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.