In to the fire . . . .

So, the program has officially begun. No more orientations, no more getting-to-know-you circles, and no more-what-are-your expectations conversations. I’m here, I’m in it, and it’s breathtaking.

I am in an intensive Hebrew class that meets 17 hours a week. By the end of the program, I will have accrued about 410 hours of instruction and that certainly does not include homework. Homework almost begins a new story in itself. The work outside of class manifests in the standard reading and grammar handouts, but also in life. As I converse with the people around me, native Hebrew speakers and non-native Hebrew speakers, the benefits of practical language application emerge, making me wonder why I didn’t study more Spanish in college and why my high school’s foreign language curriculum took me to only the center of bound pages.

I spent the weekend in Jerusalem visiting friends, several people on the mid-twenties angst trip, others who call Israel home, and the obligatory rabbinical students. On Friday, I found myself traipsing around the Old City of Jerusalem, small portions of East Jerusalem, and the bohemian neighborhoods of Baca and the Germany Colony. Many of the places in theses areas are either hundreds of years old (parts of the Old City) or a hundred years old (Baca and the Germany Colony). Everything is made with Jerusalem stone and the buildings sometimes seem to glow in the sunshine. It’s quite a workout circumnavigating Jerusalem. I mean this place is just one hill after another, after another, after another, you get the picture.

More importantly, I ended up in the hospital . . . no, I didn’t get hurt, in fact I’m pretty damn healthy right now. A friend of mind began to suffer some gastro-pain and later in the emergency room, the doctors diagnosed him with not appendicitis, but appendage-citis. Not many of us have figured out what it is, but the doctors loved bringing students into his room, pointing to my friend, say “appendage-citis” and then leave. No words for the patient, no comments to his students . . . “cloom” as the Israelis say (it means nothing). Anyway, my friend is fine now and I got a glimpse of an Israeli hospital voluntarily . . . not a bad deal.

My weeks are beginning to have some sort of routine and I have even begun writing, the primary goal of this trip. Another week has now begun and I am running headfirst into it. In a month, I’ll have my first performance as an artist presenting his work and in the meantime, some other musicians and I are getting a group together to hit the pub scene.

The pub is where I will end my blog for this week. Of course, I have frequented the pub to observe the locals and taste the-ever-popular Danish fermentation technique and on many occasion, the choice of music in the pub comes to my attention. Never I have been to a bar where it seems upon entering, I have entered a time warp (except for McGann’s where 80’s rock lives forever) --- this isn’t like your standard Irish pub with memorabilia and the like. Rather, the music conjures up images of “Jams,” spike-dyed hair, some combat boots, and a smattering of leather. Last week, I heard almost all of Dire Strait’s “Greatest Hits” and this week it was the Scorpions “Greatest Hits.” I’m not knocking Dire Straits, but I am most definitely knocking the Scorpions. I mean I really liked “Winds of Change” when I was 10, but I mean who really wants to hear “Rock You like a Hurricane” and their collected greatest hits, geez. It’s almost awful.