Au Revoir Paris

 

After almost a year, Paris has dropped a few veils exposing a less formal, less reserved, and less intimidating persona.  Being able to orient through her streets, adapt to her different calendar, and acculturate to some of the basic Parisian customs has helped us to better assimilate.

In this year, I have witnessed Paris’ beauty in the manicured parks, awesome monuments, unique exhibitions and delicious cuisine; but I have also witnessed her shortcomings of frozen-dark days, soiled streets, and her ever-present-greed as tourists pay to voraciously devour her beauty. 

In no way does Paris look less ceremonial after a year, in no way did she turn mundane, casual or close to being taken for granted, yet she has become a touch more familiar and ever so slightly more approachable.

Yet, while being more at ease with the coming and going, the buying and traveling; her insane paradoxes between aristocratic dominance and social equality, elegance and simplicity, formality and sexual promiscuity, religiosity and hedonism seem to me forever impenetrable.  I suspect that time would not be the key for resolving these polarities, instead an ability to embrace the oppositions as a way of life is what's needed. 

Though ease and acquaintance goes a long way it is my friends who have turned the experience from that of a spectator to that of a participant. Walking in the streets without a map wasn’t when I first felt more a part of the city; rather it was the long brunches and dinners into late nights, the stories, jokes and endless comparison of habits, that began to weave me into the fabric of Paris’ life.

But now it is time to say goodbye.  

We are each preoccupied with parting from different people, different places and different aspects of Parisian life.  We each accumulated different memories as we experienced this city.

Adam is sad to say goodbye to his friends, to a year long struggle with a temperamental teacher who he came to adore, to the metro of course, to all the tall buildings in Paris which allowed him to imagine flying above it all, and to the daily use of the language he mastered so beautifully -- not to mention the morning fresh croissants.

Pete already talks with longing about his Paris office where work starts in late morning, lunch lingers until mid afternoon, often with wine and always with due attention to the food, and where the late afternoon tasks and meetings are accompanied with serious philosophical discussions of questions that would be easily dismissed in America.  He already misses the ease in which we were able to travel to other countries and explore other cultures and our long days exploring Paris together finding surprises at every corner.

I am sorry to say goodbye to all the new relationships that sprang here -- friendships that turned to be deep and satisfying and will now have to stand the test of time and distance.  I am sad to part with the beautiful parks, rich art, my favorite cafés and the free time I had this year to think, to write and to dream. But most of all I will miss the long Wednesdays with Adam together exploring Paris and his mind as well as the stolen weekdays with Pete.

The three of us journeyed through uncertain times here but with a shared vision. We each brought different blocks and tools to build a building.  And now, looking at the building it seems full of potential for adding, moving and removing new blocks.

This also ends my first experience in sharing my writing with you.  

Writing on a blog is a concept foreign to my old fashioned upbringing, taste and even beliefs.  So for whoever read this blog, if anyone at all, I would like to say thank you for being the audience that I imagine you to be.  Thanks for helping me challenge myself with this private exposure of a year of many unknown and surprising events. 

A tres bientot a vous et au revoir Paris,

with love,

Tali

 

Scotland and a frozen mind

Everybody knows by the time they near their fifties how rigid the mind can become. To break a bad habit or to add a good new one takes, at least for me, excruciating effort and enormous concentration. Yet this last week I was still surprised to witness how rusty the screws are, how screeching the sound is, and how unyielding the system is when change is attempted.

Adam, our baby Adam, went to a seven day trip with his class to the south of France leaving us, probably for the first time since he was born, with seven days on our own. After we waved goodbye at Gare de Lyon, off we went to the green meadows of Scotland. We arrived at Glasgow a few hours later and went to the rental car agency to get the vehicle that would carry us through the narrow streets and windy roads of Scotland’s Highlands. We got upgraded without asking to a Citroen Picasso van and being the Americans that we are, we welcomed the additional space as an obvious improvement.

I volunteered to drive first because my mind holds the notion that I like new experiences.

Entering from the right side of the van was at first only amusing, but buckling the seatbelt to the left raised the first flag of alarm. I fumbled with it for a while, maintaining a positive attitude, but as I reached to adjust the mirror with my left hand another flag went up. As the car began moving, I shifted the gears with my left hand and went into a momentary panic and a chronic state of worry.

And that was just the very beginning.

Repeating to myself the new mantra “stay on the left side of the street” my brain refused to accept the new system and a feeling of wrongness threatened to paralyze me.

Pete was helpful, encouraging me even when the car would go dead in the middle of a round about, reassuring me that it will just take a bit more time to get used to it. Yet, my old dog refused to learn new tricks or even to wag its tail. Questions about the UK rigid system followed: why drive on the wrong side of the road? Why measure in yards and inches? Why not give up the pound and use euros? But it was hard to concentrate even on blame as the car was too big to fit the narrow streets and my mind too tarnished to make new adjustments.

Thanks to being persistent, another old habit, I did manage to adapt, though not without a very tense neck at the end of the day.

On the second day when Pete drove it was my turn to try and be positive and supportive. This was harder than driving. I am not sure on which day my neck muscles got tenser. Still, I can’t call it back seat driving as I was sitting in the driver’s seat; only the wheel and the break were missing, both of which I used throughout Pete's drive.

Eventually, we found a nice pub which was also a B&B. We sipped our lagers chased by single malts, knowing we didn’t need to drive anymore. I could feel my tense muscles melting into warm amber liquid. After eating the fresh caught trout of the day we ordered a desert. I picked the “Monkey on his shoulder” because it sounded interesting and because I like surprises -- at least, I think so. At this point it did not make sense, even for Pete, to ask what it was, as the beautiful lolling Scottish way of speaking did not create much meaning in our tired brains, but sounded more like a soothing lullaby. Soon after, a glass of oatmeal cooked in whisky arrived. Despite its horrendous look, smell and color -- it was unbelievably good -- confirming the fact that I like surprises.

At night, my mind drifted to signs in Hebrew written from right to left, turning upside down into road signs on unfamiliar narrow roads.

The black pudding at 9 am in the morning – that was a different story. Black pudding and haggis made from internal organs is a traditional Scottish breakfast. Pete almost refused to taste it. It looks horrendous, sounds horrendous and, to my dismay, tastes horrendous as well. How would I know if I did not try, I tell myself to keep my outlook intact.

After breakfast, as I was sipping weak coffee to wash out the taste, the fishermen congregated to have their beers and discuss the morning catch.

Being well rested, I was no longer annoyed at the Scottish for driving on the left side; and Pete was able to illuminate a new perspective about the Scottish culture -- theorizing about their base 12 system of inches as opposed to the “normal” one of centimeters based on 10. Twelve is a better number to divide with than ten and perhaps, since their culture goes back to prehistoric time and given their harsh winter, they needed to divide commodities more often than to multiply them.

But besides the food, the language and the refreshing kindness of almost everyone we came in contact with -- not to mention their great sense of humor -- it is the ancient land that takes you in-- as deep as its black water lochs, as green as its grass and as quiet as the sheep grazing on the lush pastures. The only movement in this still life picture is the wind and the light that changes with the shifting of the clouds. It all orchestrates to a big symphony of the elements leaving us humans mostly out of the archaic picture of the beginning of it all.

I don’t know a place that can be more of an opposite of Israel than Scotland. After a large lager I swear I could live there forever which seems, in hindsight, another trick my mind can play to fool me. The quiet, the green, the endless amount of water, the Scots' effortless friendliness, their reluctance to show their inner feelings, the sheep that teach how to meditate at every angle, and the sweet sweet sun that caresses, plays, and then disappears only to come back again are nothing I grew up with.

After a few days in the land of the plenty, about 60 kilometers of hiking, more pints of beer then even chess games – and we play a lot – we were on our way back to the airport feeling blue for ending our trip but quite excited to return the Picasso van back to the rental agency. With the mantra “stay left” tattooed to our mind, we were able finally to multitask -- driving while at the same time listening to the Scottish BBC radio station which was broadcasting a literary program about books from all over the world. Vastly fascinating, the program was frequently interrupted by the weather report which was always a variation on the same theme: “showers with intermittent breaks”. Yet, even when they report the weather it sounds like JR Tolkein reading a page from the “Lord of the Rings” or the “Hobbit”. The accent and intonation turns the most mundane story into a mysterious, luring saga of fiends, dwarfs, dragons and lords with unexpected turns of events.

For people who have only sunshine for five weeks a year and who say that the best prediction of the weather is to open the window and reach your hand out – I have much admiration for their optimistic outlook. They hope for a change in the weather yet surrender to the inevitable -- in this case rain and more rain -- with a positive spirit that I can only call open mindedness.

Finally, back in Paris, we picked Adam up at the train station; seven days later, one inch taller, and a few shades darker -- and with one other change -- his French was virtually fluent.

What makes the mind so agile? How does one truly welcome the new, the unknown, the unfamiliar? How does one let go of familiar attachments to make room for the new?

Listening to Adam and Koji talk to each other on the way to the metro, I began to get an inkling. I watched how playfully they dare to mimic, imitate, and copy; how they invite new sounds, make use of new grammatical structures and seem unintimidated by repeating unfamiliar words. When a word is missing they use their body, when the sentence gets too convoluted they leave it behind, and when the pronunciation becomes too demanding, they make a big unintelligible noise and simply laugh it off.

We started a new life in paralel to the like we have in Berkelyd A The last couple of month here felt like spending in a candy store.  Traveling, eating, drinking, taking art beauty sunsets and now I feel stomac ach.  I want a month of chiken soup only. Not moving much not taking or consuming.  It is time to come home.

  

Spring

In the long dark days of cold, people promised us a beautiful spring that will come and melt our frozen bones and lighten our grim perspective.  I knew it was true but I did not believe it.  The winter was so convincing with its absolute white frozen stubbornness and the only compromises it offered were slush and wet gray days.  It was as if I had entered an old familiar dispute; Israeli - Arab impasse - with willful winter digging in its heels proposing only worse alternatives than the already grim present.  I truly could not see the spring coming.  

But just like the seemingly unassailable empires of Rome and Greece -- the winter was vanquished ever so elegantly by a stunning spring.  One morning it came, dressed in a floral gown and golden light, bountifully spreading vibrant colors and chirping sounds throughout Paris -- turning the scarce silent monochrome of the winter to a fading memory.  

Yet, the spring -- unlike the winter -- feels so transient and temporary, so impermanent.  It hangs by the skin of its teeth to an edge where awe and loss are woven together into one reality.

The pain of loss is part of the essence of Paris .  

Just like Jerusalem light is made of god, blood, passion, stone and war.  Paris light is made of memory and romance.  A young couple with sweaters loosely hanging around their necks kissing on a cemetery bench --  manifest all the essential components -- youth, love, season, beauty, death, and the one that binds them all together - time.  The archetypal knowledge that this is not the first or last couple - then and there - is part of the pain and the beauty.  It is interesting that the French have a word for mixture of pain and pleasure - "joiesance"- which does not exist in English.  Paris, the eternal mother who holds generations of lovers in her lap of history, cannot or will not protect her children from the teeth of time.

 

For me, experiencing the ephemeral change of seasons for the first time; coming close to the end of our year in Paris; watching Adam blossom; witnessing our parents' aging struggles; and ourselves passing the alarming 50th gate -- all turn the conceptual lessons of my 30th zen training of not grasping and letting go -- into much more tangible and poignant lessons.

As I was realizing that I was due for a refresher Buddhist retreat -- Eleanor, my dear Paris friend, invited me to go to meditate with a Thai forest monk who was planning to arrive for a two and a half day silent retreat in Provence. 

The flyer for the meditation explained in clear sentences, what I was already used to in my California retreats at Green Gulch and Spirit Rock.  The meditation would be completely silent, no reading, no writing and no meals after noon -- in order to help focus on the meditation within.

As soon as we arrived at Aix en Provence, Eleanor and I had an extensive lunch of four courses and a bottle of wine, before we met our ride to the retreat.  A beautiful woman in her 60's -- Josephine -- vibrant and spunky, wearing her hair up in a silver bun, drove us to the Chateau where the meditation was to be held.  She drove a little Fiat so fast that I have no memory of the country side.  The trip was full of comments about the French drivers and the dense traffic all in order to arrive on time, which in this case, meant being 15 minutes late for tea.   

The Chateau, a 200 year old beautiful gem surrounded by vinyards and olive trees, was also an organic farm.  We sat in the hall and drank cinnamon apple tea, while a thick smell of baking bread filled the air.  Small talk about different kinds of meditations began and when the conversation became too dense for me to follow, I began to notice that no one was wearing sweat suits and that the shoe pile at the entrance mostly consisted of beautiful leather shoes -- no slippers, no crocs, no tennis shoes.

The woman chef made a visit from the kitchen, a thin wiry woman in her forties with a glowing face.  With sudden respectful silence from the crowd she introduced herself, explained the meal times, and apologized that the biodynamic wine they make there would not be served since it needs another season to mature.  I looked at Eleanor for a cue to laugh at the joke -- but it wasn't a joke.  She then explained that after noon there would not be any food served and the fast would start.  From that point on, she said seriously, only cheese and chocolate can be eaten -- I checked again -- but this was not a joke either.

The meditation room was set with flowers, candles and cushions.  On the walls were paintings from the 18th and 19th century and at the center there was a big fire place with a splendid fire and crackling wood.  In between the sitting and walking meditation the cultural differences were striking; people did not shy away from looking into each other eyes, personal space was minimal, smiles were not used as pleasant acknowledgments of the other and during lunch the silence was broken with declarations about the food -- especially around the lavish desert -- "Ce magnifique, extraordinaire".

Flirting was not to be neglected either.  A woman is to be adored regardless of her age, look or state of mind -- and the Frenchmen are masters of this art -- not too much not too little, not too obvious not too subtle.  In the midst of the retreat -- cigarettes were lighted, doors were opened, flowers were given, words were whispered and compliments were paid -- just like fasting with chocolate and cheese.  The meaning of rules and directions are as fuzzy as in impressionistic painting -- beautifully clear from a distance turning blurry as you inch forward. 

  

At the end when the monk gave permission to break the silence with pressing questions about the technique of letting go -- to my surprise most of the group raised their hands.  We sat the next hour through long monologues about philosophy, history and comparative meditation techniques.  No questions were asked, no feeling were expressed, no clarification requested.

It was time to say goodbye to a place I wondered if I would ever see again which followed a pang of loss.  I had fallen in love with the beauty, the peacefulness, and the fuzzy meanings in the retreat.  I wanted just a little bit more before I had to rush to the TGV to head back home. Then, I remembered, Norman Fisher, my zen teacher at Green Gulch gesturing with his hand as he said: "When you grasp onto the few things you have in your hand, there is no room for the next thing to land on your hand -- open it -- see what is there waiting to be given to you."

Pictures from the retreat click here 

    

Transportation

Adam and I left for his spring vacation to Normandy while Pete stayed in Paris working for our pay check and training for his half marathon.  From the train to the rental car to the our first destination Omaha beach.  We learned all about the liberation of France by the Americans  

Adam's interests are growing and maturing, but  NOT changing, to my dismay. He is still infatuated by transportation -- ships, trains, airplanes, and buses in general -- and by the metro system in particular.  We have long, a bit too long, discussions about the differences between metro lines; between the different cars in each line; the different colors of the lines on the metro map; the names of the stops; the quality of the stations; the difference between the sounds of hydraulic and friction breaks; the lines that emerge above ground; the ones that diverge, the frequency of busy lines and the science of timing the cars' arrivals.  

Lately, he has been focusing on the computerized center that orchestrates the whole system, but of them all, he likes most to intimate information about -- line 14 -- a computerized line that runs without a driver.  

At night, Adam reveals his sweetest dream about line 15 -- a line that does not exist -- yet. He tells me its future design, location and interconnectedness with the other existing lines.

All this requires hard work.  Carrying heavy books from the library, hours spent in the library with encyclopidias that are not to be borrowed, endless google searches, repeated visits to technological museums and manual as well as computer sketches of the system and its expansion.

"Adam, what is it about transportation?" is a constant question I pose to him -- my way of coming up for air -- trying to make this topic more meaningful, significant, and personal.  Most of the time he wears a half obvious half bewildered look and answers with a haste: "because it is interesting".

A few weeks ago to break one of his very technical explanations of how to synchronize lines that go to business centers with less used lines at rush hours -- I asked once more -- "but what is it about the metro..."

To my surprise, Adam began a detailed psychological reflection on the origin of his interest.  He said, "I think it all started at preschool when I put a few chairs in a row pretending like it was an airplane. Kobi and Noam sat behind and I drove the plane and when I looked back they where gone and I cried.

"Adam!" I cried in astonishment -- it is all starting to make sense -- 

visiting the wailing wall

When the long shadows stretch to the east

red light coats the wailing 

stones

Glued only by wishes

one on another they form a

wall.

The two, most precious to me, separated by a fence 

boys' notes - girls' notes - bulging at the same  

seams.

As the Muazins spill their laments 

into Aramaic yowling and

honks

The guns pointing down, the bibles up 

for last prayer in dusk 

light.

Mount Moria, where the angel held back the knife,

the dome of the rock is still piercing purple

sky.

With the seven gates behind and the rising moon ahead

we silently leave

our wishes squeezed in  

stones.

is-rael

Who would believe that I would ever have enough of museums, coffee shops, concerts and wine -- certanly not I.  And Pete, to say the least, has had enough of the cold and gray weather.  The only one, who seems to remain enthusiastic as ever, is Adam.  

He celebrates the snow, hail and ice as substitutes for the science experiments which are missing in his school.  Each morning, he tries to guess when would the artificial lights  turn off allowing the faint sun to take its place.  He doesn't mind the late dinners at all and still has not had enough of the urban ventures on weekends.  He can't stop laughing while imitating his teacher's temper tantrums, her habit of answering her cell phone in the middle of a lesson, and the school's rigid emphasis on hand writing, uniform and eating manners.  

He visits almost daily with his friends in the shops near by.  The souvenir lady, who has a great golden retriever named Aston; the video guy, who long ago ran out of magic tricks and new videos yet loves to tell us about the day he will leave cold Paris for Palm Springs; the chocolate guy, who pontificates in french about american politics; and the Turkish guy, whose hot sandwiches are beyond hunger and his smile beyond words.

The constant sense of missing out on something exciting that is going on somewhere in the big city -- is slowly changing.  Perhaps due to winter, atrophy or finances, we keep more in our neighborhood.  It does feel more integrated at the moment -- paradoxically more Parisian.  Yet, for winter vacation, as well as for his up coming 10th birthday, Adam chose to visit Israel.  

For him it wasn't so much an escape from the bitter cold as it is the luring  memory of his safta's whipped cream sandwiches served at any time desired.  Pete, could not applaud enough for Adam's decision.  And they could not be more convinced of their decision after listening to their own argument articulated aloud.  They described the brilliant sun, the blooming flowers outside my mother's house, the pool near her house, humus for breakfast and the Dead Sea spas -- all equally captivating -- outvoting me and my dole politically based objections.

So, in a couple of days, in the name of democracy, I will hold my nose and march into a place I feel extremely ambivalent about; a country who defines safety as destruction of the other and views "talking" as the highest sacrifice, while considering killing as the preliminary work to any negotiation. This is the same country that started the idea of Kibbutz and from whose teachers I learned to identify with the victims be they Jews, gypsies, Communists or gays, a country that conceptualizes herself as the little country surrounded by enemies trying to survive.  

Tonight we had dinner with an Israeli couple who have been here for six months and are returning back to Israel tomorrow.  When I asked them what are they expecting from the recent no-win-elections they asked with a faint smile "what election?" Soon after they explained that denial, at this point in time, is not a joke but a way of surviving.

I hope Adam and Pete would support my little sociology experiment which will take place at the Israeli airport; daring to enter Israel with my American passport. For some unexplained reason, it is not allowed, for Israelis, to use their second passport upon entry.  Israel is the only country, other than  the colonialist Great Britain, that refuses to accept returned passports. Once Israeli always Israeli wether you like it or not.

So, caught between the existential French angst of time and meaning, the Israeli crude philosophy of the survival of the fittest, and the American Dream of money and plastic -- I do agree with Adam -- that the French will do for the moment regardless of the passports in my possession.

   

 

winter

The beautiful, light, silent snow which fell in a dreamy slow dance, a few weeks ago, has turned into sloshy, harsh and frozen ice.   The charming Christmas lights that brightened the dark morning walks to Adam's school are still hanging above.  Yet, now, dark and unused, they are  exposed as simple gray wires -- the magic is gone -- like the view behind the stage after an enchanting play. The show is over and winter is fully here, an uninvited long term guest.  Even the shop windows on the way seem unkempt after the holiday frenzy, all they offer now are sales.  Paris streets are either white with ice or white with salt used for de-icing narrow paths along the sidewalks.  The City's attempt to prevent people from slipping still falls short when it comes to poop traps -- frozen or fresh.

Only a few die hard  Parisian women are still wearing high heeled boots, though they now use their heels more like mountain climbers -- dig, anchor and move the hidden hips, all the while covered by heavy mink coats.  The daytime temperatures are dropping down to  6 and 7 degrees below zero and the twenty minute walk to Adam's school has become a 40 minute dangerous hike through slippery ice. 

 

The Parisian streetlife is markedly different as well -- less people in cafes, fewer people smoking on corners and their old expression of intellectual rumination is now one of an irritated angst. Even the patisseries seem empty.  The only noticable lines are forming in pharmacies, video stores and, for some reason I cannot understand, in hair salons.  

The view through the hats which cover our whole face with only narrow slits for the eyes reveals Paris in black and white -- like robbers we walk the street stealing heat from occasional cafes.  I conjure a memory of unbearable summers in Tel aviv where the air conditioned banks were the only intermittent relief walking through the city.  In sharing this memory with Adam in the early morning walk -- he tells me he doesn't believe summers can be as hot as the winters are cold. 

The only way I can deal with my first real winter, at the age of fifty, is to think about it as a long zen retreat -- the depravation, the harsh conditions, and the nagging question "but why am I here?"  I remember the teachings -- doubts are to be dropped and replaced by the microscopic present -- the here and now sensations and the breath.  Returning back from dropping Adam at school, I try to be present with the sound of the slashing ice under my feet, the tingling sensation of frozen toes, the shortcomings of the cumbersome layers of clothes to keep warm, and the visible breath coming out of my mouth like a puffing train on a steep mountain climb.  I try but fail to be present as my mind takes me away to other fleeing thoughts, and then to frustration and unhappiness.  All I can do is plan on doing a better job of being present with the hot chocolate I will prepare for myself as soon as I arrive home.  Until my next exit to pick up Adam in the afternoon it will do.  

 

Morocco

It was as if someone turned on a bright light after a long sleep.  The hazy faint Parisian light was swallowed by the African blaze. Waiting for our pupils to adjust to the assaulting brilliancy we slowly descended from the airplane to the tarmac.  In spite of the suitcases we were dragging and the permission forms we were holding in front of our dilating eyes -- our muscles seemed to melt their frozen urban grip. 

As we were riding in a taxi to our organic farm just outside of Marrakech, Adam and Pete constructed a conversation about how much closer Morocco is to the equator reconciling time difference with distance while I tried to orient myself by comparing the smells of sheep and gasoline to Cairo and contrasting the strength of the light, the dryness of the earth and the cloudlessness of the sky to Jerusalem.  The taxi, an old Mercedes with squeaky doors, filled ashtrays, stuck windows and middle eastern music reminded me of the taxis driven in the Sainai dessert.  Jamal, our taxi driver, moving slowly and smiling humbly, welcomed us to the desert saying: "here, we put our trust in God".

The farm, surrounded by olive and palm trees and colorful rugs spread on the grass had its short buildings made out of mud painted with the bright colors, bordered by the Atlas Mountains shining with white sharp peaks. 

Dinner, scheduled for 7 pm, is finally served after 9.   The colorful dishes are ornamented with daring spice combinations. The lamb saturated with cumin, pepper, nutmeg, cinnamon and mint seemed to echo the same orchestration of the rugs and wall colors. The fresh baked pitas and the sweet mint tea are the only mild flavors giving pauses for the taste buds to smooth the strong pepper bites.

The next day in Marrakech, out in the square we are targeted as the fresh tourists in seconds. Adam is almost immediately wearing a turban with five snakes around him a loud flute charming the snakes and plunging us into more chaos and havoc. Only with money are we able to buy our internal space back and release Adam from the snakes around his neck. Four people with monkeys on leashes approach us but as Pete says, we already paid for school and are not to be the next target. Women covered with henna tattoos push a catalogue of designs on to me and I, with a new assertiveness, utter “No Merci”, “La Shukran” and “No Thank you” as a mantra – they finally leave us.

There is the sun, the clouds of smells, the bright colors, the movements on the squares and most of all, as Adam points out to me, if you close your eyes there is music everywhere; drums, flutes, people yelling, singing and talking – and -- motor bikes zooming.  I close my eyes, holding Adam and all the experiences unify into a fishnet of sensations. “It feels like an orchestra without a conductor or a class without a teacher” I say to Adam who seems uncomfortable with the idea and says: “no, maybe God is in charge or the law of evolution.”

It is too busy for philosophical rumination and we enter a circle of curious voyeurs watching a magician handle his illusionary box. He is stuffing it with bottles, hats and animals that keep on disappearing into a black void. The concept of space is defined differently on the road as you walk or in the proximity in which people stand near you.

On the way back, Jamal continued to explain his way of life and Muhamad’s teaching.  The most important precept is to slow down and appreciate what is given by God -- as little as it might be. Muhammad never knew how to read or write, he said in awe, at the age of forty he told the whole Koran to his disciples who wrote it down in the course of 24 years and then he died.   Although he had many wives he only had two children. His son died while only his daughter gave birth to the wanted boys.

We returned to our room that night, closed the windows drew the curtains and celebrated Hanukah. Our ready made Hanukia candles were brought from Paris along with a few wrapped gifts from Adam’s grandparents. The secretive celebration highlighted our Jewishness, Joel’s stories about the Jews that had to worship in secret became alive. We whispered loudly the Hanukah songs with a sense of titillation and went to sleep skipping dinner but filled with light.

In Marrakech again, this time our visit is mostly dedicated to an internet café for planning the next phase of our vacation. The day is horribly polluted. One cloud of carbon monoxide after the other with no breaks for inhaling, all mixed with dust and loud noises. All three of us feel trapped in this big city and want out.

Finally at dinner, sipping wine made in the Sahara desert unwinding from the intensity and toxicity of the day our cab driver,  Jamal  joins us to discuss our plan for the next day to go to the Atlas mountains.  He asks again for Adam to repeat his name and looks at us differently -- with a familiar smile.   “The father of all man” he says.   “Yes”, I say adding and his middle name is Yosef.   “Oh .. the prophet Yousuf,” he says -- “good name”.  Returning the familiarity I say I hope you don’t mind us drinking wine?  He says not at all it is only forbidden for people who choose the way of Islam.  As the evening continued, more and more layers dropped, and the conversation became more genuine and easy for all of us. When he said "I really like Jews but I have to say I don’t particularly like Israelis" -- I felt I could trust him.  When he told me that he thought Osama bin Ladin is not a true Muslim I believed him.

After a few days in the Sahara dessert, Jamal came to pick us up from a little town in the Atlas Mountains to take us to our flight from Marrakech to Marseille.   On the way we listened to the story of Yosuf in the Koran.   Phrase after phrase he translated to us with pride and amazement at its beauty.  I was able to dig up some buried Arabic and respond to him in his native tongue.

After a very long drive, almost in Marrakech, he turned the radio on for the news. Israel had just bombed Gaza and many people died was all that I could understand. I asked him to translate more but he turned it off and said he hopes for peace soon.

From the Parisian Christmas to Muhamad’s teaching to Hanukkah and Ma oz zur -- from Israel to America to Paris to Morocco --our journey is a yarn with which we weave the fabric of reality, of what makes sense, of how to be and why.