Well, now that I've finally managed to find my way to my own entry page, I suddenly seem to be tongue-tied. Why is it that from 6,000 miles away I have so much to say about what's going on in this little corner of the world and now that I'm smack dab in the middle of it I seem to be mute?
Part of it is the simple, quiet joy and amazement of being back here again, if only for a little while. Another part is the disconnect from the web sources that ordinarily feed my musings (this phone line is unbearably slow and even now is threatening to disconnect itself). And yet another part is the other disconnect -- the one between the dangerous, tumultuous, twisted image of life in Israel that's constantly fed to us back in the U.S. and the normal, everyday pace of life that pervades this city, at least, during the lulls between terror attacks. How can a place be both so ordinary and so extraordinary at the same time?
When you tell people you're going away on a trip, the usual response is "have a good time," "remember to write," maybe "have a safe trip." When you tell people you're going to Israel, the responses are more like "you're kidding, right?" or "don't you want to wait until things calm down?" or "aren't you scared?" I'm used to it by now. But it's funny. From a distance, I tend to forget just how safe I actually feel here. Safer, as a Jew, anyway, than I do "at home." And, in some ways, more "at home," as well.
Shavua tov from Jerusalem.
(Ignore the clock -- it's still set for Philadelphia time.)
