Reform Services and the cats are everywhere

Last night David and I went to our first Kabbalah Shabbat service in Israel -- it was almost all in Hebrew.  The Rabbi is from Argentina and he speaks Spanish, Hebrew, and English fluently.  He sang and played the guitar, and it was a nice service:  different than what I am familiar with but still quite nice.  A lot of ex-pats go to that synagogue.

There was a youth group from Florida attending from one of the synagogues that helps support the temple.  The State of Israel supports well over a 1000 orthodox synagogues, but Reform synagogues don't receive any state support and are dependent upon the goodwill of synagogues in the US and Europe for help.  I looked to see if Temple Emanuel in Denver was one of the supporters, and it was not.  Most of the support came from Massachusetts and Florida.

We had spent the day with Gershwin (not his real name) who was from the US and had been in Israel for five years.  We walked around the neighborhood where he lived -- it seems like an up and coming area with a lot of activity and vibrancy.  The neighborhood is centrally located and I wouldn't mind living there.  It is considered one of the "rougher" neighborhoods in Haifa, which means there's more trash on the sidewalks and some bars get rowdy late at night.  But it is still safe to walk the streets alone at night -- or so I've been told.

Gerswin answered a lot of our questions, but he put kind of a downer spin on everything.  He sounded shocked when he found out Nefesh/JAFI approved our aliyah without us ever having visited Israel beforehand.  He made it sound like in order to rent an apartment you need six months rent payable in advance.  What we have heard is that you give the landlord twelve months of post-dated checks as guaranty for the rent plus a deposit.  He did stress that going to ulpan (the school where they teach Hebrew) is our job for the next five months.  David and I are both looking forward to the ulpan.

We found a little cafe to sit and talk.  It was an Arab-run establishment that allowed smoking indoors even though it is illegal to smoke in all restaurants in Israel.  David noticed a couple of signs posted.  One said:  Have a Merry Fucking Christmas.  The other said:  Welcome to Isra-Hell.  All Stars of David were crossed out.  Although David didn't have a problem with the first sign, he took issue with the anti-Israeli sentiment.  David wondered why Gershwin would patronize a place like that.  I looked all over for the the signs David was talking about and didn't see them, maybe Gershwin didn't see them either.  Or maybe Gershwin doesn't care.  We didn't ask.

Whenever we walk, whether its two miles, two blocks or around the corner of the building, we come upon cats -- as in cats plural.  As in there are cats everywhere in Haifa.  They all look well-fed -- which may be reflective of a strong economy in Israel -- but at the same time seem half feral.  As usual, while we walked with Gershwin, we came upon cats and cats and cats.  I love cats, but it just seems like there are too many cats running around neighborhoods.  I've seen the documentary, The Secret Lives of Cats, and outdoor cats can be very hard on the environment.  Plus, I remember Bob Barker on the Price is Right telling everyone how important it is to spay or neuter your cat.  Yeah, there's a cat population explosion in Haifa.

I asked Gershwin about the cats, and he shrugged it off:  "In American we have squirrels, in Israel we have cats."   He told us about a vet who will capture the cats and "fix" them, but that takes money, and to fix all the cats in Haifa would probably match the US budget for defense.  Well, maybe not that much money, but you get the point.

Pigs in Israel

The first week in Israel has been resetting our circadian rhythm to match the other side of the world.  First was catching up on lost sleep and jet lag, and now its a matter of being ready to go to bed at 5pm and waking up around 2am.  Last night I managed to fall asleep an hour later, closer to 6pm and woke up around 3am.  Maybe doing an hour later every night will put me back to a regular sleeping pattern.

Other activities have included finding food and yet more bureaucratic stuff.  This bureaucracy crap never goes away.  Everyone in Israel is required to have an ID number, much like a social security card, and what has been referred to in Revelations as the "mark of the beast."  So we had to go downtown to get that, and our project coordinator was supposed to meet us to guide us through the process.

We had not taken the bus yet, and didn't know which one to take or how much it would cost.  Fortunately, there was information about the Israeli bus system on-line and it would cost 6.4 shekels to ride one way.  We had to go purchase something so we could get correct change for both of us the ride downtown and back.  After we had the change, we were told that the bus driver could give change, even change for 500 shekels.  Sure enough, once we were on the bus, the driver had plenty of cash in plain view -- not in easy reach -- to give change to customers.  Apparently bus driver robberies do not happen in Israel.

We got on the bus and it was like any other bus ride, and reached our destination an hour early.  We wanted to arrive early because we weren't sure where the bus would let us off and didn't know how far we would have to walk.  We didn't have to walk far, and once we ascertained exactly where we needed to go, we walked around downtown Haifa as the city started to wake up to a new business day.

Unlike in the US, there is not a Starbucks on every corner.  In fact, we couldn't even find a coffee shop.  David suggested that normally it is so hot here, people may not be so addicted to coffee like the in United States.  The drink of choice in Israel seems to be Coca-Cola, which unlike its better tasting alternative Pepsi Cola, is kosher.  So: no Pepsi, plenty of Coke.  The Coke tastes good here, and I've been sucking it down like there's no tomorrow.  The soda is sweetened with real sugar instead of high-fructose corn syrup, and the taste difference is dramatic.

We had about an hour to blow and no little coffee-shops to sit and wait so we wandered around the streets of Haifa, and tried and find a potential place to eat lunch.  The streets are what you would find in most any major city, lots of traffic and big trucks barreling through.  The sidewalks are mostly brick paving, and the buildings are built in the style my girlfriend would call the "Eisenhower uglies."  She calls it that because practically everything manufactured and built in the US during the fifties was for functional value without any artistic design.  Haifa may have the hills and views of the water similar to San Francisco, but it is lacking in SF's charm.

We happened down this little side street with very little traffic and there was a cafe advertising falafel.  I was thinking we might want to come back there until I saw the dead pig carcasses hanging in the back of a truck.  It was disgusting.  We watched as a couple of men unloaded a pig and sent it to the warehouse where another guy put it to a table saw and cut it in half along the spine.  It's not like we stopped and gawked, we were just walking along -- by the time we were right there is when it registered what we were seeing.  So we hurried by, and as we did, it appeared the pigs had already been skinned.  There was a big box by the truck filled with pig heads and a cat was hanging around wanting to eat something.  So much for kosher.

Then we spent the rest of the day dealing with bureaucracy.  The Ministry of Absorption sent us to the Ministry of Interior who sent us back to Absorption who sent us to the bank.  All this time, we were unable to find our project coordinator.  David calls her Smar-dar, which is not her real name but close.  He's been calling her Smar-dar so much I thought that was her name, and told the people at Absorption that's who we were waiting for.  They looked at me like I was crazy, but how was I supposed to know? David has been calling her that for three months now.  

At the bank we happened upon our two neighbors also immigrants under the wing of Smar-dar and she was on the phone with them.  Talk about serendipity.  Before doing the bank she wants us back at Absorption, so we traipse back over there where she takes us over to another place to pay the rent.  By then, I'm starving and we found a place to eat which had a the scary bathroom.  Using the bathroom required a key, which was okay.  I took the key, found myself in the back of the building in a corridor-like maze and followed the signs to a bathroom shared by both sexes.  I unlocked the door and there were two toilets:  the man toilet and the sit-down toilet.  I go into the sit-down toilet and close the stall door, sit down, hear somebody else come into the restroom.  I presume it was a man because he went in the neighboring toilet. He took a whiz, but not flush and left not washing his hands.  Talk about uncomfortable, I didn't move until he was gone.  At least he was quick about it.  I finished up and got out of there asap.  Returned to some very good hummus and a Coke; and we were ready to face the bank.

In the United States opening an account goes like this:  personal banker explains all the different accounts, choose an account, personal banker takes your money makes the deposit, and the whole thing takes maybe 20 minutes.

The personal banker didn't explain anything.  She just took our ID numbers, passport and started plugging things in the computer.  Thirty minutes later she asked if I was a stock broker and I said no.  After the hour it took to open my account, it was David's turn.  When our accounts were opened, she showed us where to make a deposit.  We had to take a number and wait for the teller to take our money.  Except it couldn't be an ordinary teller, it had to be the special teller who could take foreign currency. After what seemed like hours, the bank was done.

Culture Shock

Hot water on demand is only available in Israel if you're willing to pay for it. Our apartment has an on/off switch for the hot water heater, and you have to turn it on a hour before taking a shower or washing dishes.  That's not what shocked me -- although a minor inconvenience, a great way to save energy.  Energy costs are very high.  For instance, gasoline is 7.11 shekels a liter which converts to $6.95 a gallon.

People dry their clothes the old fashioned way, on a clothesline.  Every apartment has a clothesline strung where you can lean out your windows and hung up clothes.  Apartment units don't have coin operated  washing machines and dryers.  If you want your want your clothes washed in a machine -- rather than by hand -- you need to take your laundry to a laundromat.  Except laundromats here are not like what's in the United States.  No, you take it to the laundromat and the person who works there does the laundry for you.  You pay by the kilogram.  That's not what shocked me either.

Nor did the food shopping situation shock me.  I expected small corner markets with strange looking food, like the baked "chicken" we purchased.  At the first market, the pre-cooked chicken we purchased and took home was delicious.  A few days later at another market we decided to do the same thing.  I guess we didn't look at the container well enough because when we got it home, it was not a breast and thigh, it was a wing.  Except it was way too large to be a chicken wing, and we thought it was a turkey wing perhaps.
Well, that thing didn't taste like turkey.  We can't figure out what it was.  But buying the wrong food in a foreign country is to be expected.  Live and learn, no shock there.

Nope, the culture shock occurred on Day-1 as David and I walked home from our first food quest excursion.  In Israel, like in California, there are designated cross walks where oncoming vehicles must give the pedestrian the right of way.  However, it would be stupid to step out in the street without looking.

We had just crossed one such walk and a cute little girl around six -- maybe 7 -- years old with her younger brother came up and said something to me.  She spoke in Hebrew, so I didn't understand a word.  She was so cute and all alone, I wanted to help fearing she was lost and looking for her mommy.  I said, "Ah-nee lo may-vee-nah E-vreet. (I don't understand Hebrew)." To which she responded by talking in Hebrew wanting whatever she was wanting.

David correctly assessed the situation, and told me to, "Get with the program."  He took the little girl's hand and guided the children across the street.  He left them alone to continue on their way, and we went on home.  "It was obvious they just wanted to cross the street," he said.

Our conversation continued something like this:

Me: What kind of parent sends their children off without supervision and allows them to talk to strangers?

Him:  We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.  Welcome to Israel where children are not allowed to play in the street."

Me:  Yes, but, we're strangers.

Him:  Like I said, we're not in Kansas anymore.

Me:  First, we were never in Kansas, but since when is it okay for children to talk to strangers?"

Him:  This is Israel, it's a different culture, different land.  What's more, Jews are a great big tribe and we're all related in some way so there are no strangers.

Me:  Oh, please. Don't you think her parents are being naive?  I mean, come on, you can't tell me there's no pedophiles in Israel or, you know, other sicko's who might harm children.

Him (actually being somewhat thoughtful):  Maybe there is something inherent in American culture that allows that stuff to exist and not so much here.

Me: What would it be?  Even when I was a kid, I was warned never-ever to talk to strangers.

Him: Well, in Judaism everything is centered around the family and maybe children don't get raised in such away that turns them into perverts.

Me:  Hmm.  The only Jews who ever told me about their happy childhood were those who for some reason or another celebrated Christmas.  Mostly, I hear a lot of kvetching about childhood memories...in particular from you.

Him:  I didn't say it was necessarily a happy childhood; I just said we were possibly raised in such a way to prevent that.

Needless to say, children allowed to wander on their own and go up to strangers for help in crossing the street was quite the shock for me.  David thinks it is a sign that this country is a safe one.  I hope so.

The Toilet Situation in Israel

With 3rd world-like countries surrounding Israel, I was wondering about the availability of many conveniences Americans take for granted.  One of them being the toilet.  Would you not be able to flush down the toilet paper and have to put it in a nearby garbage can like in Mexico? Would toilets even flush here?  There could be holes in the floor that connect to the sewer system like what is found in many countries in this region of the world.

Whew!  Israel has toilets that you can sit on comfortably and flush everything down including toilet paper. However, they are different than the US, and at first are a bit disconcerting.  The toilets here are low-flush with very little water, which makes sense because Israel needs to conserve water in a big way.  In the US the toilet flush makes a noise like Ker-plush-Shhhhhhhhhhh.  In Israel, it's more like Kerp-trickle, trickle, trickle.  That's worrisome because you think maybe it's not all going to go away, especially if you have a big load in there...you know what I mean.  In spite of the low amount of water -- so far anyway -- everything has been going down.

Many US toilets in public places like malls or airports have that handle thing you can flush with your foot or automatic flush.  At the Ben Gurion Airport, the low-flush toilets had a pedal thing to push.  At our apartment, the low-flow toilet flushes by pushing down on metal button.

In a couple of cafes we've been to, the toilet situation is quite interesting.  You have a men's room in a very small space with only a toilet, and nearby a woman's room in a very small space also with only a toilet. Outside the "toilet room" is a nice sink for both men and women to wash their hands. Even though both men and women share a sink, the good news is that the sink is outside the toilet area and you don't have to open any doors after washing your hands and possibly recontaminate them.

So far, that's the toilet situation in Israel.  Outlying areas or places with antiquities could be a lot different.  I'll keep you updated with any new toilet info.

Israel: Day 1

We were so tired, we just fell into bed and slept.  I was sure in a new bed in a strange place, I wouldn't be able to sleep, but fell asleep immediately after that thought.

Our temporary quarters are small and colorless.  The walls are off-white, the tiles floors are off-white, and the couch is off-white.  The window looks across a small walkway to another apartment building that is built of off-white concrete.  The neighborhood consist of buildings that in the US would be called tenements. What you don't see is graffiti, and you don't hear cars going by with the stereo booming -- you hear children outside playing and singing.

We got up the next morning and unpacked a few things then went on a search for food.  We didn't know where to go and ended up walking forever until we finally found a place to eat.  In the US, you walk down the street and smile and acknowledge people you pass.  Here, they don't do that.  They just ignore each other.  But last night, the taxi driver and his, "Slee-chah," showed us you can go up to anybody and ask a question.

I know enough to say in Hebrew, "Do you speak English?" I can also say in Hebrew, "Where restaurant?" Based on pointing we eventually found a place to eat.  The food here is so much better than in the US.  The water tastes kind of funny -- although it has been declared safe to drink in all of Israel except at the Dead Sea -- but the food so far has been really good.

After lunch, we found a grocery market, extremely small by American standards, with both unfamiliar familiar brands of packaged and canned foods all with Hebrew writing.  Some had both Hebrew and English, but most were strictly Hebrew and we relied on pictures.  We found a roasted chicken like what might be at Raley's and bought one of those for 43 shekels.  It's a good thing we did, because we didn't realize until we got back home that the apartment doesn't have an oven.  What's more, we can't figure out how to turn on the stove.  It's gas, and I don't think the gas is on to the apartment.

Talk about irony, on the way home we saw all kinds of corner markets and little places to eat all very close to where we are staying.  But when we were hungry, couldn't find a thing, until we asked several people and walked for over an hour.  Also, on the way home I had my first culture shock that I'm still trying to process.

Flying to Israel

Naturally, because I'm such a worry wart, I didn't sleep at all the night before the flight.  I kept telling myself it was okay, that I would be able to sleep on the plane.  Or at least rest on the plane.  One of the things I worried about was passing the interrogation all passengers on El Al flights must go through.

Rather than racial profiling, El Al does behavior profiling.  El Al has other security measures that most other airlines don't have like planes equipped with missile seeking devices to avoid an on-ground attack, and sending luggage through a decompression chamber that will set off any bombs that might be triggered through air pressure change that occurs during a flight.

Everyone has to go through the interrogation so passengers have to be at the airport three hours early just to stand in line. The interrogation was easy.  We were asked questions by a nice lady, where if we told the truth, we could enter continue the process to board the plane.  

Then we went through TSA which was no problem.  However, TSA did open up our luggage and we were questioned about a couple of items in our bags.  I was worried someone at customs or somewhere would freak out over all the herbs and essential oils I brought along, but that didn't happen.  We were questioned about our computer equipment because the keyboard was packed in another box than the monitor, and we brought along a super-duper surge protector that they didn't know what it was.  Other people were called up and questioned about their items too.

Finally, we boarded the plane and were stuffed into these small little seats near the back.  Fourteen hours of this.  I was squished in the middle with no window.  Luckily every seat had a computer screen where we could select movies, games, music, and flight info.

They fed us on the flight -- 14 hours, they would have to.  David and I were wondering what the flight path was, and he was convinced we would head out east, I was kind of hoping for an over the Pacific flight -- but it turns out we were both wrong.  In the name of safety we flew northeast over Canada, Greenland, Iceland and down through Europe over the Mediterranean and into Tel Aviv.

For some reason, the overhead lights never went out, making it even harder to try and sleep.  Okay, with the cramped seating and bright lights, impossible to sleep.  Making two nights in a row I didn't catch a wink.

The interesting thing about the flight was passengers could go hang out near the galley where the crew was working.  Anybody who wanted more food or drink could just ask and they'd hand out another sandwich or dinner tray.  No problem.

When we safely landed, the passengers clapped.  I've never seen that on another airline either.  Being in the back, it took forever to get off the plane.  Our Nefesh guy was waiting for the new olim with a sign and he guided us through the passport, customs process, and the took us to the Ministry of Absorption.  We were herded into a big room with a lot of chairs where Russian olim were already waiting.  There was a brief introduction in Russian and then they lit Hanukkah candles.  And food and juice to drink.  Then we waited until we were called and were processed through and given a new Israeli ID, which technically makes me an Israeli citizen.

The process of absorption was only supposed to take two hours, but it took more like four. We were given a coupon for a free taxi ride anywhere in Israeli and our driver who spoke very little English took us to our temporary home in Haifa.  It was dark when we left the airport, but what I saw of Tel Aviv didn't seem that much different than the Bay Area.  The traffic crawled at a snail's pace bumper to bumper throughout the city.  The traffic signs are in three languages:  Hebrew, Arabic and English. The business have familiar logos with writing in Hebrew, but it still felt like being in America.

It's a good thing I started doing a little Pimsleur to learn Hebrew, because that taxi driver knew very little English.  I think after 15 Pimsleur 30 minute lessons, I knew more Hebrew than he had of English which is taught in Israeli schools.  Apparently it's not taught very well, much like the Spanish we learned in high school -- I took 4 years of Spanish and never learned it.  Anyway, the trip was so long because of traffic, I had to use the bathroom really, really bad.  So did David.  We were able to piece together enough Hebrew to make him understand the urgency.  Whew!  That is a miserable feeling to be holding it, and holding it, and wondering when, if and how.

When we reached Haifa, he didn't know where to take us.  So he kept yelling out the window asking people for directions.  They gave terrible directions and he still couldn't find it.  He yelled out, "Slee-chah!" which is Hebrew to politely say, "Excuse me."  But Slee-chah doesn't sound like excuse me, it sounds like, "Hey You!"

Anyway, everyone he yelled out to, regardless if they were on the street or in the car tried to answer his question.  Eventually he found the place, and our contact was waiting with a key.  She showed us around the small apartment and how to turn on the hot water heater or boiler as she called it, and put down the exterior metal electric blinds, and how to lock the door.  She brought us donuts and we lit the Hanukkah candles, and I gave he kids the donuts and pretended like David and I would eat ours later.  But he can't eat sugar because he's diabetic, and I'm gluten intolerant and getting worse, so we threw the donuts away.

And David reminded me, "You don't have to worry about starving in Israel."

Last Full Day in the US of A

It's still not registering.   Am I really leaving the USA possibly never to live here again?  Wow!

Last night we stayed in Ventura only two blocks away from the Pacific.  Last night and this morning, I took a nice long walk along the beach.  The ocean was so beautiful.  I can't describe its color:  sort of sea-green, blue grey, icy pale teal.

The plane only allows three check-ins per person and we need to transport clothes, bedding, towels, kitchen stuff, office supplies, computer, toiletries, books, to name a few items.  What we bring will have to last us for a few months before we can ship the rest of our stuff once we find a permanent place to live.

We have a small car, and it couldn't contain six boxes.  We had to fold the boxes and cram in all of our unpacked stuff.  The trunk was so full we could barely shut it and the back seat of the car was piled high.  Poor car, it was loaded down so heavy the chassis sunk nearly six inches.

At the hotel, we had to pull out the boxes, form and tape the bottoms and fill them up with our stuff so the porters could load them on the cart and take them upstairs to our room.  Once in our room, we pulled everything out of the boxes so we could organize and figure out how to pack more compactly.  We already left a lot behind before leaving Shasta Lake, and we had to leave even more behind in the hotel room.  That took hours and hours as in all afternoon and into the evening.

I had to call my baby and say goodbye.  Boo-hoo!   It's too late now to change my mind.

So that was our last day in the US-of-A.  We're ready for next hurdle: TSA and Israeli behavior profiling.  A big day tomorrow. OY!  Did I happen to mention I'm afraid of flying?

Last Night in Shasta Lake

Today was a grumpy sort of day.  My fiance and I were sniping throughout the entire afternoon.  My brother came over to say good-bye -- probably the last time I'll see him.  Now we're getting ready to go out to dinner at one of our favorite restaurants in town -- it will be the last time we eat there.

I feel like I'm abandoning the people I love, yet I never see them anyway.  In some ways, because living abroad will be an adventure -- thus blogging more -- could actually bring us closer.  We have Skype so we are still just a phone call away without a lot of extra expense:  I hope that's how it works.

There's still a sadness and some regret.  Like maybe if I had lived my life in a different way, I wouldn't be moving half way around the world.  But what would I be doing, instead?  Somehow the sensible alternative is just too boring.

The Last Days

This is the last Wednesday I will be spending in the United States --  at least for a long time.  I'll probably never come back to Northern California again, which suits me fine.  Now it's a series of lasts.

Last time I will probably see my sister, ever.  Not that we ever see each other much anyway.  We went to lunch today.  It's so weird, because it felt like any other lunch, and not like a good-bye never see you again type lunch.  But my family is like that, sort of cold and unfeeling on the exterior and crying on the inside.

Today was probably the last day I'll ever eat a piece of fudge.  I'm just thinking there's not a whole lot of fudge in Israel.  That's a good thing, I don't need to be eating fudge.  But, you know, when it might be your last time, what can you do?

My fiance and I had to do errands, and we went to Walmart to pick up a few things.  That might have been the last time we ever go into a Walmart.  Not that Walmart is my favorite store, in fact, it's one of my least favorite store -- but like so many others I've fallen prey to cheap.

This evening I'm going to see some friends and it will probably be the last time I ever see them.

Tomorrow night is the last night we'll be staying in the house.

We received our last two CD's from Netflix today.

We still have a week to go, but the lasts are starting to pile up.  Then, of course, will begin a whole bunch of firsts -- so that's exciting.  Leaving is bittersweet.

Aliyah: The Bureaucratic Nightmare -- Oy!

Although my Jewishness was accepted before my fiance's, he managed to get through the bureaucratic mess months before I did.  Apparently I had a "complicated" file, as told to me by the Jewish Agency.

First, we had a problem with our Shaliach.  In English, Shaliach means the person who works for the Jewish Agency and lives in the US and is supposed to help you with the Aliyah process by answering questions, looking at paperwork, and dealing with the Jewish Agency people in Israel.  Our Shaliach never returned our phone calls, rarely returned emails, and basically was unavailable the entire time we were going through the bureaucratic nightmare.  He was no help at all.

We had to call the Jewish Agency once or twice a week from August through November, and actually began to recognize some of the voices and knew who the "good" people were to talk to.  Good meaning, the person knew what they were doing and could accurately answer questions and get things done.  One thing the Jewish Agency people kept saying was:  "Call your Shaliach!"  To which we would say: "We have and he never calls back."

Second, was my "complicated" file.  The Jewish Agency needed things like a birth certificate, and wanted to know if children were coming along with husbands or wives, etc.  Makes sense, and I knew that since I had legally changed my name the Agency would want to see the documentation for that.

Finally, we made contact with the Shaliach's assistant and we were able to make an appointment with the Shaliach -- meaning a four hour drive to San Francisco. But it's always a pleasure to go to SF, and we planned an overnight trip so we could enjoy some of the amenities the city has to offer.  We spent less than an hour with the Shaliach who looked over our paperwork, wanted to know why we were moving to Israel, and looked at our passports.

It seemed to be of vital importance that we had not lived in Israel over the past seven years.  Both of us had brand new passports which could not account for our travels over the past seven years.  For some inexplicable reason, I kept my old passport, but my fiance (always Mr. Efficiency) had thrown his away.  Therefore, before going to the Shaliach he had to scramble around to try and find acceptable proof he was living in the USofA for the past ten years.  Tax records were acceptable, except all of our stuff is in storage in another state waiting to be shipped to our permanent home, so he couldn't access those.  The problem was solved by calling his tax preparer and she graciously wrote a letter saying she had been doing his taxes for the past seven years.

So far, the burden had been on my fiance.  My Jewishness of choice through conversion was accepted before his Jewishness by accident through his being born of a Jewish mother.  Ha!  I had kept my passport and didn't need to scramble around trying to find a way to prove that I had not lived outside the US for the past seven years in particular Israel. I was almost there.

During the interview with the Shaliach, we answered his questions and he gave us a list of the additional documentation we needed to provide along with an apostille.  An apostille -- not to be confused with apostle -- is basically a document that certifies a government document is actually real, or something like that.  Neither our birth certificates or our passports would need an apostille, presumably because the shaliach saw the original, but everything else would need this additional document.  For some reason, they wanted proof of divorce and it too would need an apostille.

Here's where the nightmare began for me.  See, I was married twice and divorced twice.  In between marriage 1 and marriage 2, I legally changed my name.  Several years later, after divorcing husband #2, I converted.

Okay, back to the name change.  Although bringing my married name back to my maiden name was an option after divorce #1, I decided better yet would be to change my entire name:  first, middle and last.  The reason I changed my name is that my maiden name was one of those really long last names where you could make it into a joke.  What's more, my first name combined with the last name could be made into a sentence, sort of.  I didn't want that kind of name, I wanted a name like everybody else had and people wouldn't start laughing when they heard it and say: "What?!  You're kidding right?"  Was that so much to ask?

It is important to understand that in certain cultures, like what might be found in the Middle East, people do not change their names.  We investigated Israel laws, and there doesn't appear to be any court proceedings whereby one could go about legally changing their name.  But, like everywhere else, people in the Middle East do go by different names.

Let's say someone has the name of Joe Blow.  In certain cultures to change your name would be considered as dishonoring your parents.  So instead Mr. Blow would not legally change his name, he would just start going by Sam Smith and people would accept that. Why that doesn't dishonor a parent, I'm not sure.  Anyway, on legal documents he would still write Joe Blow, but everyone would call him good ol' Sam.  I actually have a friend who has changed her name in this way a few times.  She is from a Middle Eastern type culture, by the way.

However, in the United States, if Joe Blow went to apply for a job, he might experience some difficulty and funny looks when he said: "Call me Sam Smith."  No, in the US, it is much better to legally change one's name so that all legal and semi-legal documents can be signed by the legal new name and everybody knows you by your legal name.  And that's what I did, and the court document needed an apostille.

No problem.  Well, one problem.  We're in California and my name change, and the two divorces took place in Colorado.  And although I had my birth certificate and name change handy, the divorce information had long been discarded.  What could have been accomplished in a day took weeks.  In order for the government employees of Colorado to give this information out, they needed identification in the form of birth certificate and currant driver's license sent to them along with money. Eventually, the requested documentation would be mailed back to us so we could have the originals...anyone who knows anything about government bureaucracy knows this takes a lot of time.

This was still in August when we thought we had a ghost of a change to be in Israel by September in time for the High Holy Days.  But when the Jewish Agency took two weeks off because of budget constraints, we set a new moving date for November.

Meanwhile, the Jewish Agency wanted more information about my conversion.  Although they have accepted the copy of my Certificate of Conversion from the Reform Temple where I converted -- the original was in storage in another state -- they now needed a letter from the Rabbi who performed the conversion along with evidence that I was an active member of the synagogue for a year.  They also wanted to know why I converted, and they wanted to know about the conversion process.

I had converted a long time ago -- as in years ago -- as in the Rabbi who converted me is retired now.  Fortunately, he is a Rabbi Emeritus and thus still available to write a letter on my behalf.  Unfortunately, being retired, he isn't around so much and it took a couple of weeks to connect.  Having converted so long ago, the Rabbi didn't remember me and going through the records didn't really know what to say in the letter.  So, I wrote him a letter recalling the conversion process and my involvement in the temple.  He kindly transferred the letter to his letterhead putting in basically what I told him and what the Agency wanted to hear.

This was around the time the Jewish Agency was closed, so it took forever to find out if the Rabbi's letter had been received and accepted.  Finally the Agency reopened and we learned the letter had been received but not accepted.  Apparently, the Agency investigated the Rabbi and discovered he was retired and anything he said didn't count.  Huh? The Rabbi who converted and devoted his life to Judaism -- because he is now retired -- no longer mattered.  Wow, how's that for gratitude?

The agency wanted something from the current Rabbi who I had never met and who didn't know me from Adam.  At this point, it was the week before Yom Kippur so being in Israel in time for the High Holy Days was completely out of the question. What's more the deadline for the November aliyah flight was coming up fast.

I called the Temple and spoke to the current Rabbi's secretary -- she was absolutely wonderful -- told her the situation and emailed her a letter stating basically what the Jewish Agency needed to hear.  There was nothing in the letter that the new Rabbi could not confirm through the temple records, it was mostly about him, his education, his qualifications, that he was in fact a Jew, that he was really a Rabbi, that I converted at the temple and was a member there for over a year, blah, blah, blah.  All the secretary had to do was transfer it onto temple letterhead and have the Rabbi sign it.  This happened between Rosh and Yom Kippur, a busy time of year for the synagogue.  She couldn't promise an immediate response.  I understood.  Yet, the very next day, I had my letter signed by the current Rabbi! Someone had checked the records and found even more good stuff to say about me and my Jewish conversion.  The people at the temple where I converted went beyond the call of duty and were so good to me, I am very proud to have been associated with that congregation.

The Agency liked and accepted the current Rabbi letter, but they also wanted the curriculum of the conversion process.  All they had to do was go online and see what it was, but no, they needed a letter about that too.  Well, over the years the conversion curriculum changed and naturally the institution no longer had the old curriculum.  So I asked them to just give me the current curriculum because it would still be similar to what I went through. At which point, we had -- what we believed -- all the necessary documentation for aliyah acceptance.  We figured we would have an answer right after Yom Kippur.

Except then came Sukkot and Simchat Torah and the Jewish Agency closed for the holiday season.   Then they went on strike.

After weeks of waiting we called the Agency and were expecting to hear that I had been approved.  Instead I heard they were waiting for the documentation on divorce # 2.  I nearly fell through the floor.  I had been so focused on the conversion information, divorce #1 and the name change documents, I totally forgot about divorce #2.

Oh, no!  If we could have left in November, our plan was to fly out of New York.  We were going to drive across country see family and friends en route and tell them goodbye.  At this point we knew November was out of the question.  In some ways it was good, because I was finishing up an online MBA program and I really wasn't sure how I was going to coordinate school and travel.  My fiance, working on his doctorate, said it wouldn't be problem -- after all, he was in class too and taking statistics.  With a new target date for December, my MBA program would be completed and my fiance's semester would be almost over.  As far as time, December worked a lot better.  Frustration-wise, not so much.

Before leaving the country for a very long time, I did want to visit my offspring, so took a little trip to Colorado.  It was a wonderful trip and I enjoyed seeing family and friends, but it was too short, and much of the time was spent collecting the necessary documentation from divorce #2 and getting the apostille.  That whole thing took some of the pleasure out of the trip.

However, when I spoke to the Jewish Agency, the person I spoke said something disconcerting.  They were looking for the divorce from man with the same last name as my name change.  I tried to explain that there would be no ex-husband by that name, and she seemed to understand.  When I finally got the apostille to the Agency, I still wasn't approved.  They wanted to now see a marriage certificate, I knew there was a problem.

At this point we're wondering if Israel was going to happen and if we should even bother.  But we had spent quite a bit of time and money on making this happen, and there is something in both of our natures not to quit.  Although we started the process to get even more documentation from Colorado, we feared rather than receiving an outright rejection, the Jewish Agency would never stop asking for more and more documentation.

My fiance insisted the problem was the Jewish Agency simply didn't understand the name change. In their minds people don't change their names, and women only convert because they are marrying a Jewish man.  They were looking for my Jewish husband who didn't exist. Let me get this straight, if the only reason a woman would convert to Judaism is to please a man, aren't they in effect saying the Jewish religion has no meaning or value?

Regardless, if something isn't in someone's reality how can you make them understand?  I started to despair that I would never be approved, and suggested maybe my fiance go to Israel without me.  In fact, he had already been given a seat on the December flight.

Before the marriage certificate and apostille arrived, we decided to call the Agency during their morning hours and see if we couldn't get something done.  This normally would have been the job of the Shaliach, but ours never lifted a finger for us.  Anyway, when it's night here, it's daylight in Israel.  We had been calling the Agency first thing in our morning and catching them when they were about to leave work for the day.  Instead, we stayed up later than normal one evening to call the Agency so that they would be arriving at work hoping that whoever we spoke to would be able to talk immediately to the people who were deciding my status.

We spoke to someone different.  She had an interesting accent: a blend of New York crass and Irish brogue, not the usual Hebrew accent we had been speaking to before.  She seemed to be from the West and had a English name and -- we're presuming here -- she spoke to the people who decide and explained about name changes in most first-world countries.  I don't know what actually happened.  All I know is that the next morning, looking on the Nefesh B'Nefesh website, it looked like I had been approved.

Nefesh is an agency that helps English speaking people who come to Israel have a "soft landing."  They help with learning the language, finding jobs, apartments, etc.  They are closely tied to the Jewish Agency, so much so, my fiance thinks the two organizations should merge.

No matter, it seemed like I was now approved and the extra fees for the apostilled marriage #2 certificate were wasted.

However, one lady at the Jewish Agency wanted to see the marriage certificate said that we would have to show all of our documents to various Israeli Ministries and were simply taking precautions so that I would be accepted into the country. Was she saying I could end up -- after going through all of this -- landing in Israel, showing the paperwork to the Ministry people and they can't understand the name change, so I get sent back to the US with my tail between my legs?  Uh-oh.  Maybe marriage certificate #2 wasn't a waste, after all.

There was also a concern of children.  I had signed a very official looking statement that said I had no minor children...twice.

My fiance wasn't making things any easier.  While I go into despair, he goes into kvetching mode.  He was complaining about the problem with the Jewish Agency is they're all Orthodox, maybe even Haredi, aka super-ultra-Orthodox; and in their eyes I'm a wild woman.  Me?  I'm kind of a nerd actually and prefer a good book over a party.  However, I wickedly divorced not one but two men, changed my name, and converted because of deep personal convictions that had nothing to do with marriage -- and now I'm a wild woman.

He complained the decision makers were convinced I had many children and I was going to bring them into Israel so they could take advantage of the free education and health care.  It's not quite like that -- they would also have to join the Israeli army -- nothing's really free now is it.  Except, there are NO minor children in my life!  And the other off-spring have absolutely no desire to go to Israel, my off-spring are perfectly content living in the USA.

To be on the safe side, I got the birth certificates of my adult off-spring, but how would I ever prove I didn't have additional children?  Really, how would that even be possible to prove?

Anyway, the next day we again called the Jewish Agency to see if my acceptance on the Nefesh website was correct or at this point too good to be true.  Try, too good to be true.

The person I spoke to took a very long time looking through my documentation and said in a very scary voice, "You need to talk to your Shaliach."  To which I said, "But we can never get in contact with our Sh..."  Click.

It sounded dire.  I wasn't sure what all this meant.  My fiance is still kvetching about me being a wild woman and Israel not wanting me.  Thank-you honey for your encouraging support.

When we again struggled to try and reach the Shaliach who never returned phone calls or emails, it turned out he was gone and a new one was coming.  One problem, the new Shaliach would not be around for another two weeks.  The deadline for the December flight was fast approaching.  We finally reached the Shaliach's assistant who scheduled an appointment for us, both to meet with the Shaliach and to get our visas.  After about five months it was nearly official.

Once I was approved, my fiance used one of the Nefesh connections to guarantee us a temporary home once we landed in Israel.  Part of the process is that the Agency wants to know where or with whom you will be living.  I guess they don't want their new olim, i.e. immigrants, sleeping in hotels or on the street.  So, sight unseen, he paid the deposit and we have our official -- albeit temporary address.  We don't know if this place is a dump or what, but it's still a place.

At this point however, I was terrified something would go wrong, based on the tone of voice from the last Agency phone call.  I'm afraid the Shaliach is going to tell me what the Jewish Agency has been afraid to say:  "Sorry you're rejected for Israel."  But the new Shaliach turned out to be delightful, and she has done really cool things like return phone calls when we had questions.  If we had started with her, I'm sure this process wouldn't have been so terrible.

Meeting with the Shaliach was just a formality, and she wanted to know where we would be living, and filled out a recommendation letter for aliyah.  We got our visas, and everything was done.  Right?  No, for some reason, even after seeing the Shaliach, I was still not approved for a flight.  It looked like I would be going to Israel but not on the same flight with my fiance.

We thought we were done calling the Jewish agency and we were wrong.  We called again in the evening to find out why my flight was not approved.  My fiance got on the phone and started yelling at the poor guy who told me the news...for all the good that did.  We couldn't sleep.  I wondered with the Shaliach being new and all, if she didn't know to do something important.  Maybe the Jewish Agency wanted a copy of that approval letter.  So we called Agency back and spoke to the same guy.  He remembered me, and I asked if he wanted us to fax over a copy of the letter.  He said that would be nice, giving no indication whatsoever that was exactly what they were waiting for to approve the flight.

Well, guess what? The next morning I was approved for a flight.  All done?  Nope.  We had paid both our deposits for the flight, but -- you guessed it -- my payment wasn't showing as paid.  This is where my fiance is really, really good -- I mean besides being good in other ways.  He made all the phone calls and emails to get that straightened out and by the end of the day, it was official:  I'm on a flight to Israel and I get to go with my beloved fiance.

So barring any unforeseen disasters, we're are making aliyah.  It still hasn't registered.

Making Aliyah...that is the question

Okay, so my fiance and I have decided to make Aliyah.

A bit of background. I'm a convert to Judaism, Reform.  For the record, I did NOT convert to please my fiance, I didn't even know him until several years after converting.  At the time I converted, Israel did not accept Reform conversions as being Jewish enough for Aliyah, but they do now.

My fiance is a Jew born of Jewish parents who as young adults were kicked out of Nazi Germany, fled to Shanghai where they met and under dire circumstances had sex so that his mom got pregnant -- but not with my fiance, with his much, much older sister -- and they had to get married.  My fiance was born after the war and in the United States and that was after two more sisters and a twelve year gap.

Well, anyway he was born of Jewish parents.  He had his Bar Mitzvah at an Orthodox shul, but parents never really practiced Judaism.  In fact, his father spent his life blaming Jews and Judaism for ruining his life.  Back in Germany, my boyfriend's father had a promising future, he was even going to be in the Olympics -- but all those dreams were destroyed by Hitler and my fiance's father spent the rest of his life bemoaning Germany and being Jewish.

My fiance, on the other hand, took advantage of a current German law that allows descendants of those who were illegally kicked out of Germany by Hitler to have a restored German citizenship -- which probably has his father rolling in his grave. So now my fiance has a dual citizenship:  US and German.  The irony of that German citizenship thing is if his parents were never kicked out of Germany they never would have met and he never would have been born.  Instead of going to Germany where it's cold in the winter, we've decided to move to Israel the heart of Armageddon.

But to irony. I had one rabbi ask his Torah study group, "What is Torah all about?"

Silence.

Rabbi:  "Think. What is Torah all about?"

More silence.

Rabbi:  "Torah is about the irony.  It's always about the irony."

So keep that in mind when I tell you I got accepted for Aliyah but my boyfriend was rejected.

He wasn't able to prove to the Jewish Agency's satisfaction he was born of a Jewish mother, or father for that matter. It has been so long since his Bar Mitzvah, he doesn't even know where to begin to get records of a shul that moved years ago and the rabbi is long dead.  My boyfriend's mother is buried in a Jewish cemetery, an Orthodox Jewish cemetery, and he sent proof of that in a letter signed by a rabbi.  That should be enough proof he's a Jew, right?   Well, the letter with Hebrew letterhead and the name Anshei Sfard signed by the rabbi there didn't happen to say it was actually a Jewish rabbi who signed it, nor did the letter specifically say Jewish mother buried in a Jewish cemetery and so he was rejected.

And, boy-oh-boy, is he mad.  He's spitting nails.  He's saying things like:  "What do I want to go to that stupid country for anyway?  So I can be in the middle of war zone?  It's no wonder everybody hates the Jews.  Even the Jews hate the Jews.  There's never going to be peace in the Middle East when they continue to behave the way they do."

Don't ask me how his rejection is about peace in the Middle East.  Nevertheless, my boyfriend got another signed letter from the rabbi at Anshei Sfard that says things like:
I am an ordained Orthodox Jewish rabbi.  She is buried in an orthodox Jewish cemetery.  Only Jews may be buried in this Jewish cemetery.  He was born of a Jewish mother...

So now the Jewish Agency has reopened his file and we're both in limbo while our files are under review.  We'll see what happens next.