71 Early Evening in Tel Aviv

Every Tuesday in the early evening, I go to Tel Aviv. I always enter the city at the same hour, but in every season of the year that is a completely different time. In winter I begin my trip in the dark, and when I arrive in Tel Aviv it seems to me that night has already fallen on the city. As the days grow longer darkness descends while I am still on my way, and evening begins as I enter the city. In summer, on the other hand, my journey begins in the middle of the day, in blinding sunlight, and even when I park my car in the big city, full daylight continues to flood the streets.

This picture was taken in the middle of July, slightly after 6 PM. As yet there is complete daylight, and a bright sun burns diagonally in the sky. The shadow in the picture is misleading, because the light pouring down from the narrow strip between the trees caused the closure of the camera's automatic shutter, and the feeling of dimness and haze. The front window of the car, through which the picture was taken, also contributed to this effect and that explains the vague and dreamy feeling, a feeling which increases when one notices that there is no one in the street. The car on the road also looks to be frozen in hazy time.

I like roads that are lined on both sides with big trees. Such was my street, until wisecrackers of the local council accepted the bad advice of the electric company and the bat haters, and pruned the Ficus trees viciously until all that remained of them were bare trunks.

I like the symmetrical perspective that such avenues create. Note the diagonal lines created by the parked cars at the sides of the road and the narrow opening of the upper triangle of light. Note also the vanishing point to which our gaze is directed. It is above the upper left corner of the car traveling in front of me. It is rather strange to find a house there that blocks the continuation of the middle of the road line. The movement to infinity stops immediately.

Notice the light reflected from the road and the shine of the cars on the left. The sun is in front and somewhat to the right. Here is the Tel Aviv of a dream at the magical hour of late evening.

70 Jerusalem

On the last day of August we drove to Jerusalem to meet my cousin from Florida whom I had never met. We had decided to meet on the Armon Hanatziv promenade. Until then we wandered on the promenade and gazed at Jerusalem – the beautiful city, a difficult city, one that gives itself easily to the eye but guards its secrets. We also looked at the houses of Jabel Mukaber which border on the promenade.

My father left the United States when he was in his twenties (already with an M.A. in history), and came to Israel six months before the establishment of the state of Israel to be a pioneer in a kibbutz of 'Hashomer Hatzair'. To this day he lives in Kibbutz Hatzor. Before he immigrated to Israel he had fought with the American army in Germany and there, in 1945 near Heidelberg he was wounded in his leg by a German sniper's bullet.

All of my father's brothers remained in the United States. One of them (Barny) I had met once in Washington, D.C., where he worked on the White House staff. The eldest brother (Sam, that is to say, Samuel) was a pharmacist. Art (Arthur, that is to say, Abraham), whom we drove to meet in Jerusalem, is Sam's youngest son. Jerry, Art's older brother, I met in the seventies in New York, and much later I was his guest together with my youngest son Yuval, on the west coast, near San Francisco. At the same time I became acquainted with their sister Lyn, who is an artist and a film director.

From the time that I began to publish "Pictures from my Cell Phone" my connection with my family in the United States has strengthened somewhat. All my posts are translated into English and sent to my mailing list abroad, among them many of my relatives. In that way dialogue develops sometimes that is a continuation of things written due to the influence of the pictures.

We had decided to meet on the Armon Hanatziv Promenade. In the meantime, until the arrival of my cousin and my brother who was going to pick him up from his hotel, we observed the landscape and waited. It was hot. I looked at the Mount of Olives and at the houses on its slope. In the photo my wife and father are talking. Soon my father will meet his brother's son, whom he had seen only once – in 1946 after he returned from the war in Europe.

69 Alone with a Bicycle

For a long time I have wanted to write about my bicycle experiences. And lo and behold – turning the pages of a newspaper I came across an article by Haruki Murakami about long distance running. The experience about which he writes is very similar to my experience. His article is only a part of an entire book on running; Murakami says that in order to understand something he has to write about it. Therefore he writes about running in order to understand its significance for him – he runs at least an hour every day. I won't write a book but will content myself with a short article.

Like Murakami I also like physical activity that is not done in a group. That is very private, almost meditative. My own time, spent by myself and in an essentially non-competitive context. That explains why I also like to swim. But unlike Murakami I do not set myself difficult goals – such as various kinds of marathons. I make do with moderate activity combined with a nature trip – a trip I would not take if I did not have the excuse of the bicycle – and rest periods spent in reading which is a special treat that I have become addicted to.

What I try to avoid is all the commotion that accompanies bicycles and riding. I don't have a 'brand' bicycle, and the one I have I spent time and effort on to change to my special kind of riding, which is quite unusual. For example, the handle bar is especially high because my back doesn't like the forward tilted position (all the field-riders stare at my bicycle in disbelieve). I also don't ride in fashionable riding gear. Although riding pants are absolutely essential, over them I wear ordinary pants and so in the field I look just like anyone else and not a coat hanger decorated with labels in brilliant colors.

From riders that are accustomed to ride in groups I always hear of the rules of this religion: the fashionable uniforms, the interest in individual achievement (the number of kilometers, the length of time), the hidden and apparent competition within the group and between the different groups, the participation in mass riding events and, of course, the incentive to excel which is sometimes even dangerous, and is the result of group competitive and social pressure. All that I leave far behind me when I go by myself to the open fields – always to the fields: the road is dangerous and also boring. When I ride alone I stop immediately when I become tired, there is no one I have to impress. While riding I look around and stop from time to time to take pictures. I look for a nice, shady place to sit down and read.

There is no need to look for opportunities to make a special effort; in any case, even very moderate riding is sufficient activity, especially in the summer heat. Never the less I do come to difficult paths as well as to places where I have to carry the bicycle on my shoulders and walk between rocks. This moderate sport program doesn't mean that I choose easy routes. But in all the routes, even in the difficult ones, I peddle as leisurely as possible.

68 The Builders of the Boat in Kfar Uriah

Avraham Ofek's mural surrounded me suddenly on three sides. I reached the old People's House of Kfar Uriah by chance, as a result of an orientation game played with riddles, and I had no idea that this modest place hides a delightful treasure. I felt as if I had come upon an Italian church and suddenly saw there works of art peering down at me from the walls – paintings that until now were known to me only from reproductions and books.

It was my good fortune that the writers of the riddle knew well the painting in the People's House. And thus their riddle led me by means of portions of the Book of Samuel and the Story of Uriah the Hittite to Kfar Uriah and there I discovered the wonderful sight of Ofek's painting. He worked eight months on this monumental mural which covers three complete walls. The painting, which dates from 1970, consists of picture after picture telling the story of a creative life as well as a journey that resembles the path of immigrants to the Land of Israel. The painting portrays moments in the lives of the builders of the new country, including a wedding, city houses and people around a table.

There isn't much happiness in this mural. It is serious and stark. The people in it are taking part in a great cause, but they have no identity as individuals and there is no joy in their expressions and actions. It seems that their lives as individuals are by no means the main concern of the artist here. They participate, like industrious ants, in a great historic moment that was not of their conception, and perhaps that is the reason for their lack of enthusiasm and joy.

The deed is greater than the individual who did it (and here, than the individuals) – is the feeling created strongly by Avraham Ofek's mural in Kfar Uriah. Twenty two years after the establishment of the State of Israel this ethos was still dominant in the country's society and this mural expresses this well.

67 Our Baskets on our shoulders

Our baskets on our shoulders/ wreaths on our heads / from every corner of the country we came/ to bring our first fruits/ from Yehuda, from Yehuda and the Shomron/ from the Emek, from the Emek and the Galilee/ make way for us/ for we bear first fruits/ boom boom boom on the drum, play the flute/ boom boom boom on the drum, play the flute.

I remember the words of this simple naive Bikurim (First Fruits) song of Levin Kipnis which has been part of me ever since those early days. And already I wonder if the proper words are 'play the flute' or 'blow the flute', 'from Yehuda and the Shomron' or 'from Yehuda and from Shomron'. I do a Google search and discover various versions. All of them quoted from memory, incorrect and misleading. I think 'blow the flute' sounds better, but most of the versions that I find say 'play the flute' and I do likewise.

The Bikurim songs have been going through my mind all this past week. When I finish my daily swimming (40 lengths), the evening practice for the holiday ceremonies of Gan Shmuel are already in progress. They are held on the large lawn next to the dinning hall which is close to the swimming pool. Bales of straw are piled there and one glance at the dancing children and one note of the holiday songs send me back years to the time when all of us marched in the Bikurim procession – not in the heart of the kibbutz as a sort of ceremony created for urban tourists as is done today, but actually in the fields with all the agricultural equipment and all the kibbutz members and children participating in a grand procession of the various agricultural branches. Giant cotton picking machines rode by, lots of tractors, some of them dragging long aluminum irrigation pipes which were later assembled and taken apart to demonstrate developing agricultural technology. Turkeys, goats and calves were hauled there, even horses. And the babies born that year were also brought to be shown off as 'First Fruits'.

Here I am in the center of the picture, next to me – Ami. We have wreaths on our heads and are leading a dog that is drawing a little wagon. I don't remember what was in the wagon, perhaps pigeons from the children's farm. We tried to be creative in presenting our first fruits. Every year there was a competition between the various agricultural branches and the happy winners whose presentation was considered the most beautiful, original and colorful, won the right to keep the 'Bikurim Flag' until the following year.

66 After all, what does a man need?

After all, what does a man need? A room for the night in the upper end of Rosh Pinna with a porch overlooking the Jordan River and the Golan mountains, a good book, a cup of coffee, some peanuts and almonds, a breeze blowing after a hot day that slightly moves the boughs of the Mulberry tree, an old tile roof covered with a partition placed on thick stone walls, a green creeping plant that covers half of the stone wall and an ironwork railing painted blue.

And here I am, absorbed in a book that deals with events that happened right here. I ate lunch next to the Jordan River and thought about the beginning of the wild journey of Ora and Avram, Grossman's heroes, and how they crossed the river this way and that, bare footed, almost lost, with their huge back-packs. And when I ordered wonderful Turkish kebab I thought about the revolt of their son, Offer, refusing to eat meat, and he only four years old and very opinionated.

And tomorrow I shall take the steep road to the Nebi Yusha fortress and remember how Ora hated this cruel place where twenty eight Palmach fighters died in 1948 and among them Dudu ('bring the finjan and tell me, is there another Palmachnick like Dudu'). And from there I shall leisurely travel through the paths of the Gallilee and imagine that I am walking the "Israel Path" south. Thus I'll wind my way to the outskirts of Safed and around Mount Meron and rest in Peki'in to eat there the best labneh in the world. After that I'll take a brief look at the synagogue, take a few snapshots of Peki'in's alleys and buy myself some of 'grandmother Jamilah's' perfumed soap.

When I'll go up the road that surrounds the village, I'll drive until the observation point above Rame, and from there I'll see all of the lower Gallilee from the Kinneret to the Carmel and I already know that the trip of Ora and Avram reached that point.

But now the evening breeze sends me into my room to find something warm to wear, and I place the open book face down on the chair and stretch, smiling in anticipation of tomorrow's adventure. A little journey of pilgrimage it is turning out to be. After all, what does a man need? A good book, a porch with a view and the willingness to follow ones imagination and the book.

65 An Old Page

On my bicycle trip on Saturday I sat down to rest on a bench under a beautiful tree in the Ramat Hanadiv National Park. I drank some water, took a bite of my energy snack, reached into my little back-pack to take out a small book "The Judgment and Other Stories" and read the story entitled "An Old Page". In three pages Kafka creates an ominous feeling of the collapse of civilization because of wild nomads that had invaded and reached the square in front of the Emperor's palace and no one dared to confront them.

While reading I was reminded of Coetzee's book "Waiting for the Barbarians" wherein the feeling of disintegration and fear of the barbarians is spread over many depressing pages. And suddenly it occurred to me that Coetzee's book is in some way an extension of Kafka's brief story.

I also thought that today we are celebrating the state's sixtieth anniversary and a dark cloud hovers over the head of our leader. He himself sits withdrawn in his official residence and does not come out and speak to us about the holiday. It seems that the fear of the nomads in Kafka's story and of the barbarians in Coetzee's novel has been turned by us into fear of ourselves. For we, or our elected leaders, or our new financial idols – and not nomads or barbarians – gallop in the city square and trample over the masses.

But on the holiday I shall wave the flag and sweep away the evil spirit. I shall call the good winds that moved the branches of the tree under which I read the old page and I shall think of the good there is and still will be in the future.