (our new nick-name for our shower in London).

In addition to its ancient history, Bath had a splash (as it were) of fame in the time of Jane Austen, when all of Georgian society went to take the curative waters. Jane Austen hated Bath and used it as a locus for all the phonies and bad girls, but the modern city is not above capitalizing on her unhappy four year stay in the city, hence our visit to the Jane Austen Centre.

We had a very interesting scholarly tour of Bath by a resident teacher (who coordinates elementary ed exchanges with IU). One night I went on a very clever tour/ stand-up/ magic show entitled Bizarre Bath. It involved no history, just chatter and gentle ribbing of the assembled crowd punctuated by moments of lunacy (involving, for instance, throwing a Houdini-like, chained stuffed rabbit into the Avon river and watching it escape). I recall that Debby went on the very same one ten years ago and recommended it. Good call, Deb.

Finally, we took a day trip to Stonehenge and three small villages, one of which contained another stone circle. I was prepared for Stonehenge to be just another pile of rocks (which it obviously was) but there was an feel to the place of peace and energy combined that was indescribable. The rest of the Cotswolds look like a parody of itself, or an attempt to look like its own postcard -- bubbling brooks, abbeys, sheep. It was quaint to a fault. We went to Castle Comb and Lacock where the Hogwarts scenes from Harry Potter were filmed, and one of Camilla’s kids is soon to be married.

Great food. Gorgeous scenery. Small town feel. Bath is definitely a worthwhile trip – an easy train ride and a century away from London.

2006-05-31T04:57:00.000-05:00

Ben is ready to go to the

after-prom party, Mike (aka

Professor Higgins) admires his

handiwork.

2006-05-31T04:39:00.000-05:00

A whirl-wind lesson
in tying a double-
windsor knot

2006-05-31T04:09:00.000-05:00

Beth and Ben slice vegetables for

my Mother's Day meal

2006-05-31T04:00:00.000-05:00

Beth and Mike in our lime-
green front hallway (Beth is
shielding her eyes
from the glare)

Mike & Beth Visit London

2006-05-31T03:53:00.000-05:00

Mike is studying in Israel this year at the Technion in Haifa doing computer science. He spent New Year’s in Eilat, and Pesach with mischpacha. He has been learning a lot of German hanging out with his roommates, Gilad and Julia. The Technion is not noted as a party school, and Mike had been seriously missing the inimitable Beth (who just graduated from Brown), so the two decided to meet in London.

Mike’s trip was almost foiled by the fact that he is technically an Israeli citizen (being the son of an Israeli citizen, me). They did let him out without sending him to do Army service, but it was touch and go. Mike is currently debating between computer science and Egyptology for grad school. Watching him decode relics at the British Musuem gave me much nachas.

Highlights of Mike and Beth’s visit included:
· Dim sum in China town
· Learning to make scones (Beth’s recipe)
· A trip to Borough’s Market to check out the various food stalls
· Lunch at the OXO tower
· Fabulous mother’s day dinner made by Mike and Beth, where Ben was pressed into service as sous chef (for those of you paying attention, that’s five food related items, when you’re with Mike and Beth, you eat well)
· A visit to the National Gallery

Szonyi and I left for Poland mid-visit, which put Mike, tempered by the more compassionate Beth, in charge of Ben. They took Ben out to see The Crucible and then for a late North-African Dinner. The next day, a school day, Mike called Ben in “sick” and they all went out to Dim Sum (again). I am very proud.

I am happiest when I am surrounded by my children. Their interactions with each other and the love, enthusiasm, intelligence, wit and kindness they exude remind me that the best and most important job I’ve ever performed has been as their Mom. My only regret was that David, and his girlfriend Edina could not have joined us at the same time. It is always a treat to be surrounded by all three Greenberg boyz, especially now when it is very rare that I have to prohibit the older two from giving Ben a weggie.

aROMAtherapy

2006-05-23T12:57:00.000-05:00

What can one do when the grey, blah, rainy, London weather causes depression and listlessness? Why, try some aROMAtherapy. Ben and I did just that and found that the warm and sunny climate, beautiful art, and easily accessible and cheap internet cafes (compare this last item to our Paris posting) lifted our spirits enormously.

The trip to the airport justified all my nervous-traveler tendencies. There was a fatality on the track and the our high speed train shut down. Given that I had left a ridiculous amount of extra time, we made it with no problem on the slow and nauseating bus ride to Stanstead airport. (One negative of our very cheap tickets is that we had to fly out of this small airport 30 miles north of London). The plane ride itself was marred by two very screechy kids of mixed British and Italian parentage. The Italian indulgent side seemed to mix with the British "let the governess handle it" attitude (alas there was no governess) to create monsters who rendered the entire plane supporters of either infanticide, euthanasia, or both.

I knew it was going to be a good trip when the guy who met us at the airport had a sign reading "Mr. Ben." I actually think having someone meet you upon arrival is a good idea when you haven't been to a place before. Our other choice would have been a bus, to the train, to the metro, and we weren't quite ready for that (though it was no problem on the return).

We arrived late and hungry on a Friday night. Our hotel was in a residential neighborhood and we went to a local restaurant. At 10:30 the joint was hopping -- and I mean literally. Every time they emerged from the kitchen, the waiters would run, and take a long, showy glide, punctuated by a little hop. There was lots of yelling, supported occasionally by a megaphone to give a shout out to friends passing by the restaurant or to sing happy birthday. The food was delicious -- the best we had while we were there. We were the only non-Italians in the place. My Italian failed regularly -- especially in the din of the small restaurant where the lights were turned out every time a flaming dessert was served and I could consult my Berlitz book.

Rome is not well-marked for tourists, and when we emerged from the metro the next day looking for the Gallaria Bourghese, it took us a while. We stopped for fresh-squeezed blood oranges and got some directions. The Gallaria, once the private resident of the Medici family is over-the-top Baroque marble, gold, art everywhere. Sumptuous, beautiful, and too much all at once. Ditto for the surrounding gardens.

Ben asked, if gallery is galleria, what is diary? I guess Italian art inspires the high brow in him.

Other things we saw:

many lovely fountains by Bernini
the Pantheon (which is now a Catholic Church)
the coliseum
the Roman forum
the Vatican (Ben comments that the Sistine Chapel is overrated. I just don't think anything worth looking at should be on a ceiling unless we're talking mirrors in tawdry motels)
We ate gelato -- some great, some awful

Much of the food was surprisingly disappointing and of the tourist-trap pizza variety. The key, we found, was to search out a place (1) off the beaten track; (2) small; and (3) with lots of Italians eating in it.

Although we had some tiffs, Ben and I made good travel companions. We both enjoyed the change of scene, in fact it was therapeutic.

2006-05-23T11:11:00.000-05:00

A lesuirely stroll down a
British avenue,
North-Carolina style

2006-05-23T11:09:00.000-05:00

The North Carolina Orensteins

at the Tube Station

2006-05-23T11:06:00.000-05:00

Sue Orenstein works in our very orange bedroom to prepare her speech to my family-law class

2006-05-23T11:02:00.000-05:00

Elliot and Sam play

balloon volley-ball

North Carolina Orensteins Come to Visit the Queen...

2006-05-23T10:48:00.000-05:00

...but end up in Islington instead. Rafy, Sue, Elliot and Sam, came for a fabulous visit during the kids' spring break. Highlights included, the Tower of London, the Eye (Sam and Elliot strongly disagree with Saba and Ben's assessment of the slow-moving ferris wheel/ hamster cage as "a lame rip-off"), a (long) walk on the South Bank of the Thames, The Tate Modern, and The Lion King.

Sue, a psychologist, talked to my family law class about when therapy can help families and discussed the latest research on which couples stay together. She was a big hit.

It was a fabulous week of getting to know my nephews better, and the time we spent together was precious. In addition to all the touristy things we did, I enjoyed the meals and the improptu games of balloon volley-ball where an upended inflatable mattress served as the net.

Some Mother's Day Thoughts

2006-05-20T13:17:00.000-05:00

When I'm not teaching law, I moonlight as an advice columnist for the Fort Fairfield Journal in Maine. I got this gig because I liked the paper, which Szonyi's friend Steve Shaw sent to us. I asked the editor if I could sign on as a columnist, and in that he wrote most of the rest of the paper himself, he was game. This alternative paper (which, among other things recommends that its readers not sign up for social security numbers as they are the sign of the beast, see Revelations) will ensure that I will never have a position of public trust. Meanwhile, for my first column, I had to actually make up my own letter. Here's the second column:

OK, Fort Fairfield, so far no letters from readers asking for advice or disagreeing with my first column. My email is aorenste@indiana.edu. If you don’t have access to the internet, send the letter to the editor, David Deschesne, and he will get it to me. Meanwhile, in between compulsively checking my email to see if there’s a letter from a Fort Fairfield reader, I am moved to think about Mother’s Day.

I remember as a kid once asking my mother, no doubt on Mother’s Day, why there was no children’s day. “Every day is children’s day,” she explained with some measure of not-so-subtle criticism of the cushy lives led by my brother, sister, and me. This seemed unfair at the time and still does today. Certainly if children are spoiled, they are not directly to blame. Someone has indulged them inappropriately and then has the bad grace to call them names (or, as in my case, insinuate that they have it way too good).

I am aware, however, of how remarkably lucky I was (and am). Although my family was never wealthy, my father’s salary as a rabbi assured that we never worried about where the next meal was coming from. Being a preacher’s kid did mean some unwanted attention drawn to our family, and some very unwelcome encouragement to be a good role model for other kids – I was already enough of a goody-goody to discourage the popularity I craved. Mostly, though, I felt safe and loved. The only real trauma of my youth was a serious illness of my mother’s. She was in bed for eight months and at points there was doubt as to her recovery. My grandmother stepped in to take care of us kids and I realized that my mother was right – we had it very good. My grandmother was a lot less indulgent.

What one enjoys growing up is not necessarily what one looks back upon with appreciation later on. As a kid, I remember loving to roller skate, to visit the mall (a new concept in architecture), and to go out for fillet of fish. I now, however, appreciate my mother’s work ethic, something that as a kid I took for granted or even perhaps thought of as a negative.

My mother has always been a fierce worker, with high expectations for herself and others. When she was a stay-at-home-Mom, she participated in many charitable organizations and school activities. She always toted a serious book on history, even to the beauty parlor. When, at age 48, she went to law school and launched a second career, she was equally diligent, nerdy even, working first in corporate law and later in criminal defense. One of her proudest moments was getting an innocent man (who had already spent eight years in jail) exonerated and freed.

A willingness to work hard, and a concept of what hard work looked like, turned out to be a great gift. None of us siblings can equal her energy and grit, but she showed us the importance of persistence and how to remain undaunted. Parents teach these values in a million subtle ways. If I could bottle the formula and sell it to lazy, busy, or self-indulgent parents, I’d be a rich woman. But, it turns out, teaching hard work is itself hard work.

This past year has been a tough one for my Mom who has been undergoing treatment for breast cancer. Surgery and the chemotherapy are not for sissies. My Mom almost never complains. Most of her concerns are directed towards her family. Mostly, she doesn’t want us to worry. She also feels bad that my father’s first year of retirement was dominated by her illness, though she acknowledges that he has had plenty of time to play tennis and repeatedly re-injure his knee.

My Mom is an exceptional woman. But then again, most mothers are exceptional, and all have something to teach us (though for some Moms, their teaching is of the inadvertent or “don’t do this” variety).

What should we aim to teach our kids? What are the core aspirations we mothers have for them? I think about this a lot and have determined that my main goals for my three boys are that they be compassionate, involved in their community, kind to those around them, and willing to do their fair share. I don’t care much about their material success, but they should be self-supporting. A healthy, able kid in his thirties who is mooching off his parents is just sad.

This Mother’s Day, I’d like my kids to cook me dinner and make a charitable donation in my honor. A food pantry would be nice. Or they might consider Heiffer.com where you can purchase a goat for a family in Africa that will allow them (between the wool and the milk) to be self supporting. It would be the best Mother’s Day present, better than flowers, or jewelry, or a fancy restaurant meal. By cooking a decent dinner and recognizing their obligations to others, they will demonstrate that I’ve managed to pass on some of the very fine traditions of service and self-sufficiency personified by their grandmother. Nothing would make my Mother’s Day happier.

So, How Are You Enjoying To Krakow (pronounced "Krah-kovf")?

2006-05-20T12:11:00.000-05:00

This was a very weird question to answer in that the whole reason that Szonyi and I went to Krakow was to visit Auschwitz, which is an hour and a half south. We bypassed the market square and the cool castle and went right to Auschwitz as soon as we arrived. The visit was sobering and incongruous. The town of Auschwitz (Osterwitz, in Polish) is a thriving industrial town of fifty thousand. It is set in beautiful countryside with lovely birdsong. It was pouring when we first arrived, but then was sunny and lush. Before we went, I was afraid that I would be so moved that I would immediately head off to work in Darfur. Alternatively, I feared just feeling numb. Neither was the case. Although billed as a museum, and some blocks do have exhibits, it is not like Yad VaShem. Auschwitz is itself a place of great evil, not just a commemoration of it, located, ironically, in a banal, bucolic settling. The place is simply too horrible to absorb fully, but it makes a deep impression. Perhaps the biggest impression was left by the piles of items confiscated from the people in the camps: a room full of kitchenware, another full of shoe polish, a third brimming with combs. Each room made me think of the various owners who had packed their most precious belongings to go to Auschwitz. The items made me reflect on how useless our stuff eventually is to us in time of extremity. The rooms of human hair, eyeglasses, prosthetic devices, emphasized the inhumanity and degradation of the place. Really, who could remove a child’s artificial leg without a twinge of guilt at their own brutality? By comparison the gas chamber and the crematoria were more than I could understand. Perhaps it I will be able to process those images better over time.

The sense of disconnection was enhanced because Auschwitz is clearly a place of German creation where many Poles died. Although Poles have a long history of anti-Semitism, and currently have a government that is homophobic, anti-Semitic, and very pro-USA, there wasn’t any point in being mad at Poles. (I did stick it to them a bit in my lecture, when demonstrating the problems of screening jurors for bias, I asked the Polish audience, “Who doesn’t like Jews?” in order to demonstrate that people don’t always fess up to their prejudices. But I digress). The Poles themselves were pleasant, ingratiating to a fault (may have something to do with how we constantly overpaid for cabs and were big tippers at restaurants). As a people, they struck me as friendly, but not polite, the opposite of the English. When we did go to the Market Square we were treated to what I can only hope was a high-school band playing various U.S. pop music. During “I Will Survive” the horn section sounded more like a moose in its death throes. Around the square was very kitschy art of John Paul II, the Madonna and Child, Krakow, and, creepily, Hassidic Jews davening. Looking around at the so-called folk art, I would say that the Poles invented the tchachke, but the word only has two c’s, and no j, y or sz, so I kind of doubt it.

I went to Poland in the first place to deliver a lecture to a fourth year criminal procedure class: “O.J. Killed Two People and the Jury Voted ‘Not Guilty’: What the O.J. Simpson Case Can Teach Us about the American Criminal Jury.” The lecture both fascinated and horrified the students, who are more familiar with the inquisitorial system. To my amazement, the Dean of Warsaw University, who is an expert in forensic law, provided evidence pictures from the O.J. case (bloody glove, white Bronco, etc.). I had a delightful meeting with Bryan Hemming and his wife Ola, who are in Warsaw for the semester. Bryan, a 2L at Indiana, learned Polish on a two-year mission for the Church of Latter Day Saints -- talk about a thankless task, trying to convert Poles to Mormonism when the Pope is Polish! He's returned to Poland as an exchange student. I also met four people who will be coming to Indiana from Warsaw this coming academic year, including Agnieszka who is writing a PhD on sexual discrimination in higher education and works with an NGO defending the rights of refugees, particularly those from Chechnya.

All in all, Szonyi and I had an interesting time. Perogies were great, as was the borscht and mushroom soup. We felt out of place speaking not a word of Polish. It will be some time before we can fully absorb the gastly and haunting images of Auschwitz.

Loyal Readers -- A Look At What's To Come

2006-04-03T17:17:00.000-05:00

Future Blogs May Include (no promises):

On the Street Where You Live -- A pictorial account of our neighborhood
Happy Birthday to Ben -- He turns 17 on April 6
North Carolina Orensteins do London -- picutres and text galore
Our Visit to the House of Lords or I held the actual Stamp Act in my own hands!

Thanks for your readership. Email me at aorenste@indiana.edu for new and views you wish to add. As must be apparent, we'll print anything.

Love,

Aviva

Our Heritage

2006-04-03T17:13:00.000-05:00

Ben standing in Front of the Romanian Embassy in Paris

Ben in Paris

2006-04-03T17:11:00.000-05:00

Ben communes with Art in the Rodin
Museum.

Cousins

2006-04-03T16:55:00.000-05:00

Aviva & Sarah in Tel Aviv

Princess Arielle

2006-04-03T16:52:00.000-05:00

Happy Purim! Arielle is the daughter of Sarit and Tal, grandaughter to Anne and Hananel. She is expecting a new sibling in the spring. Sarit is an attorney and tour guide. She is currently getting her MA in law and working on issues of compartive criminal law. Tal had a PhD in education and is currently the historian for the border police in Israel.

Yair and his daughter, Na'ama

2006-04-03T16:50:00.000-05:00

Celebrate Purim. Yair is the oldest son of Anne and Hannanel, grandson of Aunt Rhoda and Uncle Abe, "zl. Yair, who works in computer science is marriage to Tamar, an economist. Thye have two kids, Amitai (who was a dalmation for Purim) and Na'ama

The Hills are Alive

2006-04-03T16:18:00.000-05:00

The view from our hotel in Tsfat

2006-04-03T16:04:00.000-05:00

Michael Greenberg standing in front of a beautiful courtyard gateway in the mystical city of Tsfat

Israel Trip

2006-04-03T14:59:00.000-05:00

Over Spring break, I went to visit Mike, who is studying in Israel at the Technion this year. The trip began in Jerusalem, which, as a walled city, celebrates Shushan Purim. My cousin, Anne Mirsky, along with her mother, Aunt Rhoda, husband Hananel, kids and grandkids hosted the Purim meal. Lest you think Yair really has bright orange braids, or that Arielle actually wears a tiara everyday, I should note that Purim is a holiday for dress up. Anne and Aunt Rhoda picked me up at the airport and the hospitality just continued non-stop. The food was delicious and the kids even more so.

Wednesday night I headed for Haifa to see Michael. We went to Shlomo and Elaine's (my mother's cousins) for a visit. Moishe, Shlomo's brother was there too, but Hadassah was recovering from pneumonia. I slept over so Mike could go to classes the next day, studious boy that he is. Shlomo and Elaine wined, dined and exercised me, the last of which occurred at the fabulous pool at the Technion. I've never seen a nicer one, even aside from the jacuzzi, wet sauna, and dry sauna that also graced the place. After Mike finished class, I met his roommates Gilad and Julia, both German and both incredibly nice. Gilad's mother had also arrived for a visit, though she (unlike myself) brought Mike various gifts including kirschwasser (cherry liqueur) for fondue, introduction to German books, and most remarkably, a Raclette, a contraption for both grilling and making mini-melts. Apparently, Mike has been cooking some good eats for his roommates and they made a fabulous meal to reciprocate. In my own defense, I did manage to give Mike some parental smear (moolah), but still felt a bit deficient in the schlepping kitchenware department.

Mike and I spent a long weekend in Tsfat (Safed) an ancient, mystical city not far from the Sea of Galilee, and an important pitstop for the slave trade spurred by entrepreneurial crusaders. Tsfat is also where the Kabbalah was written. Our hotel, Ruth Rimonim, was a contiguous warren of old Turkish homes up in the mountains near the artists' colony and the synagogues of the mystics. More practically, it served the opulent Israeli breakfasts I remember from days of yore. Cheeses, tomatoes that put US version to shame, ditto for the cucumbers and yogurts and mackerel. A large plate (with refills) of heaven. Mike was a no-show 3 for 3 breakfasts. At 10:30 when the dining hall started to close, I would make him up a plate or two. I felt slightly awkward slipping the cutlery into my pocket, but I got over it. There wasn't a ton of stuff to do in Tsfat -- breathe mountain air, visit the artist colony, breathe some more air -- but Mike and I slept late, read, and ate well.

Our final stop was Tel Aviv, to visit the Romanian side of the family. We spent a day with my second cousin Sarah and her family, including Sarah's mother Shelly and Dad, Riku, who just celebrated his 90th birthday, but still thrives and works as an architect (no skyscraper can be built in Israel without his approval). It was our one opportunity (other than a fairly erudite walking tour/sing-along of Tsfat) to speak Hebrew. Mike knows his stuff, occasionally translating mod words for me. We all learned some good slang, and it was sababa. Mike stayed in Tel Aviv for a middle school performance of Chicago in Hebrew in which Yaniv, Mike's third cousin, played a photographer and policeman. Despite Yaniv's grand contribution (there are no small parts, only small actors) the production was lo min hamuvchar, as my parents would say. Mike's one-word review: Oy.

Politically, other than promo spots for election coverage by the network news, one could hardly tell an election was coming up. In Haifa, I saw a kid with a tee shirt that read "I buy only from Jews" and was, of course, outraged. Mostly, I sensed weariness. Olmert's lack of charisma didn't help.

In sum, the hospitality was amazing, the language fun, the food delicious and the company, a certain Michael M. Greenberg, fantastic.

Beat and Yehudit

2006-03-13T10:06:00.000-05:00

Lawrence, Felix, Marianne and Urs sipping Hot Chocolate

2006-03-13T09:59:00.000-05:00

2006-03-13T07:32:00.000-05:00

Here is a photo of the ganse mischpache. At the center are Bride, Tirza (age 19) and the Groom Yankie (age 20). In the first row are Tirza's six siblings (the groom has nine siblings -- not shown). Last row includes all of Szonyi's cousins, from left to write Beat (lawyer and writer, Urs (translator), Moishe (the father of the bride), Manuela (the mother of the bride), Felix (works in the Swiss governemnt), and Lawrence (Cardozo LLM, NY Lawyer).

2006-03-13T07:30:00.000-05:00

Here we are walking in the wet snow to Fondue and the Kunshaus (Museum of Modern Art).

Our Trip to Zurich

2006-03-13T06:54:00.000-05:00

At the end of February, Szone and I went to Zurich for his cousin's daughter's wedding. It started off with a fabulous cab ride (tube station was closed, so we had to cab it to Paddington) with a Nigerian cab driver, who was a font of wisdom. Szone asked him if there were a lot of Nigerians in London, and the driver replied "There are a lot of Nigerians everywhere. If you find a place without Nigerians, you'd best get out!" Our cabbie also railed against the rushing nature of Western Culture (he was scandalized by how early we had left for the airport) and the focus on the future. "It's give us this day our daily bread, not bread for the next three years." he explained. As crazy, nervous, future oriented Westerners, we arrived in plenty of time at the airport.

The Central Railway Station was a nighmare of drunken teens, but our hotel, an easy walk, was spare but clean. The next day, we were greeted in the city by beautiful large sloppy snowflakes. We went out for fondue and then to an absolutely fabulous show at the Kunshaus, Zurich's mondern art museum. The show was all about the use of color in modern art. Although Szone and I disagreed about some of the paintings -- he likes ugly ones so long as they are "interesting," we both really enjoyed it. On the wall were quotes about color. My favorite:

When we overcome matter, denying it any serious quality, the primordial belief
in color with increase in ecstatic fervor and ardor, just as faith in God
increased when images were rejected.

Very interesting Mr. Franz Marc, even for an atheist such as myself with few visual artistic sensibilities.

That evening we went to Uster, a city about 20 minute train ride from Zurich to see Ilsa and Max Wyler. Ilsa is Lilly's late sister-in-law's sister. Although the relationship seems attenuated, Lilly's mother stayed with Ilsa and Max for years and the families are very close. Max, who is 90, is one of the last Jewish Cattle-traders in Switzerland. We had a wonderful meal and a great time. Max speaks very little English so the evening involved a lot of translation and my muddling through in almost non-existent German. Thank goodness for my translator, David Szonyi, cognates, and Learn German with Michel Thomas.

Our Main reason for our being in Zurich was the wedding -- very traditional. Men and women sat separately in the ceremony and the dinner and I wore long sleeves, long skirt and a ridiculous scarf that kept on sliding off my head. Every other woman there had a hat or a wig or both. I was really looked preposterous. During the break between the ceremony and the dinner (about 4 hours) we went with all of Szonyi's cousins (except the mother of the bride) to a famous chocolate shop for hot chocolate. It was a great experience meeting them and having time to talk with Szone's only cousins and their partners. The low point was during the long wedding speeches when the women, who couldn't hear or see the speakers were shushed by an overweight, obnoxious tummler with a whistle, who kept on shouting "Laaaaaaaaadies!" I did enjoy hanging out with Yeudit (Beat's girlfirend) and Talia, (Lawrence's wife) and Marianne (Felix's wife) at the reception and meeting Felix's kids (though Oliver, the boy, was banished to the men's section).

Onions and Orchids

2006-03-11T09:59:00.000-05:00

Those of you familiar with the Herald Telephone, I mean Herald Times, will recognize the phrase as our Hoosier hometown moniker for likes and dislikes. Well, we've been in London long enough to make such facile awards ourselves.

ORCHIDS:

Public Transportation, especially the Tube. Fast, and efficient, if not cheap. Ben is half price. Easy access to airports via public transportation. Some Onions for the tube stops that have no escalator and only large elevators where the wait can be long and the smell and feel of a sardine can is evoked.
Food from the grocery store. There are much fewer additives in the food here. The fruit is better and everything is fresher than one finds in the supermarkets in the States. All eggs are free range. Coke is always made with sugar and not high fructose corn syrup (explaining my current addiction). There are lots of little "off license" Mom and Pop stores, and one can place big orders over the internet and the warehouse will provide an hour's window for delivery to our doorstep.
Great restaurants: Thai, Indiana, falafel, Vegetarian, Italian
Random guys who call me "love" or "darling" (as in "'eer ye go-o luv", or the guy when I explained that I was allergic to strawberries, exclaimed with alarm, "then you cahnt av that darlin!")
BBC radio. Great interviews with public officials who are actually expected to answer the questions.
London A-Z. With this book, one can find anything in London. It is rough on us middleaged folks because the print is so small.
Serious concern about the environment. Global warming is a regular topic of news and concern. My borough of Islington has paper, glass, can, plastic recycling and mandatory composting. (Though our upstairs neighbors don't seem to be with the program, and I am constantly fishing recyclables from their trash).
Cadbury chocolate with hazelnuts. Puts Hershey to shame.

ONIONS:

Public drunkenness.
Tabloids, such as The Sun or The Mirror with the naked woman of the day, make the NY Post and Daily News look like a serious efforts in journalism.
English "cuisine." Recently Szonyi ordered an appetizer called "bait" and though deep fried, the little fisheys still had their beady little eyes in tact and visible. (why I am married to, or ever consider kissing, someone who ate the bait must be the subject of another posting). The beef is inedible.
Absence of sun.
The damp that gets in your bones.
Arcane banking rules. A check made out to Ben on an HSBC account could not be cashed by him at an HSBC branch unless he himself had an account, no could he sign it over to me (I do have such an account -- a coup!). Long lines at ATM's.

Deb & Emmet Featured in the Local Press

2006-02-24T18:41:00.000-05:00

The following appeared in the Los Angeles Jewish Journal

Nonverbal Baby Talk a Sign of the Times
by Sharon Schatz Rosenthal, Contributing Writer

While other infants and young toddlers let out a howl when they are hungry, 14-month-old Emmet Weisz simply brings his hands together at the heel and rotates the right hand over the left, making the hand-sign for his favorite food: cheese.
“He has a great love for dairy,” laughed Emmet’s mother, Rabbi Debra Orenstein, who lives in the Pico-Robertson area. “If I say it’s time for lunch or let’s go to the kitchen, he’ll sign ‘cheese.’”
For the rest of the article, which doesn't feature Deb and Emmett, and hence is of limited interest to our dedicated readers, go to:

http://www.jewishjournal.com/home/preview.php?id=15473

We'll Always Have Paris

2006-02-20T14:11:00.000-05:00

Ben and I just returned from a four day trip to Paris, where we toured, ate well, and sought out every available internet joint on the left bank of the Seine. At night Ben watched French TV -- either MTV or Olympics coverage. Each day began around 11:00 am for Ben when I would bring up a tray of juice and croissants. We hit the Louvre, Musee D'Orsay and the Rodin Museum. We would have also gone to see modern art Pompidou Centre, but I neglected to notice that it was closed on Tuesdays. Mostly, we sought out highlights of the collections and would spend serious time looking at the designated works of art. Ben was truly impressed by Rodin's The Thinker and The Kiss. He also took his time gazing at the inscrutable Mona Lisa. When we weren't being culture vultures, we (that is Ben) climbed great heights, going up to the tippy top of the Eiffel Tower and ascending the roof of Notre Dam. While Ben tootled on the internet, I took long walks and made myself well enough understood to get a haircut. I finally refused a treatment once the woman in the salon explained in very dumbed down French: "It is for the hair to eat." Meals were great, but expensive. We made frequent stops at various Boulangeries. Even the rattiest hole in the wall in the urine-stenched metro served better food than the English are capable of making. At times, the conversation grew tense -- heated talks about privatization of Social Security and the prisoners' dilemma (Ben could not accept that I wouldn't press the button, and I began to feel like a prisoner myself) -- but mostly, it was a wonderful time in a great city.

Message from Ben
=============
Hello! Paris was great. The Eiffel tower:amazing. Well, school is going pretty well-- getting back into the swing of things. Mom is constantly critiquing my writing, and acting as a human grammatik. Stay tuned for the adventures of Benjamin and Aviva, as we go around the globe!

A New Pic of Emmett and A Link to Being Organised (British spelling)

2006-02-20T14:02:00.000-05:00

The kid can use a fork! He's a genius and he has good manners! To learn about how well- organized Emmett's life is, go to The Organizing Maniac, a webpage and business sponsored by a pal of Debby's, who featured Deb and Emmett.
http://list.namasteinteractive.com/functions/message_view.html?mid=1062644&mlid=160090&siteid=25790&uid=ac8b3c3ddf

British Democracy Up Close and Personal: The PM’s Question Hour

2006-02-19T17:09:00.000-05:00

Live, from London! No, not Saturday night satire, but the Prime Minister's question hour in the House of Commons on Wednesday afternoon, February 15, as shown on BBC-TV -- great stuff from by far the world's oldest parliamentary democracy. There are some real challenges to the PM on a host of security issues (Tony Blair is sarcastically confronted by the "shadow" [Conservative Party-designated] foreign secretary on why the government took so long to arrest Abdul Hamza, a just convicted Muslim terrorist) and on a new pending security bill; he responds equally forcefully and wittily to the right honourable gentleman. But there are also questions from MP's, of the PM's own Labour Party among others, on a wide variety of domestic issues, including sharply rising electricity and gas prices, cutbacks in health care, and the difficulty of many middle-class families in obtaining affordable housing (sound familiar?). Of course, a few of the inquiries are "lobs," but far more often, the PM is assaulted on a host of issues. Whatever else one thinks of Blair -- he is widely regarded here as Bush's lapdog on the Iraq War -- he is quick on his feet and often quite elegant in his speech, in a way one couldn't begin to imagine from his often smirking, verbally bumbling counterpart in Washington.

In the U.S., of course, the executive and legislative branches are separate, and the President rarely visits Capitol Hill, except for the annual, very staged State of the Union Address and on the occasion of a national emergency. But in the British system (as mostly replicated in Israel), the executive branch is embedded in the legislative one, thus allowing constituency-based legislators to raise their own and their constituents' concerns to the most powerful figure in the land. Watching the BBC, I tried to imagine Bush answering some well-informed, tough questions, especially inquiries whose purpose was not only to score partisan points, but also to derive some needed information and to forge public policy. How would he function unscripted? I can't see W doing well at all.

--David Szonyi

Some Serious Cuteness

2006-02-08T17:36:00.000-05:00

From the kid who can say "I have a poopy" in three languages. Proud to know you, Emmett Alfred, here seen in the expanding lap of his adoring mother, Debby O.

Difficult Daughters

2006-02-06T14:04:00.000-05:00

Not me, not Debby, and certainly not Sue. Difficult Daughters is the title of the novel that the international book group (sponsored by Ben's school) read. Written by Manju Kapur it is the story of three generations of women who struggled within the tight limits of their family's expectations, while the country struggled for Independence. It highlights the tension between mothers and daughters, though also features tension between Western and Indian, and men and women. The action takes place in the Punjab region that undergoes civil war and separation between Hindus and Muslims. The discussion was led by the Indian group -- a bunch of women who explained the meaning of the characters' names, shed light on the social and religious status of various characters, and offered rich personal insights. The group of all women was very animated. We disagreed over whether the Professor (love interest) was a cad or a victim of circumstance and whether the heroine was strong-willed or merely duped. We talked generally about mothers and daughters, husbands and wives. When the discussion turned to arranged marriages and I got to impress/horrify folks with the fact that I have cousins who still follow such traditions. I arrived at Ben's school at 10:30 and still beat Ben to school because he has two free morning periods back to back once every eight days. Don't ask. The novel wasn't great, but it was good and immersed the reader thoroughly into the daily life of Indian culture. And, unlike many of you, when the food described in the book sounded tasty, there were authentic versions of the same savory delights just blocks away. Okay, sorry to brag, but remember I haven't seen the sun since my parents left, I need something (good conversation, delicious food) to hold me over till it is bright again around here.

Some Movie Reviews from Raf

2006-02-05T16:29:00.000-05:00

My wonderful brother Rafy suggested that the blog might be a good place for everyone to post their favorite movies, or at least a few movies we can easily remember enjoying. That way no one can hold us to it and we don't have to undergo the painful task of trying to remember more than just what pops up.

He would like to hear from others about his collection, which was assembled quickly becuase, as Rafy explains, "I have been using a lot of fiber lately." Raf would be curious to know if something on his fav list is on someone's suckiest list, so that he can challenge you to a duel. Please use the comments section to make scathing remarks about his low brow taste in movies, something all the Orensteins seem to share.

He wrote the follwoing while waiting patiently for the results of a CT scan of the head (not his own) before going to sleep on a Saturday night.

Comedies:

Gods Must Be Crazy
I've been told it is politically incorrect, but I remember laughing my ___ off.

Strictly Ballroom
One of the few movies I have seen more than 3 times as it was always on when I was on call at Jefferson during my residency. The more I watched it, the better it became. It was zany and poignant, particularly if you are sleep deprived.

School of Rock
I saw this one just a few months ago, so I remember it.

Breaking Away
My first introduction to Bloomington and bicycle racing.

Drama (or sensitive guy) Category:

Terms of Endearment
Good for a good cry.

Dirty Dancing
It's always on TNT and my remote drifts to it somehow.

East of Eden
I saw this in Paris when I was trying to speak French to Parisians and Hebrew to the Evenchiks. Thank God it wasn't dubbed. What a welcome relief!

Thriller/Adventure

Hunt for Red October
Even people who like the drama category would like this. It's just too exciting.

The Vanishing
Sue and I were freaked out by this one. Not the English version: I heard that stunk. The French, mais bien sur!

Passenger 57
My all time favorite "kick butt" movie.

Dead Again
I have no idea what this is about, but remember thinking it was well put together and lots o' fun.

Raiders/Lost Ark
I'm putting this down so when my kids can watch a movie that involves kissing, I'll remember to watch this with them.

Sci/FI

Total Recall
It's very clever, even though it starred a governor of California.

Star Wars #5
Everyone has a favorite number. I'm partial to Yoda.

The Matrix

Foreign

Jean de Floret
I think this is my favorite movie of all time. I hope I spelled it right.

The Postman
The Italian one with Pablo Neruda. I think that's what it's called. I loved it. It's funny how you remember where you saw the good ones for the first time. This was in the Bourse building in Phila.

Classics

Wizard of Oz
It scared the bejesus out of me. I had to spell-check bejesus. It's kind of an offensive epithet. I always thought it was begeezus. I had to look it up in the Merriam Webster site. Still, the move is so great.

It's a Wonderful Life
We saw the one in which George Bush the first described the action for the blind. We could not figure out that voice and thought for a while it might be Paul Lynn. Then we figured it out and it was hilarious.

On the Riverfront
Beware of sexist scenes.

That's all for now. Time to check on that guy's CT scan.

Dr. To The Stars -- and Aviva

2006-02-05T15:59:00.000-05:00

If you have been reading the blog with any care you have noted that every single entry makes reference to my ever-present cough. I live with it; you have to read about it. The turning point, where my ailment went from pathetic and feverish to merely annoying and disgusting occurred after seeing Dr. Court, a doctor who is not part of the National Health Care establishment, and has the fees to prove it. Cutting to the chase, Dr. Chase charged £90 for a consultation -- about $170 and rising (depending on when one performs the pounds to dollars conversion). What did I get for this 20 minute, $510/hr consultation? I arrived at a gorgeous apartment building, breezed by the doorman, and was buzzed in my the receptionist. The waiting room was absolutely empty -- no pesky sick people reading tabloids or looking infectious. Two nanoseconds after arriving I gave my address to the receptionist and she offered to hang up my coat. This was a little embarrassing in that my zipper was broken and I had to sort of climb out of it, but I did so with as much dignity as my hacking cough would allow. Immediately thereafter -- no waiting -- I was ushered into a room with a large class table. I met Dr. Court who shook my hand (sort of risky under the circumstances, I thought) and then sat across the table from me to take a very thorough history. He actually seemed to listen to what I was saying. Dr. Court then ushered me into the adjacent examining room and took my temperature, looked in my ears, and listened with his stethoscope, and had me blow into a tube. He pronounced: "You have stuff in your chest." My attempts to clarify indicated that I did not have pneumonia -- I would have been feeling much worse if I did -- but that I did need antibiotics, which he prescribed, and had to continue with asthma inhalers. Dr. Court was attentive, caring and, true to his name, courtly. In retrospect, I realized that this is the treatment famous people get -- no waiting, total privacy, good care, and outrageous prices. I bet I am his only patient in recent memory to have traveled by tube to see him.

January in London...

2006-02-03T11:43:00.000-05:00

...ain't Paris in the Springtime, but has nevertheless been wonderful. Szonyi and I have both been sick, Ben suspiciously healthy. The weather (which even I talk about with a certain obsessive fervor) has been cold and damp. The sun has only made an appearance when my parents came to visit, something my Dad says happens every time he visits London. Here, in no particular order are the highlights of a great month:

* Visit of Sylvia and Jehiel Orenstein on their way back from Israel where they celebrated the birthday of Cousin Riku (from the Rumanian side of the family).

They brought, in addition to literal sunshine (see above) the figurative sunshine of news of Mike and Beth. Mike is studying in Haifa at the Technion and Beth is visiting Mike. The trip in Israel involved a lot of wining and dining of the young couple. I was heartened to hear from Mike that even he had trouble keeping up with Savta (my Mom, Sylvia). 8 am breakfasts were de rigor.
In London, the pace for the Orenstein Srs. was no less ambitious. We dined well (Italian, Indian, Vietnamese, Thai, everything except English "cuisine"). We saw two plays, A Comedy of Errors by Shakespeare and Shaw's You Never Can Tell, and one movie, Woodie Allen's creepy movie Matchpoint, which was set in London. We also visited the glorious British Museum, where one can see treasures stolen from around the world.
Szonyi and my folks attended my Evidence class, where Abba and Szonyi participated avidly, and Ema gave a brief summary of her legal victory (see previous post). Only my mother had the energy to come back for more, attending the family law class as well.
For Shabbes, Ema and I went via tube to Golder's Green and schlepped back prepared kosher food to our side of town. We almost didn't make it given the gusty winds and weight of the chicken soup.
On Saturday morning, Szonyi and Abba went to a bar mitzvah where the Chief Rabbi, Jonathan Sacks, spoke, and where there were lycee nuts, cholent, and other exotica at the kiddish.
Finally, Saba and Ben went on what was deemed "the greatest rip off in the world," the London Eye, a gigantic, slow moving ferris wheel.

A great time was had by all despite the cramped quarters and the fact that my Mom could not get a hot shower. She did, however, start cleaning the apartment whenever my back was turned.

*Visit of David Greenberg from Heidelberg
As many of you know David will soon be starting a PhD program in neurobiology at the Max Planck Institute. He came to London where we had a great time with him watching esoteric art films by French Communists, tracking through the British Museum, and going to a fabulous exhibit of the Tate Modern on the jungle motifs of Henri Rousseau (think nude on couch with tiger in the middle of a Jungle). Rousseau was an autodidat who wanted nothing more than to be part of the Paris academic art scene, but actually was more bold and primitive than technically correct in his pictures, Interestingly, he never left Paris. He painted the animals from zoos and the flora from various hothouses. David also managed to spend some time with some college friends, and to help Ben out with math and trips to the pub. I hope he returns soon.

* Attendance at the Commitment Ceremony of Lorraine and Karen
The UK has enacted civil partnerships open to gay couples that replicate the legal benefits and obligations of marriage. Szonyi's cousin, Lorraine, was civilly united with her partner Karen on January 13, and we were very privileged to be part of the ceremony and celebration that followed. The ceremony itself, conducted by a magistrate was beautiful, involving an exchange of rings, recitation of poetry, affirmation of commitments, and signature of the legal document. The venue was a lovely country inn that used to be Beatrice Potter's estate, located in the town of Hatfield about 20 miles north of London. After the ceremony we had dinner and then fireworks. The brides looked radiant. The only negative note was sounded by yours truly in the form of a hacking cough during the ceremony, which my attempts to suppress only made worse. One of the brides (Karen) actually handed me a glass of water, proving that even on her most special day, she was still generous and looking out for others. At the dinner, we were the only Americans and enjoyed talking to the very interesting and welcoming assembly of friends and family.

*What is Ben up to?

Ben still hasn't taken his Japanese final from last semester (an omission caused by multiple transmission errors over email, and one that will finally be corrected tomorrow). Otherwise, he has his hands full with Human Geography and US History. The level and amount of work at the American School exceeds anything Ben saw in Bloomington, but he is rising to the challenge. He's also taking Japanese, maths, and creative writing. Slowly he's making friend with kids from school and from the neighborhood -- two very different sites of human geography. I am very proud of his openness to new ideas and experiences. Ben spends a lot of time on wikepeidia writing and editing. He also is reading a lot about music and literary criticism. Although no one could accuse him of studying too hard, Ben's intellectual curiosity is vast and even his recreation time is spent learning new things (not, Japanese things that would help him on his final from last semester, but nevertheless interesting and challenging pursuits).

SYLVIA ORENSTEIN WINS A BIG ONE

2006-01-17T06:18:00.000-05:00

As many of you know, my mother, Sylvia, is an attorney in the Appellate Division of the New Jersey Public Defenders Office. After raising three kids, she went to law school, beat out all those twenty somethings and made law review, clerked for a judge, and then went to a large law firm where she worked "part time" 60 hours a week. Eventually, she switched to defending poor people and has to her credit a major decision on cross-racial identification in the New Jersey Supreme Court. She is currently working on a death penalty case. In between her briefs for her regular clients and requests for sentence reductions, she also took on a particularly sick and deserving prisoner who was probably innocent in the first place and certainly had served sufficient time. Almost blind with a severe heart condition, Bobby Cumber was a worthy candidate for clemency. A brilliant and moving clemency petition by Sylvia Orenstein, esq., prompted New Jersey Governor Codey to grant clemency to Mr. Cumber. To read about it, check out http://www.nj.com/news/ledger/jersey/index.ssf?/base/news-2/1137304018259080.xml&coll=1 In the clemency petition my mother stressed the severe questions about Mr. Cumber's guilt (at best he was a bit player who had no idea a murder was being planned), his frail health, and the fact that the prison system medical care had not been adequate to his pressing health needs. As you can imagine, the genre is a delicate one -- the primary argument for clemency is mercy for a sick person, but she also managed to demonstrate the possibility of innocence and hint at the terrible care he received in prison (without highlighting the possibility that he could sue the state when he gets out). Bobby Cumber's wife, Myra, has stood by him the entire time, although he has been in prison over twenty years, more than half their married life. The good news came while Sylvia was in Israel celebrating our cousin Riku's 90th birthday. She called Myra from Jerusalem. When Sylvia told where she was calling from, Myra Cumber who'd had her share of surprises in the last few days said flatly: "You're kidding." But kid you not, criminals and evil-doers of New Jersey -- as well as those opposed to the death penalty, falsely accused, or inappropriately sentenced -- Sylvia Orenstein is on the case.

The Flu, The Strike, the Absent Sun & that Wet Dog Smell

2006-01-09T02:51:00.000-05:00

Before I left, I read an article about adjustment to foreign living: first euphoria about the newness and coolness of it all; next, discouragement and dejection as the realities of life sink in and invidious comparisons are made to the beloved home country; and finally, acceptance and adjustment. Well I seemed to have whizzed through phrase one, and I can only hope that phase two is equally short.

To be fair, my mood has been influenced by having the worst flu of my life (with the possible exception of January 2000 when Szonyi poured me into a car service New Year's day and took me back to NJ where my mother could minister to me). At night, I had dreams that my body was a match stick and my head was on fire. Happily, my moaning didn't seem to disturb Szonyi. Although one side effect of my high fever was a paranoid belief that Szonyi and Ben were out to do me harm (I'm still not so sure about Ben) I have to acknowledge that Szonyi has been wonderful or as we here in London would say, "brilliant," making multiple trips for water, medicines, and, when I was up to it, reading to me from The Whore's Child by Richard Russo, recommended by both Lesley Davis and Ruthie Cohen, an unbeatable literary team.

This morning, Ben's second real day of school, and the first day we had any genuine hope that he could get there on his own without incident, there is a tube strike. Szonyi and Ben ventured out
with a bus route in hand but not quite songs in their hearts. We are still not adjusted to the time, tired and cranky, and totally unprepared for tackling a new transportation system before having mastered the old one. I was hanging around waiting for our groceries to be delivered, accompanied as always, by my death rattle of a cough.

The sun "rises" around seven and "sets" around four, but believe me folks, we are talking shades of grey. Szonyi, whose last move before bed is to check the next day's weather, so far hasn't been deterred by the fact that the forecast is always the same: low thirties and rain showers. I totally understand the impulse to colonize India, and also get why Englishmen never come out of the mid-day sun...they have never seen it before and don't know what it is.

My grudge match with the dryer is taking on mythic proportions. Everything half dries and all my stuff -- hell the whole country -- smells like wet dog. I don't even like dry dogs.

Please write to me and I will post some news of Mike and David soon. Today is my orientation day at school and then back home to collapse.

Love,
Aviva

3901 NEWS -- IN LONDON

2006-01-05T08:27:00.000-05:00

To all my dedicated readers (those 4 spammers who made comments to the blog and my true, apparently shy friends and family who don't have self-promotive instincts to write comments):

After an unreasonably long hiatus, 3901 News resumes its postings from London, where Szonyi, Ben, and I will live until June. Our address is 24a Courtney Rd, N7 7BQ, and we welcome visitors with a bit of notice and tolerance for a sofabed. We are currently living in Islington, the less posh part [please note the subtle Britishism substituting posh for fancy, there will be much more of that, so carry on] off the Holloway Rd. You won't find it on a standard map of central London, we are just North of upper street, where most maps cut out. Our neighborhood is very diverse and it is just as common to hear foreign languages as it is English. Standing on a very long line for the post office, I heard what sounded to be Hebrew -- the woman clearly had said lo naim li (it's not pleasant for me) in Hebrew, but then made a lot of sounds I couldn't recognize. Ben figured out that she must be Falashin, Ethiopian via Israel, and she was chattering in some kind of combination of the two languages into her cell phone. I have heard a significant amount of unadulterated Hebrew, but mostly from the security guards at Ben's school who are thoroughly not amused that they could be busted so easily by a parent. I think they are comfortable using Hebrew as a secret language (sort of like the Navaho transmitters in World War II) and are aghast that with names Uri and Ido, wires in their ears, and crepe soled shoes, they could be so transparently identifiable.

Our apartment is nice, but small. Two bedrooms downstairs, a livingroom, bath, and kitchen upstairs. It is painted very bright colors -- living room is two toned orange and red -- the only part I really don't care for is the lime green hallways. The kids of the owners have put sticklers on everything, a fact that calms me down about the standard of care and cleanliness that would be expected. Other than a grudge match with the dryer -- it works on a principle of condenscation and not so much heat -- I think the place will suit us fine. We are just two blocks from a huge soccer stadium. Last night when there was a game there was a significant police presence in our subway stop and when a goal was scored you could hear the crowd cheer.

Ben is attending the American school in London where he'll take US history, Japanese, journalism, English, maths, and world geography. Ben has a 10 minute walk and then a half an hour tube ride to school (the ride is longer if you start by going the wrong direction on the tube, as we did this morning). He has to change trains front he Victoria to the Jubilee line and ends up in one of the fanciest sections of London, St. John's Wood. The stores on the high street are very expensive (about double what we pay in our much more modest neighborhood for a chocolate croissant, my personal measuring stick.) Ben insisting that he never gets cold, refused to take a real winter coat (just a sweatshirt jacket and a thin leather jacket). I reminded him of this fact as he froze on the was to the tube this damp chilly morning, remarking that lucky for him, I am not the type to say I told you so, and even lent him my hat. It heartened me a bit that even the Brits were complaining about the weather. Four years of living with David M. Szonyi has prepared me for lengthy discussions about the weather, including an ability to discourse about the merits of a late fall versus early spring jacket. Meanwhile, I have developed an impressive consumptive cough. I'll let you know when the bird flu hits.

After dropping Ben off, I went to shop near his school -- kosher food, shabbes candles, challah and bagels are all available there and not in my neighborhood. I noticed that a lot of the expat Moms congregate at Starbucks after dropping their kids off. Much as I'd like to meet them, I have a policy against entering a Starbucks unless a colleague is paying (just ask Fred, Hannah or Leandra). Instead, I had a cafe mocha at a very upscale joint where two neighborhood ladies and I struck up a conversation. I was telling them about Ben's commute and they observed that Ben would be able to drive in a year. I was stunned that they assumed schlumpy old me owned a car, let alone that I had a spare one to give to a teenager who is still, like me, learning to look right when crossing the street. The mention of Ben's school identified me as a member of the privileged class. Little do they know that I am a poor professor who just happened to raid her kid's college fund to cover the extremely pricey tuition. College is overrated anyway.

So far, no sight seeing, but we are lucky that the apartment was internet read to go. Ben has spent a lot of time editing his article on the history of hip hop on wikepedia, negotiating with would be editors suggesting changes and vandals defacing the page. Between sleeping off jet lag and early morning school for Ben, we are basically just getting by doing laundry and buying groceries. We have had some fabulous Indian food. Soon things will pick up. The main thing I am dreading is possible tube strike this Monday.

Please check out the blog -- I have back info to post about David and Mike as well as some pictures of my adorable nephews.

Love,
Aviva

Apikurios.com

2005-08-22T07:24:00.000-05:00

Here's a portion of a shiur from Bet Midrash Virtuali an on-line mishnah course. It presents the etymology of Apikorus, a person who knows Jewish principles and practices but shamefully flouts them. (Although temperamentally suited, I am not knowledgeable enough to qualify). If, like me, you'd like to become less of an Am Ha-Aretz (ignoramus) you can subsribe to the e-lesson at Virtual Bet Midrash [admin@bmv.org.il]. The current lessons are on ethics and all prior lessons are archived.

TRACTATE AVOT, CHAPTER TWO, MISHNAH ELEVEN (recap):

They [each] used to say three things. Rabbi Eli'ezer says: Let your colleague's honour be as dear to you as your own and do not give way to anger easily; repent one day before you die; warm yourself at the fire of the sages but be wary not to be burned by their embers: for their bite is the bite of a fox, their sting is the sting of a scorpion, their hiss is the hiss of a serpent - and their every word burning coals.

EXPLANATIONS (continued):

5:The second (or third) teaching of Rabbi Eli'ezer taught in our mishnah concerns repentance. Rather succinctly he tells us to "repent one day before you die". Clearly this means that we should repent of our sins daily, since no one knows the day of his death in advance. This is made clear when in the Gemara [Shabbat 153b] Rabbi Eli'ezer is questioned by his students about this teaching of his:

It is taught elsewhere [in Avot 2:11, as we know] that rabbi Eli'ezer says: "Repent one day before you die". His students questioned Rabbi Eli'ezer: "Does anyone know on what day he will die?" He responded: "Then he should certainly repent today lest he die tomorrow. Thus one will be in constant repentance."

6:Clearly this line of thought is the exact antithesis of the teaching of the Athenian philosopher Epicurus, who lived some 350 years before Rabbi Eli'ezer. Those who followed his philosophy are called Epicureans. Epicurus' disciples were enamoured with his doctrine and presented him with a garden at Athens. At the garden Epicurus began a school - almost a community of sorts - with men and women meeting as equals in discourse. After his death, Epicurus left his home and garden to be used as a headquarters for the Epicureans. They believed you were here today and gone tomorrow, so why not enjoy life while you can? "Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow, we die." For them, the hedonistic idea of seeking pleasure was the main purpose in life. They did not deny the existence of any gods, but maintained they were totally indifferent to the affairs of men who were left to find pleasure as they could. The result of this is to have no fear of God and consequently they were given over to gross sensualism. It was this indifference to any kind of religious responsibility that eventually gave rise to the use by the sages of the epithet Apikoros (Epicurean) to anyone who scoffed at or rejected the idea of man's ethical responsibility.

The Elephant & My Jewish Problem

2005-08-16T08:58:00.000-05:00

The Elephant and the Szonyi Question: David M. Szonyi gets up close and personal with an elephant at the Indianapolis Zoo. Fred and Beth Cate gave us and our family friend Daisy Baker a behind the scenes tour of the elephant barn during our excursion with Daisy. Szonyi is at pains to let our readers know that his cavorting with elephants has nothing to do with his political leanings.

Some bons mots from George Carlin

2005-08-11T22:21:00.000-05:00

CONSTITUTION:
They keep talking about drafting a Constitution for Iraq. Why don't we just give them ours? It was written by a lot of really smart guys! It's worked for over 200 years and we're not using it anymore.

TEN COMMANDMENTS:
The real reason that we can't have the Ten Commandments in a Courthouse? You cannot post "Thou Shalt Not Steal," "Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery" and "Thou Shall Not Lie" in a building full of lawyers, judges and politicians! It creates a hostile work environment!

MARTHA STEWART:
Boy, I feel a lot safer now that she's behind bars. O.J. Simpson and Kobe Bryant are still walking around; Osama Bin Laden too. But they take the one woman in America willing to cook, clean, and work in the yard, and haul her ass off to jail???

Hello from SO

2005-08-09T10:41:00.000-05:00

South Orange NJ, ancestral home of the Orensteins, where we are being wined and dined with abandon. Our vacation was initiated by a delay into Newark airport, a familiar if inauspicious beginning. Sz and I picked up Benster from SIG (the "gifted" program) and then, after an interminable awards ceremony and Goodbye Video (in which Ben figured prominently to some serious applause from his fellow gifted ones) we went to the Adlers for a lovely breakfast. We had an opportunity to schmooze and see pictures of Cape Town, and Mike and Beth, courtesy of Jeremy, Beth's brother who had just been visiting. With any luck we'll be posting some pictures soon. The Adlers were, in the unforgettable words of Sylvia Orenstein, a port in the storm, when we dropped off Ben during torrential rain. We had a magnificent visit with them on the return jouney as well (part of it spent napping by Ben).

Yesterday I took Phyllis, an old neighbor from when we lived in SO, to get Food Stamps. What an awful experience for everyone. I understand the need to recertify. I even understand the need not to make it too easy or pleasant for some shirkers. One woman in a loud voice proclaimed: "This is ridiculous! I am going to go get me a job." But others expressed concern about being late for work. Clearly people can be working their hardest and still need the support of food stamps. Surely for Phyllis, age 80+ the hardship is inexcusable. She is entirely deserving. Worked all her life, served as a WAC in WWII, and she doesn't have enough money to meet her very modest basic needs. The individual workers were actually quite nice, but the set-up was something out of Kafka with the clear message that if you're poor your time is valueless. Time is money, but the important variation obviously is that time is money for people with money. For the poor, their time is cheap.

Going out tonight with Svetlana for Vietnamese food in the city. Not going to the Korean Ladies because laguage barrier might cause injury to my sensitive calfs. Below is the story of the Korean ladies, which I shared with some of you when I first encountered them.

I have a window of time to prepare for next semester and most importantly RELAX
before the onslaught of exam-grading and the start of fall teaching. My partner in pedagogy, Melanie, who’s very cool both as a colleague and a commuting companion (suffice it to say that not everyone would read me the letters to the editors of People Magazine adding witty commentary), remarked that I didn’t seem sufficiently celebratory at the end of the summer. I was not, in her words "enjoying the moment." I took her criticism to heart and went to this place whose ad I saw in New York Magazine. Two hours of crazy bliss in Little Korea was the result. It began with written instructions in my locker: "strip yourself and enter haven." Oral instructions: "Key, fuck it" ended up meaning that I was supposed to put the locker key in my pocket. The two hours ended with my caretaker’s pointing to the sign about tipping being customary. In between, I sat in a steam sauna, a dried sauna, showered numerous times and was thoroughly roughed up by my caretaker (I couldn’t get her name) who slapped me with some very hot towels and held onto a bar on the ceiling as she tread on my back. By far the best and most unusual part was the exfoliation, accomplished with a scouring pad. It turns out that the thing that has been making me so cranky this summer was the top layer or two of my skin. Next came the baby oil phase where I was so slicked up there was a constant worry of my sliding off the table. All greased up this way, I was pretty easy to push around as my head was positioned for the facial and shampoo. With the skin gone and the rest of me cleaner than I have ever been in my life, I really did feel relaxed and baby-soft. If I had time, I would have gone out to dinner afterwards to make the afternoon of indulgence complete. But alas, Szonyi was having some computer problems and I was needed at home. I cannot overstate what a great and wild experience this spa was. Who’s game to join for my next trip? All the events happen in a room that is best analogized to a Loehman’s dressing room in Waterworld. There is a real feeling of sisterhood. And I don’t think the women in charge are as angry as
they actually sound barking out commands in the very limited English at their disposal. Although the experience was intensely relaxing and pampering, I hardly
felt like the ugly American; the power dynamic was at best ambiguous while my
caretaker was barking out orders and hosing me down dressed in a black bra and
panties. (Spring 2003)

Raf, the Entertainer

2005-08-01T21:18:00.000-05:00

My brother Rafy, father
of those two cuties, Elliot &
Sam, performed the song,
Jehiel, sung to the tune of
Maria from West Side Story.

Raf was a hit!

Some notable lyrics:

Jehiel, I just met a man named Jehiel
He used to be Rabbi
But now he's just a guy
with a kippah

Jehiel, I just met a Jew named Jehiel
He's given up the bimah
A change in his life schema
For good

Jehiel
Now that you won't be officiating
You'll have time to improve your chess rating
Jehiel
How will the couples keep mating?

Jehiel he asked to play tennis Jehiel
I said I'd like to play
He said pick any day
This month.

Jehiel a man with both time and appeal

A Nancy-Reagan Like Beam

2005-08-01T21:16:00.000-05:00

Sometimes she
does adore him

Greenberg Boyz Say HaMotzi

2005-08-01T21:15:00.000-05:00

Not one of them
disgraced the family

Give Those Folks a Hand

2005-08-01T21:11:00.000-05:00

Ema and Abba
received a standing
ovation at the big
retirement dinner
do. More pictures
to follow.

A Note from Geza and Lilly (Szonyi's parents)

2005-07-29T10:58:00.000-05:00

Greetings from the 80plus team in Lexington, Mass. We very much enjoyed all the news in your blog, which connected us with the rest of the Orenstein family, near and far. We loved snapshots of Sam and Elliot, Emmett and his parents and interesting news from Ben as well as from Beth and Mike in Cape Town. Your comments about Sylvia were especially appreciated.

We just got over the worst dog days of summer. It was too hot to go swimming, and we finally showed some good sense in just staying in cool places, forgetting about our ambitions to swim at least l0 laps each day.

More interesting news may follow in the fall, when cooler weather will allow us to use our brains again.

In the meantime: best regards to all from Lilly and Geza (Szonyi) from "North Country"

A Life-Affirming Death Notice

2005-07-28T20:11:00.000-05:00

The following actually appeared in the Raleigh News and Observer. It demonstrates that even a deadly (pardon the pun) dull genre, can be enlivened by the right, and in this case, loving, author.

On June 3, 2005 at 10:45 p.m. in Memphis, Tenn., Dorothy Gibson Cully, 86, died peacefully, while in the loving care of her two favorite children, Barbara and David. All of her breath leaked out. The mother of four children, grandmother to 11, great-grandmother to nine, devoted wife for 56 years to the late Ralph Chester Cully and a true friend to many, Dot had been active as a volunteer in the Catholic Church and other community charities for much of the past 25 years.She was born the second child of six in 1919 as Frances Dorothy Gibson, daughter to Kathleen Heard Gibson and Calvin Hooper Gibson, an inventor best known as the first person since the Middle Ages to calculate the arcane lead-to-gold formula. Unable to actually p! rove this complex theory scientifically, and frustrated by the cruel conspiracy of the so-called "scientific community" working against his efforts, he ultimately stuck his head in a heated gas oven with a golden delicious apple propped in his mouth.
Miraculously, the apple was saved for the evening dessert. Calvin was not. Native Marylanders and longtime Baltimore, Kent Island and Ocean City residents, Ralph and Dot later resided in Lakeland, Fla., and Virginia Beach, Va. Several years after Ralph's death, Dot moved to Raleigh in 2001, where she lived with her son David. At the time of her death, Dot was visiting her daughter Carol in Memphis. Carol and her husband, Ron, away from home attending a "very important conference" at a posh Florida resort, rushed home 10 days later after learning of the death. Dot's other children, dutifully at their mother's side helping with the normal last-minute arrangements -- hospice notification, funeral parlor notice, revising the will, etc. -- happily picked up the considerable slack of the absent former heiress. Dot is warmly remembered as a generous, spiritually strong, resourceful, tolerant and smart woman, who was always ready to help and never judged others or their short- comings. Dot always found time to knit sweaters, sew quilts and send written notes to the family children, all while working a full-time job, volunteering as Girl Scout leader and donating considerable time to local charities and the neighborhood Catholic Church. Dot graduated from Eastern High School at 15, worked in Baltimore full time from 1934 to 1979, beginning as a factory worker at Cross & Blackwell and retiring after 30 years as property manager and controller for a Baltimore conglom- rate, Housing Engineering Company, all while raising four children, two of whom are fairly normal. An Irishwoman proud of and curious about her heritage, she was a voracious reader of historical novels, particularly those about the glories and trials of Ireland. Dot also loved to travel, her favorite destination being Eire's auld sod, where she dreamed of the magic, mystery and legend of the Emerald Isle.Dot Cully is survived by her sisters, Ginny Torrico in Virginia, Marian Lee in Florida and Eileen Adams in Baltimore; her brother, Russell Gibson of Fallston, Md.; her children, Barbara Frost of Ocean City, Md., Carol eroney of Memphis, Tenn., David Cully of Raleigh, N.C. and Stephen Cully of altimore, Md. Contributions to the Wake County (N.C.) Hospice Services are welcomed. Opinions about the details of his obit are not, since Mom would have liked it this way.

For sleep-starved parents, crazy teenagers and creative types who are blocked

2005-07-28T18:10:00.000-05:00

Study confirms sleep essential for creativity

German scientists say they have demonstrated for the first time that our sleeping brains continue working on problems that baffle us during the day, and the right answer may come more easily after eight hours of rest.

The German study is considered to be the first hard evidence supporting the common sense notion that creativity and problem solving appear to be directly linked to adequate sleep, scientists say. Other researchers who did not contribute to the experiment say it provides a valuable reminder for overtired workers and students that sleep is often the best medicine.

Previous studies have shown that 70 million Americans are sleep-deprived, contributing to increased accidents, worsening health and lower test scores. But the new German experiment takes the subject a step further to show how sleep can help to turn yesterday's problem into today's solution.

***
Scientists at the University of Luebeck in Germany found that volunteers taking a simple math test were three times more likely than sleep-deprived participants to figure out a hidden rule for converting the numbers into the right answer if they had eight hours of sleep. The results appear in Thursday's issue of the journal Nature.

The study involved 106 people divided into five separate groups of equal numbers of men and women ages 18 to 32. One group slept, another stayed awake all night, and a third stayed awake all day for eight-hour periods before testing following training in the main experiment. Two other groups were used in a supplemental experiment.

The study participants performed a "number reduction task" according to two rules that allowed them to transform strings of eight digits into a new string that fit the rules. A third rule was hidden in the pattern, and researchers monitored the test subjects continuously to see when they figure out the third rule.The group that got eight hours of sleep before tackling the problem was nearly three times more likely to figure out the rule than the group that stayed awake at night.

Jan Born, who led the study, said the results support biochemical studies of the brain that indicate memories are restructured before they are stored. Creativity also appears to be enhanced in the process, he said.

"This restructuring might be occurring in such a way that the problem is easier to solve," Born said.

Born said the exact process in the sleeping brain for sharpening these abilities remains unclear. The changes leading to creativity or problem-solving insight occur during "slow wave" or deep sleep that typically occurs in the first four hours of the sleep cycle, he said.

The results also may explain the memory problems associated with aging because older people typically have trouble getting enough sleep, especially the kind of deep sleep needed to process memories, Born said.

"Even gradual decreases in the total time for slow wave sleep and deep sleep is correlated to a kind of decrease in memory function, and in turn to a decrease in the ability to recognize hidden structures or the awareness of such things," Born said.

Other researchers said they have long suspected that sleep helps to consolidate memories and sharpen thoughts. But until now it had been difficult to design an experiment that would test how it improves insight.

History is dotted with incidents where artists and scientists have awakened to make their most notable contributions after long periods of frustration. For example, that's how Russian chemist Dmitri Mendeleev established the periodic table of elements and British poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote his epic "Kubla Khan."

Born and his team "have applied a clever test that allows them to determine exactly when insight occurs," wrote Pierre Maquet and Perrine Ruby at the University of Liege in a commentary on the research, also published in Nature.

Maquet and Ruby both say the study should be considered a warning to schools, employers and government agencies that sleep makes a huge difference in mental performance.
The results "give us good reason to fully respect our periods of sleep -- especially given the current trend to recklessly curtail them," they said.

An interesting link for news junkies

2005-07-28T18:05:00.000-05:00

Curious how others around the world see the news? Check out the following link that will connect you to the front page of over 400 newpapers around the globe.

http://www.newseum.org/todaysfrontpages/flash/

David's Graduation from Brown

2005-07-28T10:06:00.000-05:00

Fabulous Day and lovely picture of three Greenberg Boyz.
David graduated with honors with a degree in math. We all
shared a lovely picnic lunch provided by Jon and Ephraim.
In this photo David is wearing his gown, but Ben, in anticipation
of future triumphs, has appropriated the hat.

Newest pix of Emmett and his Adorable Parents

2005-07-26T15:40:00.000-05:00

Here's a picture from Emmett's trip to the Weisz family reunion. Emmett's birthday is coming up at the end of August. By then he will be fully recovered from his pneumonia, although his parents may not be.

A Joke from Szonyi

2005-07-26T14:39:00.000-05:00

Moishe is driving in Jerusalem.

He's late for a meeting, he's looking for a parking place, and can't find one.

In desperation, he turns towards heaven and says,

"G-d, if you find me a parking place, I promise that I'll eat only kosher, respect Shabbos, and all the holidays."

Miraculously, a place opens up just in front of him.

He turns his face up to heaven and says,

"Never mind, I just found one."

Can you take NJ out of the Girl?

2005-07-23T10:25:00.000-05:00

People around these parts (Bloomington, Indiana) will often comment to me, "you're not from around here," or ask "are you from NY?" and then get very nervous if I ask them what makes them think so. The truth is that it is hard to take New Jersey out of the girl, and even though this girl, on and off, has lived in Indiana since 1992, there are parts of my personality and driving habits that scream east coast.

I thought you might enjoy a column from the Chicago Tribune on the subject of midwest calm, a quality attributd to Judge Roberts, the lastest nominee to the Supreme Court. The piece features my colleague, Craig Bradley, who is in fine form. Some have suggested that "calm" is a code word for non-Jewish (just as New Yorker is a code word for Jewish).

`Midwest calm': What's that supposed to mean?
By Nara Schoenberg
Tribune staff reporter
July 22, 2005
Plato wrote in praise of calm, as did Wordsworth.
Calm is good when a tornado is approaching.
But when The New York Times quotes a former colleague of Supreme Court nominee John Roberts Jr.'s, who grew up in Indiana, as saying he possesses a "Midwest calm"?
Hmmm. We're not so sure.
On the one hand, Midwesterners are indeed a relatively low-key lot, prone, statistically speaking, to understatement and self-deprecation. Not prone, in general, to temper tantrums.
On the other hand, calm?
"That is such an interesting word, calm," says Ruth Olson, associate director of the Center for the Study of Upper Midwestern Cultures at the University of Wisconsin, who sees links between the concept of "Midwest calm" and the more widely used "Minnesota nice," which is not necessarily a compliment.
Indiana University law professor Craig Bradley, who hails from a suburb of Chicago -- city of "brawny, brawling, big shouldered, calm types," he deadpans -- is less diplomatic.
"I think when Easterners describe people from Indiana, if they use the word calm, what they're trying to say is 'uninteresting,' " he says.
Midwesterners don't tend to use the word calm in referring to themselves. A search of newspaper articles nationwide turns up only a handful of non-weather related references to "Midwest calm," all of them in New York, Boston and California.
***
Bradley, who knows Roberts, says he is indeed a "an even-tempered, calm guy, not real excitable, and, more importantly I would say, not real ideological," but whether he's any calmer than anyone else from the Midwest, "I don't know."
Adds Bradley, with the wry understatement that has sometimes also been associated with this region, "I guess he probably was considered uninteresting -- until he got on the short list for the Supreme Court."

Muckraking Benny G

2005-07-22T11:03:00.000-05:00

For those of you who haven't been able to stay fully current with Ben's writings, here's a link to his opinion pieces in The North Star, Bloomington North's High School newspaper. My personal favorite is A Jew on Christmas. Saba used portions of the Freedom essay for a sermon.
You can find a good portion of Ben's oevre at:
http://thenorthstar.org/news/user_profile.asp?name=Ben%20Greenberg&staffid=105

What are the Gifted Doing this Summer? -- A REPORT FROM BEN

2005-07-20T11:49:00.000-05:00

Here's an excerpt (ok, it's the whole thing) from an email from Ben, detailing his classes at the Summer Institute for the Gifted. The Benster writes:

hip hop- great class, we're dancing and having a lot of fun and learning
about hip hop

improv- the teacher is whacky as hell but its a fun class, ignoring
some crazy spiritual type stuff he has us do

filmmaking- a very small class we're were just having fun and making a
couple short fun movie.

poetry- kinda boring..i think itll pick up though
once we're actually writing.

martial arts- this class is fun, new teacher kinda not as fun/cool as
last but shes good anyways. i have some good friends in this class which
makes it better.

im having fun and doing so much, much love
-benny g

?Sylvia, How Is She?

2005-07-19T12:36:00.000-05:00

Devoted readers and cognoscenti: The question of Sylvia (a.k.a Savta, a.k.a. Ema) is a complicated one. If my mother is asked directly how she is doing, you will received a curt "fine" or "I'm doing better," and the topic will be switched immediately to how you're doing, not-so-subtly implying that your hangnail or cold is somehow equivalent to her cancer. Don't be fooled! Cancer is worse, particularly when one is allergic to one of the chemotherapy agents and has to go back to drugs used in the late medieval period, and then only on the worst of the heretics. She feels awful, but the only thing that makes her feel worse is complaining about it. So here's my suggestion: Don't ask, tell. Tell her that you are thinking of her. Tell her (if there's even a small chance that God likes you) that she is in your prayers. Tell her that food will taste good again someday (a side-effect of the chemo) and that you will take her out for a vanilla malted as soon as her appetite returns. Tell her about all the upcoming simchas and the recent chochmas, (especially concerning her grandchildren). Regular email contact (she can be reached at rjehiel@aol.com) and an occasional mishebayrah for Tzipora bat ha-rav Yisrael v' Ahuvah is the very best medicine.

Jewish Haikus From Sara Kober

2005-07-18T13:02:00.000-05:00

My Cousin, Sara Kober (my father's oldest brother, Archie's daughter), sent along some Jewish Haikus. Here are my favorites

Today I am a man.
Tomorrow I will return
to the seventh grade.

The sparkling blue sea
reminds me to wait an hour
after my sandwich.

Sorry I'm not home to take your call.
At the tone
please state your bad news.

Today, mild shvitzing.
Tomorrow, so hot you'll plotz.
Five-day forecast: feh

Hard to tell under the lights.
White Yarmulke
or male-pattern baldness.

And, note to Greenberg boyz:

Is one Nobel Prize
so much to ask from a child
after all I've done?

2005-07-17T08:34:00.000-05:00

Finally, a picture of some more nephews. Sam and Elliot Orenstein, the North Carolina contingent of Orensteins are horsing around. This summer, Elliot is playing baseball and basketball. Sammy is also attending various camps enjoying arts and crafts. They both get to swim at their neighborhood pool.

2005-07-16T20:48:00.000-05:00

Here's a picture of Debby "Mama" Orenstein and Sticky in a pensive mode. We are eagerly awaiting pictures of Sam and Elliot to post. We are awash in cute nephews.

2005-07-16T20:46:00.000-05:00

From Debby O
Hi, Aviva. I read the entire blog from top to bottom, and loved every bit of it. I must say, your "cover boy" is gorgeous! And your contributors (i.e., sons) are very witty, funny, and just a bit smart-alecky. They are also well-traveled and brilliant. I wonder where they could possibly have gotten those qualities.
Here are some further updates about the cover boy (official conflict of interest disclosure: my son Emmett, aka Sticky). This week (at 10 and a half months) he made some very sudden and amazing leaps in development. Every day, something new. He called me "mama" for the first time and has continued doing so. He really seems to understand that that is my name. Just yesterday, Emmett starting saying a "p" sound to mean "up." I thought it was a coincidence, but he did it unmistakeably and in context again today. He has also begun clapping, holding an object in each hand and banging them together, and cruising along furniture (holding on and walking the length of things). On a couple of occasions, he has even let go and stood suspended in mid-air for several seconds, but he seems to have no awareness that he is standing on his own, and is a little startled by the unusually hard fall onto his tush and/or the fuss that adults around him make.
Other big news, "Little Lord Fontlaroy" [someone will correct my spelling; it's Aviva's nickname] usually eats by opening his mouth and waiting for people to put (massive amounts of) food in it. No amount of coaxing has induced him to use or develop the fine motor skills to lift food or spoon and put it into his mouth. "Thank God, he doesn't have to." (If you are unfamiliar with that joke, you obviously don't know Jehiel Orenstein.) Finally this week, Emmett ate one cheerio and two bites of green bean on his own, so it appears that I won't have to re-enroll in college and go to the dining halls to make sure that L.L.F. doesn't starve.
Taking after his uncle Rafy, Emmett is very interested in light and lighting fixtures. When I come into his room each morning, I always greet him and then turn on the light. He now looks up at the fixture before I flip the switch, and it delights him every time that I can do the "vayehi or" trick.
One last thing: he literally grew out of all his 12-month-old clothes overnight. I had to let him walk around yesterday getting a breeze because I couldn't snap up any of his one-sies around the polkas. Craig is going shopping for some clothes tomorrow and will mail them done to us here. (He is still making a movie in Northern California and will be back home in L.A. on the third week of August.) BTW--Today is the proud papa's birthday. He turns 42 [fill in your own gematria or aging joke here]. I'm sure he would love to get some friendly birthday e-mails (crweisz@mac.com).
Well, that's more than you wanted to know. I promise not to deluge you with chochmas from now on. It really was quite an amazing amount of change for one week, and I thought I would share it with the whole clan.
Love,
Debby [aka Ema; Ma; Mama]

hi from ben

2005-07-16T13:19:00.000-05:00

im in south orange new jersey. mom's "blog" is cool. notice that blog is in quotations because its a silly word for website. im writing for various newspapers, doing well at my pursuits. Im hoping to hang out with friends, and I am going to sig very soon.

--beng

2005-07-13T15:31:00.000-05:00

Here's a photo of "Sticky" (aka Stickford aka Emmett Alfred Weisz) becoming less sticky.