The Fine Art of Being* AMENDED VERSION

Loz does all his own stunts

It's taken me a couple weeks to realize that vacation is about the fine art of the hang. Our biggest mission today is to find fish & chips at someplace Loz knows by the sea [GUEST EDITOR NOTE: "The 'place-or-other' we ate fish chips was called Aldeburgh - that's pronounced 'old-bra'." Old bra indeed!]. Then we'll visit a castle in Orford.

I'm having a hard time thinking about going home. My last few days at work were hellaciously stressful and it's only now, more than two weeks later, the knot is leaving my stomach. I will fill it with more black tea and flat warm beer and hope that it will settle.

This trip has also been about clarity. Not just about my family and friends, but about what things are supposed to feel like. For example, I was very conscious when I was with Ilya, Gali and their kids -- amid raucous laughter, fiercely defending our versions of history, and unconditional love -- that this is what family is supposed to feel like. Gali's friend Ayelet explained that there's a Hebrew word for what happens when you turn 40 -- tvuna. It basically means you put into play all the wisdom and experience you've collected over your lifetime.

The difficult side of tvuna, however, is that I now have the understanding that sometimes you have to go back to zero in order to move forward.

I'm not ready to come home

... except I miss Lucy, my dog. Especially today, when we rode bikes around the countryside and rambled around John Constable country. We watched lambs gambol in the field behind Loz's house, and made fun of the ducks. It is truly Hobbitville here in Suffolk, in the southeast of England. Lu would have loved it. Don't tell her.

One of the great things about being 40licious, however, is that you have friends from, oh, 30 years ago who will take care of your dog. Joanna and Stephanie have tag-teamed looking after Lucy during this trip, and Steph featured her in the I Speak Film blog. Check it out!

The Long and Winding Road

You'd think they'd WANT you to leave Israel. But they make it really, really difficult. Hell-Al Airlines takes waaaaaay to long to check you out of the country. Yes, yes, I know they're looking for bombs. But come on, can't we do a little reverse racial profiling here for the shicksa redhead with the blowdryer, flat iron, iPod, charger, international adapter set, camera, phone, and assorted plugs and wires?

Arrived in London last night, and on my way to have my morning tea. Then out to the country to meet my friend, who will show me how Real English People go about their day. Everyone's quite polite so far, and the transportation has been excellent.

I'm still in foreign-language mode, however, and keep expecting people to not understand me when I speak to them. Shalom! I mean, ''hi!''

Sure, She's a Shicksa ...

Shu Shu the camel makes my Prius Look Like a Hummer

But it seems there just isn't enough hummous in Israel for me.

Last night we beat it out of gritty, hot, complicated Tel Aviv and arrived at the Dead Sea. We stayed with a friend in a nearby kibbutz. Then this morning we awoke, early, 4-wheeled it to the "shore" (think rocky desert lunar scape) and soaked in hot springs, slapped mud all over ourselves, and floated in the water. As I lay on the beach, my torso in the stream of supersalty hot water rushing from the pool, with my legs out toward the cooler sea water, it felt that there has to be some kind of sin cleansing through all this. How could there not be? I mean, like, if I had any sins to eradicate in the first place.

This is truly an amazing trip on so many levels. Seriously, if anyone wants to come to Israel, I know a couple great tour guides.

Just Ask

The other day we went to deliver a suitcase from the States to Mother Catherine, a friend of Ilya's. She works at St. Mary's Russian Orthodox church in Jerusalem. She's actually from California, and came to be a nun after she was miraculously cured from cancer by drinking goat's milk. She's super cool. I instantly loved her after she told me the story of Mary Magdalene through a series of four paintings in the entryway of the church. Her cell phone kept ringing "Ave Maria."

Upon leaving, she invited me to stay in the convent the next time I was there.

Now, I'm not a particularly religious person, and I certainly shy away from all denominational labels. But here's the weird thing. We walked through the lovely garden graveyard and as I left through the gates, a voice came into my head. "It's okay to ask for miracles," it said. Clear and strong, just like that.

What do I have to lose?

The Reason I'm Here

Bedouin rush hour

Today we all piled in the truck and rode out on these rutted roads and found a few Bedouins chasing around a few hundred goats. They invited us to drink tea made of sage and sugar with them. We sat under tarp tents and Ilya and Gali spoke to them in Arabic. Four or five little kids ran around, shy and smiling. The boys thew stuff at the donkey to make him bray. It was hilarious for everyone except the donkey.

Also, I saw a camel.

Also, I don't want to go home and I'm having one of those "why don't I just chuck it all and go on the road" days, you know how you do when you're traveling.

Also, I think Ilya is my new hero.

The 40licious realization here is that you think you know your family, and then they do something super awesome like take you to the Bedouins to drink tea.

This Land Is My Land, This Land Is My Land

It's a pretty amazing place, this Israel. After waaaaay too many hours on the plane, I arrived. My brother's betrothed, Gali, is amazing. I would choose her for my friend, but happier to have her as my sister. 

The short story of why I'm here is this: My father married a woman named Liz in the mid-60s. They had Ilya in 1965. She kidnapped him and took him to Israel when he was 3, in hopes that my father would never have access to him. Dad then met and married my mother, and I was born in 1968. for many years, he tried everything he know -- legal and, eventually, illegal -- to get his son Ilya back. 

Meanwhile, in Jerusalem, Ilya was raised every day to believe his father was a monster. His mother would quickly remarry and have two more daughters. Cut to 1982, and Ilya was finally allowed to visit us for the first time. It was a good homecoming, it was instant family and he and I have had a very special fondness for each other ever since. 

Today Ilya, Gali and I sat around the table and Monday-morning quarterbacked the last 42 years. Versions of history clash, accusations become memories become truths. I am very -- quite possibly overly -- defensive of my dad and his honor in all this. Ilya and I keep reminding ourselves and each other that the past, while not irrelevant, doesn't need to be figured out, because we are good, we are here, we are family.

Everyone and their versions of the truth. In the end, whether it's family or a fucking holy war, I think everyone's doing the best they can. Aren't they? But can't we just do a little better?