Saying Good-Bye to Sparrows Lane

Saying good bye to your childhood home is difficult. Even Cinderella , I bet, having married Prince Charming and moved to The Palace, probably sometimes missed her cramped, picturesque -- if we are to believe Disney -- attic.

26 Sparrows Lane is not my childhood home, it's Michael's. I've known it for only 28 years, which is not to be sneezed at, and if I have been sneezing it's only because of the accumulated dust under pieces of furniture that have just been moved for the first time in dozens or scores of years.

Being a stiff-upper-lipped Brit, M. doesn't seem very emotional about the process of emptying out his old home and handing it over to strangers. But the stress nonetheless takes its toll. The stress that I am experiencing has re-activated my tinnitus: what sounds like silence to a normal person comes across as a constant loud buzzing in my head.

Like my own memories of my childhood home, M's, too, were mostly formed by our mid-twenties or so. After that, it's still the place you call home, but it's no longer where you live. It's where you go for Rosh HaShana and Seder night; where you store your old school/university notebooks, bike, ballet slippers, stamp collection -- anything your parents are still willing to shove in the attic, basement, tool-shed etc. You never actually say good-bye to this place until your parents move out, die, or both.

I said goodbye to my parents' place at 4 HaBarbur street, Holon, in late summer 2001, when Clara sold the house and moved to an assisted living residence, about a year after Nachum's death. They had lived there nearly 50 years. Which pales compared with the nearly 70 years that Fay lived in 26 Sparrows Lane.

If I counted the actual number of days and nights I spent here, in Sparrows Lane, it probably wouldn't amount to that much, even over 28 years. Around half a year, net, I should think. But each stay was special. Each was both a family visit and a getaway vacation. Few things in life have been as soothing as the lush green view out of the window of the back bedroom:

It was a home away from home; it was both home and diaspora, familiarity and otherness, obligations and freedom.

Taking the place apart bit by bit is draining. Making decisions about keeping, giving away or throwing out is wrenching. It's not even my "stuff", but I'm attached to it all the same. It's become part of me over the past 28 years.

I dread Tuesday, when the big van comes and a few strong (I hope!) men will remove every last stick of furniture from the house. Every cup and saucer. Every photo on the wall. Any remaining knickknacks. Artificial flowers. Pens and pencils scattered everywhere. 108 fridge magnets. Assorted bed linen, pillows, cushions, two or three sewing machines. Pots and pans that have never been used. Enough wine glasses and cutlery to host an average Bar-Mitzvah. And on goes the list. Despite our having already sorted out, taken away, given away or thrown out bags upon bags of things. Things that were part of the family's life, either actively -- being used -- or passively, simply being here.

Good-bye, 26 Sparrows Lane.
Thank you for the good times and the sad.
See you around. Maybe.

It's the Little Differences

Vincent: ... But you know what the funniest thing about Europe is?
Jules: What?
Vincent: It's the little differences. I mean, they got the same s--t over there that we got here, but it's just – it's just there it's a little different.
(Pulp Fiction)

It's the little things, as Vincent -- so convincingly portrayed by John Travolta -- says. That's what makes hutzlaaretz -- that land overseas -- feel foreign.

I look at the little old ladies on High Street. Sorry, but they look nothing like the little old ladies of Rishon LeZion or Tel Aviv. First of all, they seem to come out in droves on weekday mornings, when younger, pre-pension-age folks are at work. As I mentioned before in my other blog -- they all wear straight legged polyester trousers, a squarish, light colored parka, and possibly a kerchief or scarf around their neck. Their white non-dyed hair is neatly coiffed; they wear sensible shoes or sandals, and they carry a plaid shopping bag or pull a plaid shopping cart. Aside from anything else, Israeli little old ladies wouldn't be caught dead with white hair; why, it makes them look old!

Or take the water taps, and not just in the older homes. There's a cold water tap and a hot water tap, and never the twain shall meet. How is one supposed to wash one's face in nice warm water, rather than in ice cold or boiling hot water? (Yes, I know. You stick in the plug and mix water in the sink. My mom used to do that for me when I was a kid.) Even in the newer faucet, like the one in Mum's kitchen, that does sport a single spout, the H & C simply won't mix. Cup your hands under the stream, and one hand gets the C flow while the other gets H. Incredible!

Take the cellophane or plastic wrapped fruit and veg, bread, or other foodstuff in Sainsbury's, the Co-Op, Waitrose. They all indicate, on the wrapping, which recycle bin said wrapping should go into. Because, you know, there are at least three bins: the green for food and garden refuse; the blue for recyclables like paper, glass, soft plastic, tin cans; and the black for non-recyclable. (And that's getting off lightly. Other cities have far stricter laws.) In Israel, consumers have more-or-less accepted that papers go in the paper-bin, large plastic bottles go into the large metal cages on street corners; and small bottles can be returned to the supermarket. If you remember, you hand in the refund slip to the cashier and get a few shekels deducted from your bill. I have no idea what percentage of the population actually go to the trouble. But here, in London, if you do not separate your garbage properly, it will not be picked up. It'll just sit there in front of your house until you learn your lesson and mend your ways.

Last example for now: Cream cheese. Israel has a huge range of soft white cheeses -- cream cheese, cottage cheese and the like. Diet-conscious consumers stick to anything up to 5% fat. They consider 9% too fat, and 30% is positively scandalous. Telling the cheeses apart is easy. The fat percentage is clearly marked on the container. Not so here in the UK. First of all, their selection of soft cheese is laughable. Secondly, they obfuscate the fat issue with adjectives rather than provide plain, unequivocal percentages. It seems that Philadelphia Light = 10% fat, but you need a magnifying glass and a calculator to figure it out. Philadelphia Extra Light = 5%. You'll encounter a similar problem with the milk. I don't care if it's called skim or semi skim, or whatever. I want to know the percentage of fat. Yes, percentage. Not how many grams in "one serving", or in 30 gr, or in a standard sized teacup, whatever that is.

Before I sign off, I wish to make it clear that I love it here... and in a future post, sooner or later, I'll dwell on the up side of "different".

Of Airports

Ever since Douglas Adams' observation "It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on earth has ever produced the expression "As pretty as an airport..."  architects the world over have been trying to prove him wrong. Try hard as they might, I think they have all failed and are all doomed to fail: Adams had hit on a Fundamental Rule of the Universe in this case, too, as he had on so many other matters.

However, some airports do have various commendable features and/or eye-catching aspects. There were, for example, two airports in Thailand that impressed me: a cute, holiday-village, Disney-like miniature airfield on the mainland opposite the island of Koh Chang; and the vast, futuristic airport in Bangkog. I'll be able to provide more info and possibly photos once I get back home and can consult my travel notebooks and the hundreds of photos on my hard disk. But meanwhile, if the mere mention of Thailand whets your appetite, you're welcome to pop over to my Thailand trip page on Flickr.

The other airport I've developed a warm, fuzzy feeling for despite it's being, well, just a big international airport, is London Heathrow's Terminal Five. Rather than familiarity breeding contempt, it has bred a sort of comfy feeling. It's not a great spot for shopping – most shops are on the la-di-dah expensive side. But it contains the big, pastel-colored butterfly that for me has come to signify foreign travel: the Itsu coffee shop. [See pic on flickr]. The fare is a mixture of the fast-food version of sushi, snacks with organic, healthy-sounding names, and perfectly drinkable latte, and intrinsically I don't think it has anything to commend it beyond other eateries in the complex. But I find it comforting: a spot to zero in on when I have an hour's wait or so before my flight.

When checking in, Terminal Five believes in the silent treatment. Instead of loud, indistinct PA announcements along the line of "All passengers muffle muffle waffle waffle kindly requested mumbo jumbo to Gate Five muffle baffle immediately baffle toffle or else you will miss your flight. Thank you," they expect you to crane your neck, adjust your multifocals and read the dizzying messages displayed on the screens, or monitors, or what-have-you. On the plus side, they have weighing stands where you can weigh your luggage and curse your home bathroom scales for maliciously misleading you into believing your suitcase weighs less than it does; metal cages where you can insert your hand luggage to see if it adheres to regulations and curse when you think of the thingy you left behind because you thought the larger blue carry-on was too big; and smug self-service computer terminals where you can check in, select your seat and print your boarding pass all by yourself, then queue up very proud of your tech skills and hand all your paperwork to the clerk behind the real check-in counter.

As for landing and arriving at Terminal Five, I have very little to say, because I tend to concentrate on finding the nearest toilet, then following Hubby like a puppy, trying to keep up through the maze of escalators and corridors, keeping my eyes steadily on his back, until we are safely out of there.

One last paragraph concerning our port of departure, Ben Gurion International Airport. Having been used to the old terminal, I'm still surprised each time I find myself in the new one. I know it includes some ornamental features that I'm supposed to take pride in. Why, years ago, when the new terminal was in construction stages and I was working as Senior In-House Editor for The Gang, I spent weeks editing the English version of its website. No no no, please don't check out the website and point out the mistakes. I am not responsible. Once the texts were sent to the Airport Authority, they were out of my hands and underwent all sorts of abuse. I only meant to say that while editing I was made aware of murals, water fountains, domes, gangways, esplanades – all sorts of tourist attractions. But, bottom line, when I'm there, I do what all Israelis do and head straight for the Duty Free shop. I don't always buy; I often just stare and inhale the intoxicating scents. As for the coffee shops scattered airport – overpriced snacks and drinks combined with slow, annoying service. Stay away if possible.

Ta-ta for now; hope to write again soonish.

Pre-trip Dithering

I'm dithering again. My natural pre-trip state.

Oh -- sorry. First of all: Welcome to my new blog!

My first blog, Take Nina's Word For It, is still alive and kicking. At least in the sense that it's metaphorically kicking me to get on with it and write, rather than dither and procrastinate.
But in honor of my forthcoming trip -- and I mean forthcoming, the taxi is coming to get me in a couple of hours -- I've decided to set up a new blog, dedicated to my journeys.

So here we go.
First stop: Ben Gurion Airport. Boring but necessary.
Next stop: LHR. A week or so in New Eltham, about which I've written before in Blog #1. The real adventure starts with the next leg of our journey, London > Phoenix, Arizona. Never been to that part of the States, and am looking forward to it. Hope to have interesting things to say about it.

Meanwhile, as I said, I'm stuck with my usual pre-trip dilemma of which books to take with on the trip. Though I have an unstarted Graham Greene, The Honorary Consul, I have imposed sanctions on myself: I may not read it until I have finished at least one of the two unfinished Greenes on my night-table. As I've said in some previous post, I can't bring myself to finish A Burnt-out Case because I know it'll break my heart; and I'm having trouble with Stamboul Train because, to put it bluntly, it's not very good, it's a drag, and ... but no, no spoilers.

So I've decided to fall back on an old love, the veteran masters of Sci-Fi. (Take note, colleagues Yael and Inbal!) My son Daniel pulled out several off the shelves, of which I chose the following:
Frederik Pohl - The Case Against Tomorrow
Robert A. Heinlein - The Day After Tomorrow
Larry Niven - A World Out of Time

And now, before you start sulking that writing about escapist reading does not count as writing about escaping to Arizona, I had better stop writing and go finish packing, or else.