Because there is such a need for contributions, I stopped by the blood bank at the hospital while Ezi was busy being treated. I thought I'd be welcomed with open arms, as usual, because it I'm a universal donor, O-. I filled out the incredibly intimate questionnaire, which included items like have i ever been paid for sex, and rolled up my sleeve. But the technician couldn't find a vein and decided I am too fine to get a thick needle in. Downhearted, I returned to the common room in the hemotology section and announced to the room filled with drip-attached people that I failed as a donor because my veins are too thin. "Lemmee see," said the nurse, änd grabbed my arm. "here's one, here's one, here's one..." "Should I go back there?" "You did your part," the nurse said, and everyone in the room nodded. I was amazed at how public my private veins had become.
By the way, the pizza last night was magnificent. And I ate a whole bowl of spaghetti carbonara after it. And having it at home was wonderful. Here are some reviews: Pappa's Pizza 13 Hillel Hazaken Street, Tel Aviv.
I ordered from 03-5107373. It's a good counter to Ichilov.
Since I can't seem to stay away from Ichilov, I will add one little anecdote: A male nurse passed by as I was talking to a friend. "He's Arab," my friend said. "How do you know?" "He wasn't speaking Russian."
April 3, 2008
When I first went to Cyprus in 1980 we ran away from Nicosia as soon as we could because the fact that it was a divided city made me unhappy. Instead we rented a car and drove up to the mountains, down to the coast, having been warned that the most dangerous faux pas would be to order Turkish coffee. Today when I watched the walls come down in that city, and the joy of all the residents, I too was overjoyed for a minute. But then the next item was about children's games in Gaza, which center around fighting and killing Jews, and I wondered how we can ever get past this hatred.
I don't despair. When I was a kid we played cowboys and Indians and I killed a lot of Indians. At the same time I was studying about Indians in museum camp and reading Hiawatha and wishing I was a Brave. Games then were pretty brutal in general. We played like the kids do in Gaza, and I got beaten up more than once. Think of how far we've come since then - maybe that's why the world is going to pieces - we don't know how to defend ourselves anymore.
April 4, 2008
Here's a little poem: Discovering Details. If you have the stomach for it, I'd appreciate your opinion.
One of the best places to buy an ethnic birthday present is the Land of Israel Museum Shop. We weren't in the mood for shopping but wanted to get something appropriate. Anyway everything turned around for me. All the beautiful elegant seder plates for example, the kind of gift you send in advance when you're invited to the passover meal, seemed so overdone and undereducated to me. I'm sure it was my mood that made everything so wasteful and capitalistic, but I know that this year I'd rather prepare by learning something more about the whole ritual and not by buying dishes (as I'd originally planned). I've always wanted to go for the show and not the food, since I've never been big on preparing food,and then being marginalized by exhaustion from full participation. But how.
April 5, 2008
So we won't go for the two minute haggadah this year unless Ezi isn't up to it.
We're watching this documentary about Emuna Yaron, the daughter of Shai Agnon, who continued with his publications after he died, typing up and editing more of this nobel prize winner's works than had been published in his lifetime. I kept waiting for his granddaughter, Tamar, to make an appearance. But I guess she was tangential to this film, since her amazing talent has never been realized, and all her attempts to connect to and/or release herself from the responsibilities of our most famous author has ended badly for her so far. But there was something beautiful and naive about Emuna, so similar to her father, and so similar to Tamar. It makes me think that if the world had been a bit less cruel to her, a bit more sheltering, she might have been a remarkable poet.
But our poets need some framework, some institution, some encouraging culture. I know young people who could be great writers if they were given some encouragement and conditions.
April 6, 2008
Sorry, back in Ichilov for the day -
The filthiest place in the hospital is the adjoining restaurant. Taking a break from the ward where everyone constantly washes their hands, the floor constantly is being cleaned, and reminders are everywhere, we go to the cafeteria where the waitress, for the second time in a week, comes right over to clean our table with a smelly rag. For the second time I warn her that the smell is not a good sign of bacteria-free equipment, and for the second time she looks at me with blank eyes. For the second time I take out a bottle of alcohol and kleenex and wipe off the table, changing tissues frequently. For the second time we eat the food anyway because we're starved. For the second time I promise myself to order from Nona's next time, but I don't have the strength to go and pick it up by the time I realize I'm hungry, so I don't do it. So I eat "Cherry's" toasted bagel because it seems the least dangerous, and dream of Cuban sandwiches at nona.