Merry Christmas To All

And to all a good night!

My parents raised my younger brother and me in a  reformed Jewish household. We celebrated holidays and acknowledged a few additional Jewish elements. But, growing up in a mixed neighborhood in suburbia, USA, we were bound to have friends from various backgrounds. Among them, we had many Christmas celebrators and there was never a year we weren’t invited to celebrate with some family and their towering, tinsel topped tree.

I remember red knit sweaters and getting flannel pajamas as gifts. Our neighbors, unlike my own mother, who was too worrisome to light our own fireplace, had a yule log burning in their living room fireplace. We exchanged gifts and sang songs. The adults drank eggnog and we children ate chestnuts. I love chestnuts. I can smell them now… (Yeah, I’m roasting a few in my microwave oven.)

As children we wished for a white Christmas. I look out my window now, open, to let the warm breeze into my dorm room. It’s 17 degrees Celsius outside. I wore a short sleeved shirt today. It’s too hot for snow. And I remember one Christmas day where my father woke me up and told me he had a surprise. I can see him opening my Venetian blinds, revealing a think layer of snow, covering our lawn, the streets, the entire neighborhood blanketed in white.

Nostalgia gently wafts over me, like a old blanket, wrapping itself around me, reminding me of the good old days.

It’s 2:30 am. I didn’t come home from any Christmas parties or celebrations. I haven’t seen anyone decked out in red and white or street corner Santas ringing their bells for charity. I’m sleepless. I know I should go to sleep. I have kayaking practice in the morning. I’m supposed to be up in less than four hours. There’s a part of me that’s sad. Despite it not being my holiday, its got a place in my heart. Memories of friends and family and happier, carefree times make me wish for the days when I was younger and socks were considered a “lousy” gift.

To those of you who are celebrating tonight, I wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year! Goodwill and peace on earth!

The Flight From Hell

I was just packing my suitcase as my father called me from New York to ask if my flight was still supposed to arrive on time. Apparently, a snow storm was heading for New York just as we were supposed to land. With the wonders of technology, I checked online and even called El Al up to make sure the flight was still supposed to fly according to plan. Thumbs up and green lights said yes and I was excited to be flying west for the year.

We were the last flight that landed that snowy morning, as crew cleared off the landing strip so we could make it into JFK safely. Originally overjoyed that we managed to land, I called my father up to see if he was on his way with fresh bagels, as promised. I was supposed to have a three hour layover which would have been cutting it close with anything more than bagels, but here I was being given all this extra time to see my dad. I waited for him to pick up the phone, worried that if he took any longer I’d run out of quarters with which to feel the pay phone. But, lo and behold, he answered, while driving. He was on his way. Or at least until he made it to the city road, which was blocked due to the snow rapidly piling up and making the roads dangerous for such vehicles. The conversation started to break up just as I was beginning to understand that our runway rendezvous wasn’t going to happen.

With no one answering our questions regarding how long we’d be snowed in, I splurged and made a few very expensive long distance phone calls. First, I called my mom. I missed her. I regretted not taking her advice about the sweatshirt. I thought that going from Israel to tropical Hawaii, I wouldn’t need it, but apparently airport control thought that turning down the heat would keep us from getting rowdy and assisting in crowd control.

Secondly, I called Randy, telling him I was snowed in at JFK and that I wouldn’t be making it in on the flight I had originally planned. The phone call seemed pointless as he had forgotten he was supposed to pick me up. Later on I would learn how really scattered he is and that it’s amazing he still has his head in place.

In the meantime, I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to get to see my dad.

I started to wander around the airport, aimlessly. At 6 am, stores weren’t open yet and if the snow wouldn’t let up, it seemed like the sales people wouldn’t be making it in to work today. I had already finished the first book I brought along for the flight and was trying to enjoy the second, but it couldn’t interest me less and I put it down with a sigh,  restless. All over the terminal people were sitting with their loved ones, bummed about starting their vacations late or calling work to tell them they were snowed in at JFK. By noon some of the stores had opened, including a book store, a pizza place, candy shop and random, overpriced gift stores selling I(heart)NY stuff to frantic tourists who realize they forgot to get a gift for uncle Joe and aunt Betty. There’s only so much window shopping I could do before the handful of stores began to bore me. I looked for conversation and found it with a very nice perfume sales girl, who seemed to have enjoyed my company as much as I enjoyed hers. She didn’t seem overly busy, yet happy to have a chance to talk to someone about random stuff besides Channel No. 5. Before I left to look for lunch, she gave me a Milano cookie. I remember these cookies from my childhood. Sweet memories of my mother hiding them from my brother and me as we pulled the kitchen apart in search of the delectable delights we knew were hidden from view. Faced with a tough choice between pizza and pizza, I opted for the latter. Sitting among families, couples and friends, I started talking with people, telling them tales of life in Israel and my service in the IDF. They shared stories of the ski vacation they were just on or of places they want to travel to. Despite having been snowed in for so long, people were nice, friendly. I don’t think Israelies would have that patience. I think that within a few hours they would have been at the throat of the airline, demanding to leave now. I guess it’s a good thing we don’t get snow in the central part of Israel, in and around the airport.

As time passed, the snow began to melt as new people started to arrive at the airport. Incoming flights were landing, but we still couldn’t leave and my westward flight had to be rerouted. As I spent more time walking the airport floors, I joined a duo of Irish boys with a guitar. One of them played as I and the second one joined in singing. I regretted the fact that my harmonica was not with me. Apparently, a harmonica resembles a gun clip, so after almost half an hour with the x-ray machine prior to my first flight, I had to give my harmonica up, as it wasn’t deemed safe. I know I’m bad, but never thought I was bad enough to be considered a weapon. I always thought that was part of the beauty of harmonicas – it’s really hard to play bad. (If you ever want to screw with security at your local airport, toss a harmonica into your hand bag.)

After thirty-five hours I was on a flight to Chicago, then to California and only then to Hawaii. I arrived almost four days after I headed out of Israel. Jet lagged - you bet. And, surprise, surprise – Randy forgot to pick me up at the airport. I called him while he was at work so I ended up waiting at the arrivals gate for an hour and a half before he arrived. I watched at greeters came, leis in hand, greeting honeymooners and tourists. To his credit, I have to say, Randy did come with a lei for me.

Those first few days were just a preview of the odyssey I was about to embark on…

Hot, Hot, Cold

Yesterday was warm. Actually, yesterday was still summery hot and when I looked out the window before deciding what to wear, the sun was shining and I opted for a pair of shorts and a tank top, flip flops and sunglasses.

Suddenly, at about 10 am, I was sitting at work, looking out the window when the sky, which up until that minute was looking very calm, opened up and let out a downpour. And the rain didn’t let up within seconds like it usually does; it kept on pouring for hours. And it didn’t let up. Even when I asked really nicely as I was running late for class and had to cross most of the campus, uphill. So I arrived at class, out of breath and soaking wet, only to find out that the proffessor didn’t show and what was worse, just as I was entering the biology department, the rain decided to let up.

It rained again during the evening and all through the night. And then again this morning. It was raining cats and dogs. (Why doesn’t it ever rain men? Or money? Or even computers?) My mom’s neighborhood, which wasn’t built with the rains in mind, flooded within minutes. Cars flooded when you opened their doors and motorcycles got lost under the waist high waters. Muddied and thick, when the waters finally drained, it left a thick layer of sand and dirt on everything.

By the time I made it back to her house for the weekend, the streets were partially drained and I was only knee high in water. Now don’t get me wrong, I love the rain and our country certainly needs it, but I like it a lot more when I’m inside, cuddled under a thick down blanket, watching a movie or reading a good book.

 

Here’s a photo of what my block looked like earlier this morning.