Mountains in the Mists

Dense mists on Ulriken

The past weekend has been one of long walks. Friday up Ulriken, where I stumbled around up top for awhile in the fog, finally conceding defeat to the mist and going back down the mountain the way I came up. Sunday was a beauty of a day, with thick plashes of hail covering the ground under a sunny haze, and hail showers pummeling us intermittently with blue sun-skinned sky winning out in glorious shadow-play. I went up Løvstakken, and spent a while sunning myself at the top. Tanning in short sleeves on a mountain top with patches of snow around you really brings out one’s sense of the absurd.

Another cheider today. Had the kids pick different positions and argue about what to do when the Crusaders come. I think the highlight of the debate was when one suggested picking up and moving to South Africa. Why South Africa, you ask? So did I. No good reason. They knew a surprising lot about the Black Death, and were interested in all the gory details I could give them about the Spanish Inquisition. Still, most interesting moment came when one kid looked up and asked, “but, why do Jews and Muslims hate each other?” We’d been talking about how they lived together in peace for awhile, while Europe was bloodily pushing Jews around. I gave him as much nuance as I could in my rejection of his premise, and was a little warmed by his saying, “well, yes, I know we don’t all hate each other, one of my best friends is Muslim,” even as the worn catchphrase made me smile sadly a bit. I’m thinking I’m going to cut out the Yeshiva session, and skip ahead to Israel as soon as possible. There’s too much to talk about there.

Across from Fantoft today

I walked back through temperamental hailstorms, most definitely muttering to myself like a madman about race and religion. I'm going to have to come to some sort of resolution eventually, some brilliant epiphany that can be applauded in the blog comments at the bottom here. 

Back at my apartment I made myself some hot apple cider, settled down in a deliciously well-worn man’s sweater I’d snagged from Fretex, and promptly stumbled across three of my favorite people on skype in succession. Nothing picks you up like an across-the-world chat with close friends. Especially when I’ve been out of touch for awhile, and beginning to feel itchy to return to my nearest and dearest.  As thunder clashed and hail pounded outside my window, cider, sweater, and skype smoothed my mood.

A friend of mine has started blogging and it’s such a delightful mix of literature and life I just have to share:  InJudith'sRoom

Tomorrow, my parents come to Bergen! I’m getting a whole week of hugs...

The house I want

Tried to capture the droplets on the branches

The stone wall halfway up Løvstakken

One of my favorite pine groves in Bergen

Mist rising off the fjord

Ulriken across the valley

The panoramic view from the ridge trail

BF's Forever



Some of my favorite people in the world, at my favorite city in the world.

 Amanda, the Ås ETA, came in for the weekend to play with Ruth and me. A weekend with Amanda and Ruth is always a fun mix of hilarious and thought-provoking moments.  Amanda had a new year’s resolution which involves dancing at least once a day for the entire month of March, so we kicked off Thursday night by going to the weekly salsa dancing down at the United Sardines Factory. It was inspiring just to watch, but we were lucky enough to each find guys willing to teach us, and danced bravely though ineptly. Over the weekend we also had a dance party which Kyle, the Fulbrighter studying Ibsen, was kind enough to record on camera, and a blissfully Disney dance-off.   

Friday dawned gorgeous, so we headed up Fløyen with the rest of Bergen. On the way down we sorted out the issues of education pretty well: between Amanda's work as a Teach-for-American last year, Ruth's heading into next year, and my desire to apply, we had a goodly amount of benevolent commitment to swing the conversation into highly idealistic lines. That evening I had Ruth, Amanda, Kyle, and our French friend Perle over for Shabbat dinner. I explained what was happening beforehand, but still nearly blew bread out through my nose in laughter when, in the silence after making kiddush and hamotzi, Perle said ‘’what the hell was that?’’ It’s a mark of my comfort with them that I could do this—Shabbat restrictions make me weird enough without sharing the ritual and exposing even more of the crazy.

The barnehage kids aren't the only ones
who can play on Fløyen!



Talks with Amanda plus my upcoming sessions on multiculturalism with my high schoolers have had me thinking a lot about race lately. Also, a recent article in the Bergen Tidende (Bergen Times) discussed how some nurseries in Bergen are 70% immigrant, and so Norwegian parents are worried that their children aren’t learning to speak proper Norwegian and now they want to 'desegregate the nurseries'. Reminds me of segregation and bussing. The delicate issues surrounding ethnicity and what it means to truly be Norwegian or American have made me hum over identity. I keep thinking how important my own ethnicity is to me, and after reading Under the Feet of Jesus over shabbat I was able to say with confidence that it means a lot to many other groups as well. But how to define what it means when one’s own race is important, and so one also notices others’ race and attaches characteristics to it, without using the word ‘racist’? Color-blindness is just another kind of racism, but there doesn’t seem any sort of word to adequately represent race-consciousness. Ethnic awareness? Well, I’ll keep working on figuring out a good term, and let you know when I find one.

In the afternoon, the Bergen Fulbrighters came down to Fantoft so we could walk around the Stavkirk and Gamlehaugen. It was a beautiful day, and BF’s (Bergen Fulbrighters) are consummate photographers, so I’m going to give it to you in pictures instead of words.

 

Telling Oskar about the gnomes that live in the church and run out to tickle you if you knock on the door



How many people can you be this exuberant and silly with?



What animal do YOU think Kong Haakon looked like?



Knocking on the vault and listening to see if anyone knocks back




We are thiiiiiis awesome

 

This is happiness.

BF's forever!

Ridiculous what-the-heck-am-I-doing-in-Norway moment: invitation to a reindeer roast up at Evenstadt from Andrea, the veterinarian Fulbrighter. They’re eating it, not making fun of it—I asked. Sadly, I can’t make it.

 I spent today working with the cheider kids, practicing the play they’re putting on for the community’s purim carnival this Thursday. One kid broke his leg, so I had to take a part. It’s my debut in Norwegian drama. Perhaps by the end I’ll be acting Ibsen at the national theater.

Hva Er Du Redd For?

Things are back to normal again: it’s raining in Bergen, I’m swamped with work, and listening to “ka e du redd for” over and over again as I grade essays in the hopes that absentmindedly listening to Norwegian songs will acquaint my ear sufficiently to understand the next cashier who mumbles “kvittering?” in my direction.

I just bought my ticket home. Jes, this is a pretty awful moment. Heh, I wrote “jes” instead of “yes.” This year in Norway is going to come back to bite me in the butt when I’m trying to finish my English degree. But oh, it’s been wonderful, and the knowledge that it now has an absolute end date has reminded me to seize every second. That and the essays on Shakespeare quotes that my high schoolers have been writing— a huge percentage of them chose “cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant taste of death but once.” Apparently that fires up the high school imagination. It also goads me to try everything that comes my way and leap at new experiences. After all, hva er jeg redd for?

The Norwegian movie we watched this week was “Jeg Reiser Alene,” which is set not only in Bergen, but at the university here. And not just at UiB, but at the Humanities Faculty building where I work. Which, incidentally, is right next to where the movie was being shown. Never before have I walked out of a theater and into the setting of the movie I just saw. It abrogated the life-fiction line a little sharply for me. I’ve been certain I’m living in the Truman show ever since.

I have “winter break” this week, and am not sure what to do with it. Sure, I have mountains of work to catch up on, and plenty of literal mountains to climb as well, but I’d like to do something out of the ordinary. With a week off, I could do a mountain a day… Friday I hit both Fløyen and Rundemanen, and of course today (Sunday) was a Løvstakken climb… Ruth and I were talking about skiing—yep, we caught the bug—but with the Bergen weather the way it is, we’re more likely to be able to wash our hair in the rain than find enough snow to slide on.

Freaking out at the desecration

Saturday I walked up to town to the Fisks, who were having a Fulbrighter tea. We got onto the topic of our Fulbright application process, and I was surprised to find that the professors had also needed three recommendation letters to apply. Of course, they just go up to a friend and say, “hey, Dave, write me a rec, will you, buddy?” And then Dave says, “sure, no problem, but I’m busy so write it yourself and I’ll sign the bottom, okay, buddy?” Which is only a bit like my life; one of my professors told me that now I’ve graduated and have a Fulbright, we’re on equal terms and I should start calling him by his first name, but it freaked me out so much I stopped emailing him. Anyhow, the tea was so much fun that we’ve planned a Fulbright ramble around the Stavkirke this weekend when Amanda comes in to visit again. Hopefully Davin will bring his kids so that we can run around with them and show them Oskar the pig.

I went to a MIFF (Med Israel For Fred, With Israel For Peace) board meeting the other day. They asked me to speak in May at the Municipal Hall about my experiences with FRIEND, the Muslim-Jewish interfaith dialogue group I started in college. We were stuffing envelopes with newsletters when suddenly Erik, whose apartment we meet at, jumped up and turned on some music. “Rachem” by Avraham Fried ripped out of the cd player. He was so gleefully proud of himself that I smiled. After all, I haven’t heard it since high school when it was used to torture us by the high school production zombies, and it made me a bit nostalgic for freaked-out-frummy-ism at its brain-deadest. Then, he told everyone to close their eyes. With mine open a slit, I saw him walk around clapping everyone on the head. When we opened, they were all wearing kippot, and looking pleased as punch with themselves. It was possibly the most surreal moment I’ve had in Norway, and I laughed and laughed until I could barely stop.

On the literary front: I’m reading things I’ve never had a chance to before this year. More modern stuff than ever before, and Norwegian novels (after reading Out Stealing Horses, which I recommend to all, I’m now tackling Ut og stjaele hester, though part of the incentive’s gone now that I know what happens). This past shabbat I read the first novel of the Foundation series. I can’t believe, with all my affection for Asimov, that I’ve never read them before. I’m going to have to pace myself and allow only one a shabbat, or my entire break will be gone and I’ll have gorged myself on the series without doing any of the serious work I’m meant to this week.

Views from Løvstakken:

Hiked the wrong mountain today

Fantasticest thing ever: three jumpers from the tower on top of Rundemanen -click it to see the article. Hopefully they're okay. Wish I hadn't picked the Landås to Ulriken trail today.

Trolljegeren

I saw Trolljegeren tonight with three friends: the German who lives down the hall from me, a German I’ve hiked with before, and his Polish friend. On the bybanen on the way into town, while the Polish guy introduced himself, I asked him which city he comes from. His eyebrows shot up, so I told him that yep, I’d been to Poland.

“Really?!” I assured him I wasn’t kidding.

“But why?” "School trip." After more pressing, I reluctantly told him that my tour of his country had been mostly a visit to concentration camps and cemeteries. He nodded.

“You know that we’re not really the ones responsible?” He made a funny jerking movement towards the Germans, which I didn’t get, and a humorous eyebrow wiggle, and then suddenly, in a brick-in-the-face kind of way, I realized he was trying to tell me that the Germans, not the Polish, were responsible for the Holocaust, and was doing so by gesturing to my two friends. I managed to smile and crush the instinctual recoil from Holocaust jokes, trying to figure out a way to respond lightheartedly and clear the air.

“Erm, yeah. You know I come from a country that actually was built on slavery, right?” I answered. “How ‘bout we let individuals not suffer for the sins of their countries' pasts?” Then I told the story about how I fell asleep in a cemetery in rural Poland and got left behind by my bus. To lighten the mood. But weird to think this guy lives in a country that to me means pretty much nothing but death and destruction. And to realize that Germany's associations in my mind manage to encompass the Holocaust without being overwhelmed by it, while Poland seems built entirely on it and of it. 

They're so cute!

Both the Polish and the German guy are big, seriously tall men, with hair to their shoulders. Stephan, the German, is a sweetie, but to look at him you’d think he was tough. They decided we should get off at Nygård and go through the park. Since I’ve never been through at night, and normally don’t have such bulky bodyguards, I agreed. We talked about how the drug addicts are meant to be mostly harmless anyhow, on our way up the slope. As we reached the square where they congregate, I saw a large clump of people. A woman stood in front, and as we approached, asked “hvor er narkomen?” Swiftly we passed her, though she followed us, and headed through to where men were standing, arms crossed, in front of us. For a sickening second, they formed a human blockade, and I thought they were not going to let us through. The Polish guy was at my elbow and steered me firmly beside him, and the men parted. Caroline maneuvered around to between him and Stephan. Whew! That’s the last time I go through Nygårdsparken at night, even with muscle backup.

Trolljegeren is fun, and I highly recommend it for not only a glimpse into Norwegian culture, but also snippets of this country's great natural beauty. On a hike this morning, I left the trail and after wandering under snow-laden pine trees and past delicately etched twigs, thought perhaps I might have left reality behind entirely and see Mr. Tumnus trot out from behind a hillock at any moment. But then realized that in Narnia, they never fell into snow drifts up to their tushes.  Totally worth it.

Profaning the Sacred

I woke up early one morning, after it had been snowing all night, and walked to Løvstakken to ramble about its base. As I shimmied and shuffled through the powdery heaps of white, my footsteps became the first to imprint on the landscape. I was here. I was here. I was here. Each print an affirmation of self-in-place, of joy in the dawning day and intrepid slip-proof courage.

I rejoined the main path only to leave it again, following the trace of a track through the woods eastward. The strip of white led me under pine boughs laden with winter, past delicate twigs twirling white, and into a clearing. I sat on a fallen log to watch the snow fall. It spun dizzily into the grove, lacing the firs’ deep piney richness with pure pearly cream. When I looked up into the grey sky, the world imperceptibly slowed to the pace of the snowflakes’ descent, an unhurried dreamy drifting.

I reached the bottom and, my mind still immersed in the clearing, trudged down the main path towards Gamlehaugen. Slowly, something strange began to impede on my consciousness. I looked up. To the left of the path, there was a swathe of barren ground, trampled and broken. I swung around to my right. A truck, laden with the corpses of trees, was tucked half into the woods as though in shame. Logging. The American in me forgot that I’m in Norway, that Norwegians prize the meadowland aesthetic above woodlands, that they have plenty more timber where that came from. The American was unreasonably angry for a moment. That anyone could dare to disturb the peace I’d felt on Løvstakken, fail to understand the near-holy sanctity of trees, flared a momentary and deranged spark in me. Then I saw the humorous side of the situation, and seconds later was bombarding the truck with snowball after snowball in what I believe is called a childish fit of pique. Finally, I heard voices approaching, and subsided to continue down the mountain, hands in my pockets. Would’ve whistled if I could.

As I was passing through the English department hall at UiB after a meeting Friday afternoon, one of the professors called me in to meet her husband, a professor of religion. He’d just given a lecture on the new Norwegian translation of the bible: this one is better because in certain places instead of saying “brothers” it says “siblings,” and other such politically correct improvements. I suggested that such a disingenuous cleaning up of the Scriptures may obfuscate the true nature of the Holy Word. Zeljka (another English prof) joined us and they began talking about a recent editorial in the student newspaper—a much-needed response to some crazy fundamentalist venting his Islamophobia.

“They shouldn’t have booed him to silence—they should have answered him with argument, and shut him up!” announced Zeljka.

“The booing is dangerous, with these people,” answered Øyunn, “then they just feel as though they haven’t been heard, and then who knows what they’ll do.” We all nodded solemnly. “Hannah, Norway has such a problem with fundamentalists.”

The Fantoft Stavkirke

“I thought you were all meant to be so secular,” I answered. Some unruly part of my mind was thinking, “burn the fundamentalists!” but I shut it up firmly.

Zeljka laughed. “Yes, that is the image we want to give. But there are some crazies here. Oh, don’t look at me, I’m a lapsed Catholic.”

“Hannah, are you religious?” Øyunn’s husband wanted to know. “We should find out before we say anything.”

I squirmed. “Jewish.”

“Practicing?”

“Yep. Practicing.”

They began to decide what that meant. So no cheeseburgers? Kosher and all? And the sabbath? But it’s Friday? Oh, two hours from now? Orthodox or Reconstructionist, or what’s that one in the middle? What does post-labelist mean? A joke? Ah, I like that you included feminist in your religious definition of yourself!

It was sometime right after they were trying to trap my exact degree of religiousness into a label, while Øyunn’s husband was still engaged in listing the names of every Jewish sect he could think of, and Zeljka, her arms crucifix-wide-open, began singing “always look on the bright side of life” and faux tap dancing across the office, that I decided was an opportune moment to disappear. I headed back to my apartment, which was soon full of shabbat smells and my lone voice singing Yedid Nefesh out into the snowy evening. 

Trolls in the lakes of Landås

Yesterday I went into the city to teach my writing workshop. As I bounced around the whiteboard, watching the students carefully scribe “Purdue OWL” and “no subject headers” in their notebooks, I felt as though every batch of kids that sits in there is one more buttress against the grammatically inventive, meandering, plagiarism-pocked papers bound to turn up in a month.

I was meant to check out a class on Norwegian literature, but I couldn’t face it. Instead I went up Landåsfjell, to gain some perspective and a view of the western edge of Bergen’s fjord. I climbed up and sat by one of the frozen lakes, dusted with snow, until a terrifying burbling noise startled me down the mountain like a jackrabbit. In afterthought, it must have been the ice settling. At the time I thought there was surely something under there trying to get out.

Wednesday evenings there is an organ concert at Storetveit kirk near Fantoft. I’ve only been once before, but the swell of solemn sound in that great stone kirk floods my imagination with Viking triumphs and troll invasions and faery dances. The solemnity with which everyone sits, head tilted, in their pews, bowed or uplifted beneath the weight of the music, gives a social quality to what is yet solitude. Walking home after through crisp frozen air, the bell tolling the hour behind me, I once more breathed the mixture of contentment and heroism that steals through life.

Today Anita brought marmite in for the class to eat, as a taste of Britain. She also brought me a Daim Freia bar. Now that is love.

We didn’t teach our adult class today—there was a presentation on students’ mental health that we had to attend, instead. I understood about forti prosent of the lecture, and just about all of the slide show (luckily, I’ve been reading a Norwegian book about a depressed writer this past week and had the vocabulary). It didn’t help that of the two psychologists presenting, one spoke a rapidfire Norwegian that bubbled out of him with little pause for breath or moments of clearsighted translation. And the other was Swedish. Still, I got the gist: fifty percent of Norwegian high school girls are dissatisfied with their bodies (so, glass half full or empty), tips on identifying depressed students, and there will be a special meeting for teachers of Uttøya survivors after. Tusen takk, UiB Norskkurs.

Movie recommendation: Upperdog. Intense, honest look at Norwegian life.

Låndasfjell

Løvstakken at last!

On the peak!

Ruth and I hiked up Løvstakken Sunday. Well, she acrobated up, and I crawled up. There were places where the ice was so smooth we literally had to butt-scootch along, encouraged by the friendly Norwegians who laughed with us on our way up.

We took a completely different route from the one I normally use, climbing beside a chirruping stream as the Sunday morning bells tolled below us. At points we hauled ourselves up by the tree branches, feet slipping on icy patches. Once, as I stood precariously on a frozen knoll, a dog bolted past me up the mountain, and with a joyous “Jesus Christ!” I wobbled down into the snow, laughing ruefully to the owner as she came up behind.

Towards the top of the mountain we reached the boulders that must be climbed using ropes. Only, all of the rock face was so icy, that we were really just rope-climbing—the boulders were irrelevant except as lessons in treachery. I’ve never had such good fellow-feeling with the Norwegians on the trail; everyone was helping everyone else and laughing as we fell.

Hanging onto trees for dear life

The peak of Løvstakken is magnificent. It offers a 360 view of Bergen from fjord to shining fjord, with mountains unfolding into the distance, and far off, the faint shimmering sheen of ocean. We took pictures mocking the Norway Fulbright poster, and ate the Trader Joe’s granola bars that we’d each been sent in care packages (love to home!), and hiked back along the ridge, which was even more slippery than the way up. At one point my feet swooshed out from under me, and resigned, I sailed down the mountain on my tush, pretty certain that I would end in a crush of snow at some point. A Norwegian asked us for directions, and Ruth explained that the trail meets up anyways. I really wish there was a special American language nobody could understand so I could have joked about how awesome it is that Norwegians ask us for trail directions!

Ice the whole way down

The fire alarm marshals came by, and surprise-knocked my hallway out for a demonstration on how turn off the fire alarm. Those of us too sleepy to realize who we were opening the door for, and kind enough to come, huddled into a small group around the alarm as they walked us through the procedure in obnoxiously slow English. Afterwards we stood in the hall in our socks talking, until finally I invited two of the women (Germany and Nepal) I’m friendly with back for tea. As we sipped and talked, I became uncomfortable. In our inevitable comparison of home to Bergen, Nepal mentioned her 12-house village and the 14 hours of electricity they get per day. Why did my friendly curiosity in Germany seem like anthropological sightseeing in Nepal?

Monday night, Ruth and Perle and I went to a class on salsa dancing. We were each completely ready to make idiots of ourselves, and so we had a lot of fun! And salsa dancing is much easier than I thought—now I surreptitiously salsa everywhere. One of the Fantoft Spanish guys is teaching, so everyone mumbles in Spanish under their breath as they dance-- he can't count in English, so neither do we. I love the joy in the movement, and the friendliness of passing from one partner to the next.

Today I found myself accidentally explaining Foucault’s History of Sexuality to my high schoolers because one asked if Shakespeare was gay. This after yesterday’s impromptu lesson on Butler and performativity in my master’s seminar. I really must remember not to upset their world paradigms too often.

Prospective students visited our English class today, bundling into the back of the classroom uncomfortably for a ten minutes display of Shakespearian invective on the part of our students (I set them to have “insult duels” after a fabulous beginning in which I shouted "George W. Bush, you pribbling yeasty guts-griping foot-licker, I thumb my nose at you!" at the picture of him Anita had taped to the wall). Then they asked questions, the first of which was “do you speak all in English all the time?” Anita answered, and then gestured to me and explained that I don't speak Norwegian. I smiled and, in Norwegian, said that sometimes we allow a bit of Norsk, bare for vanskelig sporsmal. My students all cracked up, as one. They find my accent hilarious. I explained to the visitors that that is a one-way street; they mock my Norsk, but I never laugh at their English. As the laughter settled, Sara repeated my American-accented phrase, and the class dissolved into laughter again. Still, I understood most of the questions that followed, about the demographics of the school and such. The thing that made me glow with warmth was seeing how my class came together, in the face of others, in a very closely-knit way yet still friendly way, so that their kindness spilled out for the visitors.

Ruth and a friendly dog admire the view

After discussing sonnet 18 with the class, and accidentally using the phrase “hot shit” and making the class burst into laughter yet again (how else to explain Shakespeare’s opinion of his own writing in that sonnet?), I headed over to the university to sit in on a theory lecture my students have to take and watch one present on the concept of “the literary canon.” At one point he said, “A few years ago in the US, we had African American rights, and women’s rights…” I firmly expected him to say, “but those have vanished since then.” He just meant the struggle became public in those days.

They’re showing a Norwegian movie at the university tonight, so I’m heading back down there soon with a friend from my floor (Germany from tea). We're going to learn us some Norsk!

I received my invitation to the American ambassador's house for our February Fulbright seminar. Apparently, we're allowed to bring dates. If anyone's going to be in Oslo on the 16th, shoot me an email if you'd like to be arm candy.

Fulbright pose in front of our beautiful Bergen!

The Magic Trek

bootlegged photos

I was in the 9C kitchen at Fantoft on Saturday night, and had a hilarious moment while meeting a Spanish guy. As I put my hand up to shake his, he said, “no. Cheek, cheek.”

“What?” I asked, as he zoomed his face towards mine and kissed either cheek. “Oh.” That’s how it’s done in Spain. My French friend, Perle, laughed, and showed me the French variation. I must admit that it bugged me a bit. That kind of forced intimacy with a stranger… Fergus explained that women and men kiss, women and women kiss, but only men shake hands. “And intersex folk?” I asked. Everyone laughed, and he said he’d ask. I guess I’m too wired to think about liminalities.

Bergen in the snow

But truthfully, who wants to kiss strangers? I don’t think it’s just my prudish American upbringing, or the fact that I was in Israel for six months before Europe and not allowed to really hang out with guys, let alone kiss them in greeting… It may just be my naturally reserved way of showing affection… But that’s not so, because I have no problem cuddling with my sisters and hugging my best friends, and I’ve become somewhat of a casual hugger while in Norway. As I sat there, pondering, I became much more aware of all of the touching going on. Of the guy next to me whose feet were propped up comfortably on my chair, of pats on the back to get my attention and the hug that my male friend gave me as he left. That hug was nice. Some guys just hug really well, and there’s a different quality to a good guy’s hug than a woman’s, something that says “I know we’re just friends but I will protect you if anything tries to attack, and I smell nice to boot.”

I’m down with that friendship hug. And with all the casual fist bumps and high fives and reassuring shoulder pats that come along with it. Because it says, “we don’t think too much about touching, we haven’t heightened physical contact into some sort of evil thing, we are natural and comfortable with our bodies and with other people’s” (wow, touching is doing a lot of talking here). There was something so nice about that room and its comfort with bodies moving amongst people I know. It’s the stranger’s kiss that freaks me out. God bless undemonstrative America.

I found a new trek in Bergen—Låndasfjell, the mountain in back of Fantoft, was hitherto unknown to me. Friday morning I slipped up it, shimmying along an icy path compacted into utter smoothness by a myriad of hikers. Finally I reached the peak with the sunrise, and looked out across the low grey and salmon and indigo clouds to where the sun sparkled on the fjords beyond reams of mountains. On either side of the pristinely white swath on which I stood pine trees thrust up into the sky, saluting the brilliant morning light. As I continued towards Ulriken, the path disappeared, and I was merely trumping through footprints in the snow, aiming towards the glowing spire atop Ulriken’s peak. Any sign of solitary runner or dog walker vanished. Great glassy malachite iced-in lakes sank in the snow on either side of me, and I was reminded of the pearly whorls on seashells. As I clambered through the glimmering, snow-silent winter, sun beating down on everything beneath me, I beamed to have forgotten my camera. I don’t know that I’ll ever find a morning as glorious as that again, and I was ecstatic to have it all to myself.

As I continued northward, I began to hit deeper snow. Sometimes I would skim along the crust, practically snowshoeing along, and then I’d suddenly fall in snow up to my knee and lurch forward against its cushioning. At one point, the footsteps vanished entirely, the light dusty layer of snow grazing the plain and, even as I took steps, filling them in with the wind. I pushed on towards Ulriken in unbroken peace, and found my path again. As I came down the path from Ulriken, I once more hit the well-trod trail. It was a sheet of ice. I began to ski down, sliding casually as though I were surfing. Then, I hit a bump. As I shimmied down on my tush, unable to stop or gain any traction, I was straight on trajectory for a woman walking her dog. She looked at my calmly, and stepped aside at the last moment as I barreled down. Ah, the calm of the Norwegian. 

אז למה את לא גרה בארץ? The Land.

טוב לזכור שאני לא היחידה בעולם. טוב ליראות כיפות, ונרות חנוכה, והשמש ירושלמי. טוב לשמוע עברית. טוב להיות בארץ

Absurd and utter culture shock. Icy winds of 5° changed to balmy breezy 15°. Political politeness shifted to fanaticism-driven lawbreaking. Passersby transformed from reserved strangers to rollicking, friendly family. Even the moon is in the wrong place, and has climbed higher in the sky, aloof above the palm trees.

At the Kotel (Western Wall)

Arriving in Israel was comfortable, and familiar, and a good regular mind blip. I arrived at 2 am to a country that speaks my language, shares my religion, and gives me my history. The nesher (cab) driver shocked me completely—when the guy sitting in front of me tried to offer him payment, he turned and said, “can’t you see I’m driving?” Granted, he did turn around completely, but the refusal to multitask while driving represents a complete shift in Israeli cabby mentality. We drove through Ramot and Geulah first, and I got to remember the uncomfortable part of Israel too: huge signs saying “Women and girls, please dress modestly” (can you think of a more subtle way to tell someone they’re only a body? The advertisers who use women's curves to sell beer and charedim who insist women cover up every last inch of skin possess one thing in common-- they both think of women only as sex objects. They just have different reactions to it) and smaller signs saying “No Zionists.” Well, I don’t like you either. 

Disclaimer: I thought about translating and explaining every piece of this to those not familiar with Israel or Hebrew, and then gave a huge mental shrug and decided it would lose some flow and integrity if I did. המבין יבין. And everyone else is free to ask questions in the comments which I will answer thoroughly.

Hooded against the Israeli sun

We pulled up at my Bubby’s apartment and I woke my mother and got the hug I’ve been missing for four months. She did a quick check for new piercings and then returned to sleep.

Friday was lovely—my parents, baby sister and I went down to the biblical zoo, where they only host animals mentioned in Tanach. Lots of antlered creatures that would have been bloody sacrifices 200 years ago. We had sufganiyot (jelly- and caramel- and chocolate- filled donuts) as a pretaste of Chanukkah yumminess. Then our cousins from Ramat Beit Shemesh came in, and the apartment devolved into pre-shabbat chaos.

The kids have had a bit of trouble placing me this year when we skype. My aunt asks them:

Do you know where Hannah is living this year?

Blank stares.

Norvegya!

More blank stares.
אמא, איפה נורווגיה?

בצפון.

Oh! Suddenly they get it. על יד החרמון?

Face-palm.

Moriah, six-years-old-going-on-twelve, asked me how long it took to get to Israel from Norvegya.

“ten hours,” I told her.

“אז למה את לא גרה בארץ?” she asked. She’s been well-trained. Cue the guilt trip.

Shabbat was full of the zemirot and chicken/cholent/beef and family that I’ve been missing. I bumped into old Bnei Akiva friends, and walked with my family down to Gan Sacher past the old monastery, and up into the Hebrew Museum’s sculpture garden, and checked out the Ramat Gan campus of Hebrew University (where my baby sister may live next year). Sunday my middle sister came in from the States, and we did a mid-intersection sisterly hug smack in the middle of Emek Refaim. Monday we headed down to Eilat for our vacation. We meant to stop for a hike on the way, but as we were about to drive down the dirt road, we saw a sign that said “shetach aish” (firing zone). After a lengthy family discussion about the age of the sign, the likelihood that the Israeli army would actually be practicing here, and something from my mom on how she’d do it if it was just her and my dad but with the three of us the risk was too high, we decided not to hike. Which turned out to be a good idea, judging by the herds of tanks engaged in training exercises that we passed as we continued. Instead, we stopped at Timna Park and  walked through and up and between all the strange rock formations.

Tuesday we hiked Emek HaNeelam, the Disappearing Valley (is that it? No, I think it’s that one. Wait, this one! They were all disappearing valleys). We wound between the red, purple, white, and black mountains of Eilat and up and down its fantastic rock formations and tried out the echoes. We skidded down futuristic moonscapes and sent cascades of rock showering down to join its brothers. My dad told me not to climb so much, I was destroying the nature, so I explained to him the law of conservation of mass and that all of it would still be here for future hikers, and that his attachment to surface appearance is troubling and indicative of the influence of shallow materialistic society. Then we headed back to the shore where we swam by the coral reef. A fish bit my leg so that blood poured down whenever I left the water. Still worth it. And kind of cool to have a battle wound from coral reef gazing. 

That night I finally got around to checking what I need to apply for my Canadian passport next year (born in Montreal, I of course have citizenship, but a Canadian passport will come in handy as a student at the U of T). I ended my frustrating search by sending an email to the embassy that ended with “How can I apply for my social number so I can apply for my ClicSEQUR account so I can apply for my birth certificate so I can apply for my passport?” It was with great difficulty that my sisters restrained me from tagging an “F you” onto the end of that, but I think it may have been implied in the question.

Wednesday we did the hike we wanted to do on Monday, Nachal Adah. My dad called the IDF and checked, and they said there’d be no firing practice during Chanukkah. You’ve got to love a country that runs on the same schedule as you. Anyhow, the first ten minutes of the hike was a hellish jog through increasingly narrow canyon walls which I don’t remember scrambling out of but must have practically spat myself out through onto a plateau way higher than the actual trail. Once they caught up, my parents talked a bit about paying for therapy to help me with my claustrophobia, but since the only big problem it causes is them having to hurry along a trail, I really don’t think it’s worth it (plus, wouldn’t they put me in small spaces to accustom me to it?). And at least I could stride along the narrow ridge of the mountains for several hours afterwards, relieved and relaxed while several thousand meters in the air.

At the restaurant that night, chabadnicks entered and lit a chanukkiah with the waiters, singing “haneirot halalu” with off-key energy. A young girl in tight jeans jumped up and started to sing and bounce by the candles. Te looked and said “uh-oh,” and we all burst out laughing.

Shabbat in Jerusalem again. Friday night we davened at Shirach Chadasha, and it was the first time in six months I was actually in a synagogue. European shuls usually relegate their women to balconies in the manner of an audience at the Globe Theater; they haven't quite reached the twenty-first century yet (to be fair, neither have some shuls in the Gush). Shabbat morning we went to Yakar, which I love for the melodies and the mix of Israeli-American-young-old-shtachim-styles-conservative-dress, and the break for shiurim after Torah reading.

There is a peculiar magic to Jerusalem. You bump into your entire past here: friends from high school, Bnei Akiva, midrasha, university… Normally this drives me crazy, but the gods of serendipity must have been watching out for me, because I ran into the best of every era of my life: my closest friends from Maryland, favorite Orot Israeli, funniest Bnei Akivaniks, and the Nishmater with the driest sense of humor. Thank you, ye gods.

After my parents left the country, my sisters and I went up to Haifa to see our favorite Israeli family friends. They’re highly educated yet super-chill. Yoni’s a prof at the University and gave us a tour, showing us the 400 BC Phoenician boat that was dragged up from the harbor and now sits in the archaeology museum, and the view of all Haifa from the university tower. U of Haifa held streams of students that filled a gap that nags at me in Bergen: diversity. In Haifa, students in hijabs passed the students tanning in mini skirts while students holding their kippot to their heads rushed between the two. I heard Hebrew, Russian, French, and Arabic, and skin colors ranged from pale pearly to deep bronze. I’m not usually acutely conscious that Bergen lacks this kind of human mix, but some part of me keeps scanning the crowd for the normal difference that I’m used to.

A Bahai friend of mine from college is in Israel for two years volunteering at the Bahai temple in Haifa. When he heard I was coming, he offered a private tour through the gardens. We got to pump him with questions about the Bahai faith (no ritual, a goal of working to create spiritual communities regardless of their being Bahai or other faith, no women on the Justice Board (!), international presence, and the thing about only Bahai walking up the terraces is a myth, we walked upwards). Ben would make a good representative of any religion. He’s composed and kind, quiet and yet unpretending and casual. He showed us the Ark, the gated section where the four buildings that world Bahai work in stand: the archives, education center, textual study, and justice building. I like that as the core of a nation: all the world really needs are schools, courts, and libraries. We also went into the shrine at the bottom of the gardens, which was closed to visitors just then. I asked Ben first if there were any statues in there, and it turned out it was simply an utterly serene space. In the center were different kinds of flowers and lights: trailing plants, blooming petunias and planters of roses, and candelabras of flame or electric light. A delicious aroma perfumed the air. We stood respectfully as Ben sat cross-legged and prayed. A prayer on the wall seemed a blend of the stereotypes of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam: it had one God, sacrifice, and infidels in it. The bit I like best was about God’s creation of humanity. “Be Thou,” He said. And we were.

 

It struck me, as I moved to sit cross-legged on the carpet, that Bahai is the perfect religion for a twenty-first century human. Individualistic prayer, communal social action, based on a desire to help all people achieve spirituality in whatever faith they choose—it contains the perfect amount of world-optimization and nonjudgmental tolerance. Closing my eyes to the symbols of human hope—light and greenery—I breathed in peacefully for a moment, holding only serenity in my mind. Then I thought of the mess that is Judaism, the halachic tangles and the misogyny and the in-fighting and men spitting on little girls in Ramat Beit Shemesh and price tag attacks in the shtachim and women’s faces vanishing off billboards in Jerusalem, and breathed in deeply once more, and walked carefully backwards out of the room. 

 

That night I met up with the Lewis twins and Thea from Nishmat and we went to a concert by an Israeli singer (Amir something). Think Mizrachi rock. He sauntered up to the mike as though it was just luck it happened to be there, and belted out Biblical ballads and love songs. He stopped singing at moments, stroking his beard or adjusting his cap, and let the crowd roar out the words instead. It was half concert, half sing-along. Very Israeli, and we danced in the aisles and pretended to know the words.

My last night in Jerusalem, Te and El and I went to see the second Sherlock Holmes. It’s more fun than in an American theater, because everyone’s whispering, not just us. On the way back we had a loud altercation about the female characters’ relative depth and the feminist response to a cardboard femme fatale, which must have woken every protestor sleeping in a tent in Gan Sacher.

My nesher back to the airport was as positive an experience as my nesher there had been awful. We wound through my favorite streets in Rechavia and Bacca, past balconies of clean Jerusalem stone climbing up the slope, then into an area lost somewhere between the picturesqueness of Nachlaot and the shuk, and finally went down from Yerushalayim by way of Shaar HaGai. Bab El Wad. The Gate of the Valley. Gate av Dalen. My favorite route, that passes the beit knesset that looks like the Beit Hamikdash, and my sabah’s kever on Har HaMenuchot and the memorial to the convoys from 1948. A good way to leave Yerushalayim.

My Abba has this thing about moving big rocks so my Ima can sit comfortably. It's cute, but dangerous.

In Eilat 

Nachal Adah

Kenyon HaShechoret-- Black Canyon

Our lovely penthouse apartment with private pool

Gan HaBotani-- Botanical Gardens

Speak no evil, smell no evil, pick your nose

Five again