no day but today

Run, don't walk, to the movie theatre today to see



Happy Turkey Day, everyone! Eat too much, and enjoy your loved ones.

semitic cinema

When what you want doesn't happen, learn to want what does.
-Arabic proverb

Last Wednesday, a friend and I saw Paradise Now, an Israeli film about two young men from Nablus assigned to blow themselves up on a bus in Tel Aviv.


I was very conflicted about even going to see this movie, because I was afraid that by delving deep into the world of an unnamed Palestinian terrorist organization, the story would necessarily humanize the adherents who, I believe, lose some humanity by the very fact of their membership. Said and Khaled are indeed humanized, but they are not glorified. While their complaints about living in the modern-day West Bank are certainly valid, the film goes to great lengths to undermine their cell's purported religious motivation and justification for terrorist acts. An organizer for a human rights group--and Said's love interest--Suha provides a strong, reasoned counterpoint to the involvement of the two men in the organization; in addition, their "martyr" videos take on an almost comical air when technical snafus and other mundane concerns intrude. Moreover, the chosen are not wide-eyed, manical, religiously-fanatical automatons but rather mere hapless mechanics who engage in continual questioning of their choices. As my friend wisely observed after the movie, it was reassuring to see in these two suicide bombers the possibility of a change of heart. Much about the film remained disturbing, however, including their shaving and changing clothes to look more like Jews, or "settlers," as they are called by the Palestinians. And I found myself thinking all the way through the story's unfolding, "Please, please, please don't show a bus blowing up," because the events become quite thrilling as the uncertainty mounts. The ending is finally clear but far from inevitable.

New York Times review

Roger Ebert's review

Last Thursday, I went on a wonderful date with a very charming man who took me to see Ushpizin, an Israeli film centered around the festival of Sukkot in the Mea She'arim neighborhood of Jerusalem. The movie features a unique collaboration between Ultra-Orthodox and secular Jews; in addition, the ultra-Orthodox protagonist is a former actor whose wife had to be recruited to star opposite her husband as a condition of his participation in the film, as their religious mores prohibit him from looking directly at any woman other than his spouse. "Ushpizin" is an Aramaic word meaning "guests," and the movie tells the story of penniless rabbi Moshe Bellanga and his wife Mali, who host two men from Moshe's troubled past during the feast of booths. Moshe and Mali pray for a sukkah and for money to pay rent, and G-d sends both along with their disruptive visitors, causing, no doubt, a reflection upon Karen Blixen's wisdom, "When G-d wants to punish you he answers your prayers." One of the most memorable scenes is Moshe's release of frustration at his guests' desecration of his prized etrog.


I highly recommend the film, and I was pleased with its Abraham-and-Sarah-esque happy ending, although my date took issue with the unfortunate sexism of the last scene's depiction of an Ultra-Orthodox ritual.

New York Times review

Village Voice review

pro Us Weekly oratio

Time you enjoy wasting was not wasted.
-John Lennon

I was a Plan II and Classics major at the University of Texas at Austin. I love learning languages. I read, voraciously, many different kinds of books. I've been compared to Jed Bartlet, with my "encyclopaedic knowledge of the ridiculous and dork-like." I say all of this not to brag but to preface my confession:

I love Us Weekly, the celebrity-idolizing, luxury-lifestyle-pushing, paparazzi-picture-filled gossip rag. I have a subscription, I look forward to each issue, and I read it thoroughly--every word on every page--each week.


Some have questioned whether this habit befits a person of my intellect and gravitas, so I have decided to write a defense of my interest in the publication. And I ask my readers to weigh in. This is my challenge to myself: if I cannot convince myself, and you, that I should read this magazine, then I pledge that I will--no matter the sadness and diffculty--cancel my subscription and never read it again. I am such a huge fan of logical reasoning that after I read Plato's Crito in a college philosophy course, I didn't drink alcohol again until I turned 21, so swayed was I by Socrates's arguments about the social contract. (I am not the only person conflicted around this addictive glossy: check out a fellow blogger's post from August 14 of last year.)


To begin, I read Us as a way to decompress. I don't claim that it is good journalism or a valuable use of time, but since I don't own a television, I submit that reading--even reading trash--for an hour or two each week is a better use of brain cells than the many hours some of my friends spend planning their lives around and passively absorbing several TV shows during that same week. Plus, even the most careful perusal of the magazine only takes about an hour, and I imagine that we all spend at least that much in our own individual guilty pleasures.

To me, the most interesting part of the magazine is the clothes, shoes, and accessories that are identified by designer label and analyzed. Fashion is certainly an art, and I certainly enjoy looking at beautiful things, without the concomitant desire to possess so often created by these types of publications. In other words, I can appreciate a $500 pair of Manolos without laboring under the illusion that I ought, in any plane on this earth, to buy said strappy sandals. I also consider my interest in this area an indulgence of my oft-supressed feminine side, which I think we can all agree needs the occasional airing.


I performed a quick analysis of the ads in the latest issue, "Holiday Diet Tricks" (Issue 563, November 28, 2005), with the idea that the results might shed some light on the magazine's target audience. I was surprised to discover the relative balance: of the twenty-six full-, half-, or quarter-page ads, 5 hawked clothes; 5, food; 4, makeup; 4, television/film; 2, books; and 2, electronics. (The other four were miscellaneous: automobile, birth control, VISA, and US Postal Service.) I had expected, given the hype, that the ads would definitively skew towards the more superficial sectors of apparel and cosmetics, but clearly advertisers have a different idea about the typical Us reader.

The magazine has become a huge pop culture phenomenon. Recently it was one of only ten magazines selected to Advertising Age's 2005 Magazine A-List, the coveted annual ranking of the publishing industry's top titles based on circulation, ad pages, editorial excellence, and buzz in the buying community; Us came in at number three. The year before, it won the same group's Magazine of the Year award, while its editor, Janice Min, took home Adweek Magazine's Editor of the Year honor. Celebrities themselves consume it, and talk show hosts ask their guests about it. And although I am not usually among their ranks, there are those who argue that knowledge of pop culture is important, and that it is a valid field of study.


I also have to commend Us for its honesty, in the sense that it doesn't lay claim to literary pretensions. (People, I'm looking at you!) It is, unabashedly, a purveyor of a luxury lifestyle that most of Us (hee!) will never experience. Unlike People, it doesn't deign to explore the lives of lesser mortals (i.e., no heartstrings-pulling stories about the lady who adopts three-legged dogs). As Gawker trenchantly articluates, "[J]ust like sisters in a sorority, a pecking order has emerged amongst the sychophantic weeklies" (with apologies to dgl for the use of the b-word):

Us Weekly: The Classy Bitch
Star: The Trashy Bitch
People: The Wannabe But Too Cool To Be A Bitch
In Touch: The Bitch In Heat

So, this is my case, and I invite comment upon it. I ask only that dissenters employ reasoned argument and not give into base prejudice. (Indeed, the knee-jerk reaction that Us generally engenders reminds me very much of the typical dimissive attitude towards Buffy, which I cannot brook.) Quite a lot is on the line here--what do you think?

Houston Chronicle's profile of Janice Min

Columbia College's alumni magazine sketch of Min

Gawker's gossip about Us

Jossip's take on Us

retratos

Sir Joshua would have been glad to take her portrait; and he would have had an easier task than the historian at least in this, that he would not have had to represent the truth of change--only to give stability to one beautiful moment.
-George Eliot

On Saturday afternoon I took in an exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery called "Retratos: 2000 Years of Latin American Portraits." The travelling exhibit (it will be at the San Antonio Museum of Art early next year, my Texan readers!) features over 100 works from more than 15 countries and, as the title indicates, also spans a considerable period of time, so the paintings are divided into five eras: precolumbian, viceregal, independence, modern, and contemporary. The show's anteroom included one piece from each period, and though initially thrown off by the anachronism, I had just decided that I liked what appeared to be an unorthodox curatorial choice when I moved into the next room, the beginning of the exhibit proper, to discover the divisions.

The exhibit was extremely well curated, with information about each painting in English and in Spanish, and unlike many bilingual shows that I have seen, each language seemed to have been written by a native speaker (or maybe I'm just used to the clunky, word-for-word translations so characteristic of Russian museums). I had fun practicing my moribund Spanish by not letting myself read the English. Plus, there was a plethora of undergraduate art history majors milling about, chatting up the visitors, and offering to answer questions, in English and in Spanish. I spoke with one (her short blonde hair pulled back with a huge, red faux flower that provided some contrast with her all-black ensemble, the seeming uniform among the students), and she provided some helpful insight into the viceregal period.

Some of my favorites included these two, from the viceregal and independence periods, respectively: Fray García Guerra and Manuela Gutiérrez.



I also enjoyed the following two, from the viceregal and modern periods, respectively: Doña María Mercedes and Elisa Saldívar de Gutiérrez Roldán.



The one on the right is by Diego Rivera, an unusual departure for him, but I think it anticipates the style of his later murals. But everything in the half-dozen rooms or so paled in comparison with the Frida Kahlo self-portrait on display. And I do mean "paled" quite literally, as this painting pulses with color and vibracy--the oils even glitter.


This small version hardly does justice to its beauty, so I invite you to examine a larger version. Now, I am very biased about Frida, since a couple of years ago I read a wonderful biography by Hayden Herrera, an art historian who did an excellent job of analyzing Kahlo's works and placing them in the context of her life. The book contains many, many pages of color plates of her paintings, which is, in my opinion, the only way to write about an artist. (Nothing frustrates me more than reading about a piece of art and not being about to look at what is being explained.) My next favorite work at the exhibition was this contemporary homage to Kahlo, Frida de Mi Corazón.


I love that it is so Frida-esque. It's what I would want to paint to show my appreciation for Frida if, well . . . I could paint.

apple pie to the rescue

If you want to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe.
-Carl Sagan

Two weekends ago in Ithaca, dogooderlawyer and I stopped on the way out of town at one of his favorite fruit and vegetable stands on Interstate 81, near Whitney Point. As the owner told us, it was unusual for her to open for business at the beginning of November, but she had decided to do so because the weather was so glorious that weekend. We bought 1/4 of a peck of Cameo apples (which I was amused to later discover are the "apple of the future") for baking and the same amount of Spy Gold for eating.

Two nights ago, I baked an apple pie from scratch with the Cameos. I used a recipe for All-American Apple Pie, which sounds totally corny but actually turned out really well. I made a few adjustments, adding lemon juice and cornstarch to the filling and sautéing it for 15 minutes before baking, as well as substituting 1/2 cup brown sugar for the white sugar in the topping. I also reduced the amount of sugar in the filling, something I never thought I would do. When I was 18 and living in Costa Rica and cooking for myself for the first time, I had a very opinionated roommate who would drive everyone in the house crazy by interjecting, every single time desserts were being made, "I find that recipes generally call for too much sugar. I find that you can usually cut the amount in half." So of course, I never did, and I swore that I never would. I'm stubborn like that.

The pie turned out to be very timely, for a number of reasons. Dogooderlaywer's roommate, sonofjeter (so-called on this blog because of his totally absurd yell of encouragement for his favorite Yankee: "Derek Jeter is my father!"), arrived home that night completely exhausted from work and only the promise of warm apple-y goodness cheered him. Then, our friend hinjew found out that his fiancée had had a terrible day of work, so the apple pie was off to spread more joy, this time with vanilla ice cream. I think it acquitted itself nicely.

a russo-japanese trade

"Because," the foreigner replied and, narrowing his eyes, looked into the sky, where, anticipating the cool of the evening, black birds were tracing noiselessly, "Annushka has already bought the sunflower oil, and has not only bought it, but has already spilled it. So the meeting will not take place."
-Woland in The Master and Margarita

When Nausikaa was stolen in August, I also lost quite a few sentimental items that were in her trunk, including my Kogepan doll.


(Mine was actually cuter because he had strawberries on his head.) Kogepan is Japanese for "burnt bread"; he's one of the lesser-known Sanrio characters. His mythology relates that he was meant to be a red bean bun, but after he was left in the oven too long, no one would buy or befriend him.

Kogepan was the last thing that absenceofwill gave me before we broke up, and I took to carrying him (the doll, not the boyfriend) with me everywhere. I had grown accustomed to holding him while I slept, and so when my grandfather died last December, Kogepan naturally came with me to Austin. However, upon checkout from the hotel, I inadvertently left him in the bedsheets and had to make a frantic call to locate him. I was (probably unreasonably) panicked, but housekeeping found him, and in gratitude I tipped the staff $20 when I picked him up.

I first learned about Kogepan while watching Joss Whedon's commentary on the Season Five Buffy episode "The Body" (which is, by the way, an unbelievably fantastic, if depressing, hour of television). While Willow has trouble deciding what to wear to Joyce's funeral, Anya sits down in the papasan chair, putting the plush doll that was on the cushion in her lap. Joss says, "My wife and I are huge fans of a little Japanese guy named Burnt Bun Boy, so when I got a stuffed figure of him, he just had to appear on the show."

I have missed Kogepan terribly and have been wanting something to hold onto again while sleeping. So, dogooderlawyer surprised me with a sea otter mother and baby from the Long Beach Aquarium. Meet Annushka and Ilya!


I gave them Slavic names because sea otters live in the Alaskan Pacific, and since they have the thickest fur in the animal kingdom, I think these two will make great Russians. Ilya is the Russian form of the Hebrew Elijah, while Annushka is a character in one of my most favorite books ever, Mikhail Afanasievich Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita. Since I will probably end up writing about the novel for this blog at some point in the future, I will spare you my encomium; suffice it to say that I will never give my Annushka sunflower oil.

gilmore global village

"The plural of cul-de-sac is culs-de-sac? That doesn't even sound like English."
"That's because it's French."
-Lorelai and Rory, "The Nanny and the Professor"

My father is an extremely conservative Republican, born-again-Christian attorney from Houston. He enjoys Frank Capra movies, oldies radio, and working in the yard.

Dogooderlawyer is an extremely liberal Democrat, Jewish law student from Brooklyn. He enjoys David Fincher movies, classic rock, and drinking good beer.

The only thing that they inexplicably have in common, so far as I can see, (besides a peculiar, vaguely-articulated antipathy towards the French) is a love of Gilmore Girls.


I hadn't even heard of this show until I went home for my brother's wedding last October and discovered my dad's new obsession. He took to quoting the show in our phone calls and sending me "Gilmore-ism" e-cards for no reason. Since I don't own a television and don't tend to identify with his aesthetic choices (when I was a child he religiously recorded every single episode of The Rockford Files), I just enjoyed his enthusiasm from afar.

Then I met dogooderlawyer. He reads all the recaps on Television Without Pity, records the episodes he misses, and tries to make me watch the WB on Tuesdays at 8:00 pm. I called one day last May, and he answered with the greeting, "Can I call you back in 45 minutes when Gilmore Girls is over?"

Um, okay. I've been scratching my head ever since.

So it appears that the show cuts across a few demographic lines. Its writer-producer, Amy Sherman-Palladino, recieved financial support to start the show from the Family Friendly Programming Forum, a consortium of national advertisers that aims to promote programming "appropriate in theme, content and language for adults and children. It has cross generational appeal, depicts real life and resolves issues responsibly." So that explains my father.

But Sherman-Palladino is also a feminist television executive that works to bring an original voice, a theater-esque look and pace, and a progressive portrayal of women to a medium in which they are still regularly given very short shrift (cf. The O.C., Dawson's Creek, and even some episodes of The West Wing and Sex and the City). Plus, she's a Buffy fan! So that explains dogooderlawyer.

Apparently, there might be something in this show for me, too, as jabooshee contends that I identify with Rory. We were watching the episode "But Not as Cute as Pushkin," which is a total shout-out because he is my absolute favorite Russian author. (I even have his portrait, framed, hanging at home.) Jabooshee made this observation during a scene in which Alexis Bledel's character waxes eloquent about the Yale library's collection and smells books. (I would just like to point out for the record that I have never in my life done this. Once, okay, I have done this once. Maybe twice. Three times, tops.) Rory also mentions here that it is rumored that one can graduate from Yale if sufficiently fluent in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. Nah, there's nothing here to interest me at all.

So, is Gilmore Girls a panacea for the world's ills, bringing disparate people together through the highly-caffeinated, highly-animated repartee that seems endemic to Stars Hollow? I think the diversity of media outlets below that enthuse over this show is evidence enough.

(N.B. The woman who writes most of GG recaps on TWOP, Pamie, who doesn't actually seem to like the show all that much? A UT grad. Just puttin' that out there.)

PopMatters review

The National Review review

Slate on GG's bookishness

Slate on GG's snappy dialogue

Little Corner of the World

Terry Gross's interview with ASP on Fresh Air

NYT interview with ASP

the comedy of errors

Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he's worth to season.
Nay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say,
That Time comes stealing on by night and day?
If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,
Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?
-Dromio of Syracuse, Act IV, Scene II, Lines 64-68

Last night I saw The Shakespeare Theatre Company perform The Comedy of Errors at its invited dress rehearsal. My friend dakota got tickets from her friend's partner, who is one of the costumers. Which means . . . a free ticket for me!

The production was awesome. Fabulous. Unbelievable. Superlative, superlative, superlative. I loved, loved, loved it. Now to be fair, this particular Shakespeare comedy has a special place in my heart, based as it is on the Roman comedy The Menaechmi, by Plautus, about identical twins--both with same name--separated at birth. I took a class in college devoted just to this work, taught by a crazy Classics professor at the University of Texas (which really doesn't narrow it down, I realize). 6'1" and I were both in the class (our first together, I believe), and we cemented our friendship in commiseration. This class, unfortunately, later became a sore subject when for reasons unknown I received a higher grade for considerably less work. (For the class project, he wrote a 10-page paper while I had a small role in a skit). Then, last year, I got to torture my own students with the play when I taught parts of it in my Latin III Honors course. Like my crazy professor before me, I gave my class a project choice of a paper or a performance, and wouldn't you know it? All of those 17-year-olds knew well enough to make the latter choice! (Ahem, 6'1".)

In his homage, Shakespeare gave the plot two sets of twins--the Antipholi and the Dromios--instead of Plautus's original one; retained the farcical elements of mistaken identities, slapstick humor, sight gags, and sexual innuendo; and added an Elizabethan sensibility. Last night's interpretation boasted beautifully colorful costumes, wonderfully imaginative set design, flawless performances, and that essential je ne sais quoi that makes theatre come to life. The backdrop was mishmash of modern art: Dali's clock, Escher's staircases, and de Chirico's colonnades, plus a smattering of the evil eye.

In the classical tradition, the Company added several songs and dances to Shakespeare's already over-the-top action, but the absurdity finally reached its peak at the end of Act IV. The turning point reminded me of the drug use montage in the great Jewish summer camp movie classic Wet Hot American Summer: it seems like a fairly typical, entertaining film, until the counselors and the camp director go into town in the morning, and the resulting scenes are ones of narcotic purchase, experimentation, addiction, and withdrawal, all purported to happen by mid-morning. It's hilarious, and it sets the tone for the rest of the movie. Last night, the moment occurred during a chase scene; Antipholus and Dromio of Syracuse run to the back of the theatre to escape their pursuers, at which point the latter takes notice of the audience. They react with surprise, shift around uncomfortably for a bit, and then embark on a synchronized dance and song number. Then, in the interregnum between Acts IV and V, Groucho Marx (complete with safari hat, eyebrows, and cigar) dances on stage, and Salvador Dali sketches his own clock as if struck by inspiration. It was, as a dear friend so eloquently observed about the corresponding scene in WHAS, "off the hizzy." (Yeah, I don't know what it means, either.)

The actor who played Dromio of Syracuse, Daniel Breaker, unquestionably stole the show, not just with his terrific skill but also with the richer role. The twin Dromios are servants to the twin Antipholi, but the play certainly made me think how much better it is at times to be the sidekick. And Harold Bloom agrees with me! As he observes in Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human,

These two long-suffering clowns have had to sustain numerous blows from the Antipholi throughout the play, and the audience is heartened to see them go out in such high humor. When the Ephesian Dromio remarks, "I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth," we see, too, and the concluding couplet exudes a mutual affection clearly absent in the two Antipholi. It would be absurd to burden The Comedy of Errors with sociopolitical or other current ideological concerns, and yet it remains touching that Shakespeare, from the start, prefers his clowns to his merchants.

just for the pun of it

A pun is not bound by the laws which limit nicer wit. It is a pistol let off at the ear; not a feather to tickle the intellect.
-Charles Lamb

I have a love-hate relationship with the pun, this play-on-words that more often than not elicts a rolling of the eyes, a gritting of the teeth, and an expelling of the breath. I generally appreciate wit, but my taste runs to the more subtle variety. I blame my father, the master punner. Nothing pleases him more than this clever turn of phrase, and he especially relishes dropping new ones on his audience with loud voice, punctuated pause, and then his own laughter. He's James Bond, except without the deadpan (or the license to kill). So I guess after twenty-seven years, I'm a bit jaded. My family and I hardly even laugh at him anymore, and we warn guests not to encourage him, although no one I've ever brought home has heeded me. Of course, it doesn't really do any good to ignore the punning, because he just repeats it in a louder and louder voice until someone acknowledges it.

In spite of this history, one of my favorite things in the world is OPI nail polish, the names of the colors of which are almost all puns. Yesterday jabooshee and I got pedicures; my toes are now Grand Central Carnation, and hers, Melon of Troy. The latter is part of a Greek-inspired series introduced this summer, my personal favorite for obvious reasons (to wit, that I'm a big Classics dork). Others in this ilk include "Don't Socra-tease Me," "Redipus-Oedipus," "Ti-Tan Your Toga," "To Eros Is Human," and "Greece Just Blue Me Away." The new British collection has the gem "My Throne for a Cranberry Scone." Other favorites are "Yucatán If U Want" and "You're A Pisa Work."

If liking them is wrong, I don't want to be right.

competition's a bitch

Thou shalt not covet; but tradition approves all forms of
competition.
-Arthur Hugh Clough

I am the most competitive person on the planet. I love games, but to enjoy them I have to win. Two of my ex-boyfriends got so frustrated with this need that they refused to be anywhere in my vicinity while games were played. At my old job, my colleagues (fellow campus residents) and I would have ferocious, screaming, Scrabble, Taboo, and Scene It matches. I argue with jabooshee (my 15-year-old cousin) over the rules for the kids' game Guess Who. It's possible I need help, but I enjoy myself too much. My sweet scoutfinch, on the other hand, is less comfortable with (and therefore, I'd say, more healthy about) competition.

But first, some background: I have a huge family, and we are all very close and all in each other's business (in a good way). My grandmother is an identical twin; she had three daughters (my mom is the youngest), and her sister had three sons. Each summer, everyone gathers in Breckenridge, Colorado, for a week-long reunion. The twins and their descendants, as well as their older brother's son and his family, and my grandfather's older brother and his descendants (and anyone else PMK decides to invite) all stay in the same beautiful house, the Mauna Kea Lodge. At other times of year, as many of us who can meet for other visits.

The last few years in Breckenridge, we have organized an intra-family bocce ball tournament. This summer, scoutfinch and I partnered up to play our cousin and her husband in the first round. We lost. I was disappointed, but she exhaled loudly, "Thank g-d!" at the final score. At Thanksgiving a few years ago, we organized a touch football game. She came in the house, sweaty and exhausted, and vented, "I don't think I should play this game anymore. I just . . . get . . . too upset."

I think I get my impulse from the twins: as lovely as they are, they also have an obsessive need to be right. So, it's not my fault. Which means . . . wait for it . . .

I win!

Домовой

Не так страшен чёрт, как его малюют.
(The devil is not as scary as they paint him.)
-Russian proverb

And neither are domovoi, the house spirits of Slavic folklore. I first learned about these mostly-friendly sprites from my friend pantodapos, who took a Russian fairy tale class in college. He tacked up pictures of them all over his apartment, and we had fun blaming them for missing items (especially homework!) and appliance malfunction.


I have been thinking about domovoi again recently because of a series of strange events in the house. The toilets in three of the bathrooms have been taking turns backing up, with no discernable pattern. The downstairs refrigerator stopped cooling. The radio plays NPR without provocation. Light bulbs burn out. Normal wear and tear on an older house? To the unimaginative mind, perhaps. But me, I choose to see a more sublime cause. Clearly, I need to prepare an offering.

In my search for more information about these spirits, I came across this great excerpt from Times foreign correspondent Chris Wren's book The Cat Who Covered the World, in which he talks about the tradition of domovoi. Wren was the Moscow bureau chief for the Times from 1973 to 1977, and I discovered in reading the chapter that he lived there--in the Foreign Correspondents' building--in the same apartment where my friends from Baltimore now live! I met this couple at the Russian School of Middlebury College in the summer of 2001, where we were all first-year students, right before they moved to Moscow for him to assume the post of The Sun's bureau chief. The next summer, when I studied in Moscow, I spent a quite a bit of time in their apartment, as it was absolutely luxurious in comparison to . . . well, most residences in the city, but in particular to my modest dorm room. But more stories from Russia will have to wait for another day; in the meantime, consider the appeasement of your domovoi. It just might be the best thing you ever did.

the known world

He pointed to the left wall where Skiffington had hung a map, a browned and yellowed woodcut of some eight feet by six feet. The map had been created by a German, Hans Waldseemuller, who lived in France three centuries before, according to a legend in the bottom right-hand corner. . . . A Russian who claimed to be a descendant of Waldseemuller had passed through the town and Skiffington had bought the map from him. He wanted it as a present for [his wife] but she thought it to hideous to be in her house. Heading the legend were the words "The Known World." Skiffington suspected the Russian, a man with a white beard down to his stomach, was a Jew but he could not tell a Jew from any other white man.

Edward P. Jones's novel The Known World, winner of the 2004 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, explores the lives of slaves and slaveowners in the fictional county of Manchester in northern antebellum Virginia. The slaves, of course, are black, but Jones has seized on a little-known historical fact and made some of the slaveowners black, too. Henry Townsend, a former slave himself, and his wife Caldonia form the center of Jones's World. The couple owns 13 slaves; the novel begins and ends with their overseer and first slave, Moses. The reader learns Henry's history through the story of his father, Augustus, also a former slave who purchases his own and his wife's freedom first, and then that of his 16-year-old son. The whites who touch the Townsends' world include John Skiffington, the sheriff of Manchester County, and William Robbins, the Townsends' former owner, as well as a handful of county slave patrollers.

The premise of the story--black slaveowners--happens actually to be true, but other historical "facts" pepper the novel, lending to it the patina of non-fiction. Thus Jones evaluates the term of Manchester County's top law enforcement official:

[Skiffington] turned twenty-nine the month he became sheriff. The town and county went into a period of years and years of what University of Virginia historian Roberta Murphy in a 1979 book would call "peace and prosperity." . . . The historian--whose book was rejected by the University of Virginia Press and finally published by the University of North Carolina Press--would also call Skiffington "a godsend" for the county. This historian was especially drawn to the quirks of the county. In 1851, she noted, for example, a man of two slaves at the eastern end of Manchester had five chickens born on the same day with two heads. Two of the chickens were even said to do a kind of dance when the harmonica was played. . . . In the history of the county, the chickens, all of which managed to live until 1856, were a momentous event ten places below the tenure of John Skiffington as sheriff, according to this historian, who became a full professor at Washington and Lee University three years after her book was published.

This passage is illustrative of several motifs that recur throughout the novel. No such historian exists, although the abundance of details belie this truth. Also evident here is the playing with the progression of time: Skiffington assumes the post of sheriff in 1843 in the novel's timeline, but Jones explores his legacy 130 years later. This pattern crops up frequently, as the narrative will jump ahead to a character's death or later stature at that character's introduction. The entire book, in fact, starts in medias res, with the death of Henry Townsend, then moves back to his childhood, and ends in the chaos caused by his untimely passing. The above excerpt also demonstrates Jones's gift for understatement, a talent he uses with enormous effect in delving into the problematic complexities of black slaveownership.

Lastly, I really enjoyed the cryptic phrases that serve as chapter titles. Chapter 8, for example, begins with, "Namesakes. Scheherazade. Waiting for the End of the World." These expressions seem at first to be incongruous and inscrutable, but they somehow at the end of the chapter make perfect sense. The phenomenon is partly attributable to Jones's skill in bringing together seamlessly the stories of so many different characters. As mentioned above, in telling his story he makes not only large temporal shifts but also significant spatial shifts. This beautiful work ends with a moving image: Caldonia's brother writes to her from Washington, D.C., about a cloth hanging that he runs across in a local hotel. It bears the signature of one of his sister's escaped slaves and depicts a map of the county, "what G-d sees when He looks down on Manchester." The art seems to be a microcosm of Jones's novel.

NPR's review

The New York Times review

lydia cassatt reading the morning paper

I let his words float in the air, fall around me, like cherry blossoms. N'importe quoi, I would say to anyone else, at any other time, but in this dream-like moment, in this desert, blooming, I accept the words as an unanticipated gift.

I thought I might return to the original, stated purpose of my blog by writing about a small book I read last month, Harriet Scott Chessman's novel Lydia Cassatt Reading the Morning Paper. I finished it in one sitting, I believe, but its length should not diminish its consequence. Chessman tells the story of five paintings that American Impressionist Mary Cassatt completed of her older sister Lydia from 1878 to 1881 while their family lived in France. The voice of the account, the older Cassatt is dying of Bright's Disease but feels compelled to continue to pose for her talented sister. Chessman has certainly done her research, but the narrative is fictional. As she explains, "I have thought, imagined, and dreamt my way into her world." And the results are lovely, lyrical, luscious. Plus, Chessman opens with an epigraph by Wallace Stevens, a favorite poet of mine. (My Plan II freshman English teacher was a thoughtful old man, now Professor Emeritus, called Thomas Whitbread. He wrote his dissertation on Stevens at Harvard in 1959 and connected all the literature we read to one of his poems. "As the great twentieth-century poet Wallace Stevens wrote," he would begin, and then at least 10 lines of verse would follow.)

The slim volume features each of the five works on a full-color plate, a prerequisite, in my mind, for any book that explores art. Through the perspective of the model, Chessman brings the paintings to life by expounding on detail--such as color, light, or pose--the full visual impact of which might otherwise be missed. Lydia's struggle with her health is as moving as her imagined analysis of her sister's work; I even cried a little at the end, and I usually don't cry at books. But it's not all serious illness and slaving over the easel: there is a nice frisson of sexual tension between Lydia and Edward Degas, who is having an affair with Mary. But Lydia mostly just yearns for Degas's vigor and vitality, qualities she herself regrettably lacks. "[H]e seemed to offer me a picture of myself, one to strive towards. In this picture, I possessed grace and strength and valor," she says.

Lydia's voice, although earnest and genuine, became slightly jarring for me when I realized that it emanated from a 40-year-old woman. Her insecurity and uncertainty about everyday affairs, though possibly the result of her disease, more readily befit a woman half her age. Nevertheless, I highly recommend this beautiful novella.

"curled up with a good book" review

26 November 2005 UPDATE: Two days after I posted my take on this book, this cartoon ran in the Washington Post. Talk about apropos! (Syndication restrictions prevented me from adding it until now.)

long live the fighting hokies

In America, it is sport that is the opiate of the masses.
-Russell Baker

This weekend I made a disparaging comment to dogooderlawyer about the New York Knickerbockers, something insightful and pithy, to the effect that, "The Knicks suck." I wasn't actually trying to get a rise out of him; I have felt this way--not that the Knicks are a poor team, but just that I don't like them--since the glorious NBA Finals of 1994, in which Houston beat New York in seven games. None of the experts thought the Rockets would win, and maybe they shouldn't have, but they did. I was 15 years old, and on June 22, 1994, the Rockets won for the city its first professional championship ever. (You'll have to excuse me, I'm getting a little choked up over here. "Never underestimate the heart of a champion!" Okay, I'm done.)

But I digress: after my remark, dogooderlawyer got his Joey Tribbiani on. It reminded me of the Friends episode "The One With All the Haste," in which Monica and Rachel attempt to get their apartment back from Chandler and Joey by bribing them with Knicks season tickets. Joey is sold, but he has to convince Chandler.

JOEY: It's the Knicks!
CHANDLER: Screw the Knicks!
JOEY: Whoa!
CHANDLER: I didn't mean that. I just meant that the apartment is worth so much more.
JOEY: Huh.
CHANDLER: And the Knicks rule all.
JOEY: Yeah, the Knicks rule all!

My story doesn't end quite so harmoniously. In fact, when I refused to play Chandler, dogooderlawyer declared that he was going to stop cheering for one of my teams. After some hemming and hawing ("I really do like the Astros and the Rockets--they're good guys.") he decided that Texas was no longer deserving of his love. Thenceforth, he stated, Virgina Tech would be his college football team.

Now, I am no stranger to the strange phenomenon that is Hokie football. One of my former colleagues is a Tech alum. Before I even met her I was given a tour of her apartment: I walked over a VT welcome mat (beside which were hand-decorated VT shoes with Chicago maroon and burnt orange laces) and next to a VT director's chair, past a refrigerator dotted with VT magnets (adjacent to a sink of Hokie mugs), and by a closet full of anti-UVA shirts (on the door of which hung keys on a VT lanyard). I could go on, but you get the idea. "One guess where she went to school," quipped meggiefreshh.

All evidence to the contrary, my dear friend vthokie is actually a fairly normal person. And I've always been able to enjoy her unhealthy obsession. Last year, in fact, I watched and cheered for Virginia Tech with her when they played Georgia Tech. Of course, last year the Hokies (despite winning the ACC championship their first year in that conference) were not a direct threat to my Longhorns. This year, however, Virgina Tech joined my University of Texas, the University of Southern California, and the University of Alabama as an undeafeated NCAA Division I team. In the BCS standings, USC was ranked first, then Texas, then Tech, and finally, Alabama.

Until Saturday. Until dogooderlawyer switched his allegiance.

That evening, Virginia Tech suffered its first loss of the season, falling to Miami 27-7. Some might accuse me of the post hoc, ergo propter hoc fallacy (given fame in one of my most favorite West Wing episodes!), but I still say,

"Can you decide to root for USC next?"

nausikaa is no more

My dear car is dearly departed. She was used and abused by thieves, and I recently reached the difficult conclusion that she was damaged beyond my means to repair. Let this, then, be what is remembered of her.

I called her Nausikaa, the sobriquet suggested for her by my friend tarquin, who had recently written a paper on the eponymous Odyssey character, dubbing her "the bravest lass in all of Phaiakia." Nausikaa is the daughter of the island's king, Alkinoos, and the only one of the group of women whom Odysseus encounters on a riverbank who keeps her wits about her. Of course, when Odysseus crashes this gathering of women, he is, besides bone-weary and starving, completely unclothed. The other women quickly disband, but Nausikaa dares to speak to this naked man. I admire this particular brand of courage, so Nausikaa was born. And because I'm my father's daughter, I also appreciate the inherent pun: "Nausi-car."

A 1990 Toyota Corolla, Nausikaa came to me--with only 62,000 miles--after my previous car was stolen. Yes, I have the dubious distinction of being twice a victim of grand theft auto. During my last year in college, I had spent several weeks of winter break in Raleigh with my family. Upon my return, tarquin picked me up at the airport and deposited me at my apartment. I was living at that time on the east side of Austin, in an apartment that was considered by my mother to be definitely on the wrong side of the tracks. (I was pleased, however, with its proximity to the Eastside Cafe and Mi Madre's.) That evening, I placed some items in the backseat of my car to take to my grandmother's house, and the next day, I met friends at Town Lake for an early morning run, as was my wont, then returned home to shower before heading north to my grandparents'. I walked downstairs to the parking lot a few hours later to find my space empty. I stood at first in amazement, unable to comprehend what my eyes were (not) seeing. It's a very specific feeling of utter disbelief, the ultimate lesson in object permenance. The car is not in front of me, I thought, but it must be around here somewhere.

I made two phone calls. First, the police. The response? "Now, honey, are sure you didn't just leave it somewhere?" Like, please, lady, take me seriously! It's not a purse! The second, my father. The response? "Your car? Someone stole your car? Why would anyone steal your car?" I don't know, dad, but it happened! I'm standing right here, looking at nothing!

About a week later, Austin PD recovered my car from the 15-year-old kid--mere days out of juvi--who jacked it that morning. I went to court, testified that had under no circumstances given him permission to break the steering column to drive my car from the lot, and secured $1200 in reparations. In the meantime, my parents had bought me Nausikaa, so the Oldsmo-buick (TM seth) went to my brother. My parents drove her up to Brenham from Houston, I drove the tainted vehicle down from Austin, and we exchanged cars. We ate Tex-Mex. I was wearing a grey sweater and khaki pants. (I bring up all these details to convey the importance of this day in my life).

Nausikaa moved with me to Raleigh in 2002. My brother drove her across the country for me that summer while I was abroad. I defiled her with North Carolina plates but made it up to her with a veritable potpourri of bumper stickers: the Apple logo, Euro-style Vermont, an Israeli flag, Native Texan, KUT, UT, the HRC logo, and the Astros. Some thought her over-decorated, but I was raised to believe that more is more.

In August 2003, her right passenger-side window was smashed to get to the radio, and on August 29, 2005, she was stolen from the corner of M & 10th streets, NW, in the District of Columbia. I had packed her up with most of my belongings, intending to head back to Raleigh early that morning. But I walked downstairs to be, yet again, confronted by an empty space. This time it took five weeks for the police to find the car, and Nausikaa fared a good deal less well than her predecessor. So I said the long goodbye.

R.I.P. Nausikaa. January 14, 2001 to October 24, 2005. Beloved Car, Devoted Auto. She saved me a lot.

36 hours in ithaca

And then, that hour the star rose up, the clearest, brightest star, that always heralds the newborn light of day, the deep-sea-going ship made landfall on the island . . . Ithaca, at last.
-Homer, The Odyssey

Taking a page from The New York Times travel section, I bring you my weekend in Ithaca, New York. The town ordered up some wonderful weather for my visit: 75 degrees and sunny, unheard-of conditions for this area of the country in November. (In fact, it was a hell of a lot colder here at the end of April, when I last visited.) And the leaves were in full color, bright reds and golden yellows, just for me. I walked around Cornell's campus a bit and kept remarking that one vista or another was "gorgeous," much to my companion's amusement. (I like this one, too.) I am also a huge fan of the lovely, classical-inspired place names in Ithaca and its environs: Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Romulus, Pompey, Apulia, Fabius, Delphi Falls, Lake Seneca, Pharsalia, Marathon, and Cincinnatus, plus Courtland, Dryden, Auburn, and Byron, some of the more famous translators of Homer.

Friday
7:30 pm. Pyramid Mall Regal Cinemas. I took in a movie, something I almost never do. I wasn't thrilled with my choices--I really wanted to see Capote or Good Luck, and Good Night--but I had in spite of myself gotten excited about the concept of going to the movies. So I picked Jarhead, the story of Anthony Swofford's tour of duty with the Marines in Desert Storm, based on his book of the same name. It was excellent. Jake Gyllenhaal, Peter Sarsgaard, and Jamie Foxx star in this very interesting account of the modern American military experience; its release is very timely, I think, as it speaks to the current conflict in Iraq in its assessment of the earlier. In the background, haunting the protagonist and his peers, is the spectre of other American wars that all seem, if not more purposeful, then at least more action-filled. At one point, The Doors' "Break on Through"--Vietnam's anthem--blasts though Swofford's camp in the desert. He kvetches, "Can't they play something else? That's their song, not ours." The film is a sympathetic look at the military's effects on the psyche of one Marine and treats the subject with a nice mix of humor and gravity. Plus, Kanye West's "Jesus Walks," the theme song of the previews, plays at the credits. I just love that song.

(N.B. 11/09/05: The Federal Diarist just alerted me to the controversy surrounding the movie.)


Saturday
1:00 pm. Speech by Drug Policy Alliance Executive Director Ethan Nadelmann. In town for the Cornell Journal of Law and Public Policy's symposium, "The Latest Developments in the War on Drugs," Nadelmann gave a rousing and inspiring talk about his vision for a rational, compassionate, harm-reductive national drug policy. One of his more striking observations involved a comparison of alcohol and drug prohibition periods in the States. The former was repealed when people still could remember the time before prohibition; however, no one knows what it is like to live with a drug policy other than the current. Our problem, then, is one of imagination--we just can't conceive of anything else, and we naturally prefer the devil we know.

6:30 pm. Dinner at Renee's, considered to be one of the best restaurants in Ithaca. The location is unconventional, the first floor of an rundown office complex, so you have to be buzzed into the building and walk through several hallways of harsh lighting and bad art to get to a beautiful, softly-lit, wood-paneled room. I enjoyed quite a few glasses of Gavi, a light, fruity Italian white, along with a green salad, fettuccine, and my favorite of the evening, pumpkin crème brûlée. The company and conversation were equally engaging, with topics ranging from kashrut laws concerning monkfish to race riots in France.

10:00 pm. Drinks at the Chanticleer. Old friends, good music, decent beer, and fiery whiskey!

Sunday
1:00 pm. Brunch at Stella's, the fancy place in Collegetown, with the best liquor selection (but no SoCo) and decent beer choices. I enjoyed an excellent omelette with brie, tomatoes, and onions, served with home fries and wheat toast, and a side helping of the Sunday Times. It really doesn't get any better than a highly-caffeinated brunch, the sports section, and the book review.

3:30 pm. Downtown shopping at American Crafts by Robbie Dein. Beautiful glass and original jewelry, including a wonderful selection of Judaica. I got a new necklace!

astral astros

Do not ask questions of fairy tales.
-Jewish proverb

I commend scoutfinch for braving the Astros' woes in the World Series. I have not yet been able. My beloved team lost in the minimum number of games, and when they dropped that fourth one last Wednesday, I turned off the television and went to bed, determined not to wake up again until next season. I felt the same way in April when the Rockets suffered one of the worst defeats (19 points) in NBA playoff history in the first round against the Lakers. I even tore my picture of T-Mac off my door, crumpled it up, and threw it against the television in frustration. A wise friend later convinced me to fish the picture out of the trash, re-post it on my door, and forgive the Rockets. So, I need to try to do the same for the Astros.

And yes, I was disappointed and frustrated with them, despite their accomplishment of clinching the first World Series berth in their history. Of our fearsome pitching staff--consisting most notably of Roger Clemens, Andy Pettitte, and Roy Oswalt--only the relative unknown Brandon Backe got the job done during the series, giving up only 5 hits and no earned runs in 7 innings of Game 4. It was lights out for "Lights Out" Brad Lidge, our once unbeatable closer, who blew two saves. And, with runners in scoring position, our lightweight offense, in the words of llschoolj, "couldn't buy a hit with a coupon at the grocery." Maybe it was just the White Sox's year to win. (And until the Cubbies win next year, I can't be sure.) Or maybe it was the expectations. The Astros were the trendy pick to win it all, the kiss of death for any Texas team. I'm not crying curse, but damn, sometimes it's hard to be a Houston sports fan.

Compounding my heartbreak was the evidence I saw all season of a cosmic Jewish force at work in this team. It began just before the All-Star Break, with Ausmus's go-ahead R.B.I. single. The Jew went on to hit .301 in July, .310 in August and .286 in September, substantial improvement from his pre-Break .180 average. Then, in the NLDS-clinching Game 4 against the Atlanta Braves, Ausmus knocked the game-tying home run in the bottom of the ninth. Of course, this hit occured during the now-infamous longest postseason game in MLB history. It was no accident, I believe, that the game lasted 18 innings. In Hebrew numerology, the word chai, "life," has a value of 18 (chet, 8 + yod, 10) and is a central concept in Judaism. The typical Jewish toast is l'chayim, "to life," and donations to charity are regularly given in multiples of 18.

Then there is the matter of the two honorary Jews, Lance "Leonard" Berkman and Morgan "Moishe" Ensberg. Both have reasonably Jewish-sounding last names, and I was at first convinced that Berkman was Jewish because it seemed that "Hava Nagila" played at his every at-bat. But it turns out that someone at Minute Maid Park just really likes this song. Lance became "Leonard," Morgan became "Moishe," and the two performed better when I yelled for them by their nicknames. And before all you non-sports fans scoff in disbelief, I would just like to point out that baseball is one of the most highly superstitious sports. One of my friends is convinced that his timely Israeli dancing contributed to the Red Sox's win in the World Series last year. In addition, it is not uncommon to cheer for your players by an affectionate moniker of your own making. Meggiefreshh, for instance, exorts Manny Ramirez during his at-bats by calling him "Manuel" (with proper Spanish accent, of course).

Despite the auspices, though, the Astros lost. Maybe it was the fact that Ausmus played in Game 1 of the NLCS on Yom Kippur. I was really disappointed with his choice, and it turned out that his participation wasn't even necessary because the Astros lost anyway. (I didn't watch--I only found later, after I returned from shul.) In stark contrast was the historic decision of Dodger lefty Sandy Koufax not to pitch in Game 1 of the 1965 World Series (and thus a more important game than the one in which Ausmus did participate). Koufax fasted, went to shul, and became an inspiration to an entire generation of young Jewish sports enthusiasts. And this traditionalism continues even today: this year Washington Capitals' captain Jeff Halpern declined to play in the game scheduled on October 12.

Now, I don't really think G-d punished the Astros for Ausmus's poor choice. I guess a World Series title just wasn't in the Jewish stars of the Lone Star State.

crash moments

Racism is man's gravest threat to man--the maximum of hatred for a minimum of reason.
-Abraham Joshua Heschel

The 2004 movie Crash (one of the few that I managed to see this year--I am notoriously television and film averse) introduced into the popular lexicon the phrase "crash moment," a situation in which a person feels discriminated against on the basis of race or ethnicity. The film, written and directed by Paul Haggis, deals with racial and social tensions in Los Angeles, and the term it spawned gained special notoriety during Oprah-gate. I highly recommend the movie, mostly because it features Don Cheadle. Yum.

I have been thinking about racism quite a bit lately, living here in D.C. I wouldn't say that I have had "crash moments" per se, but I have of late been more aware of the color of my skin, for a variety of reasons. One of those is the fact that dogooderlawyer's roommate is black. Last week, entering their building, I was told by one of the security guards about the arrival of a package for the apartment. She gave me the name. "That's me," I joked. "Don't I look like a tall, athletic black man?" They both just stared at me. Then I tried to wheedle. "I know what's inside, because it's for me. It's season two of Chappelle's Show!" More staring. Dogooderlawyer and his roommate are obsessed with this sketch comedy series and were horrified to discover that I had never even heard of it (see above, re: television aversion). The standard greeting around the apartment is, "I'm Rick James, bitch!"

My thought process started when my stolen car was recovered. (The full story on that forthcoming.) The policeman who reported my car as abandoned was a man called Carlos Escobar, and as he was on the scene when I arrived to claim my car, we chatted as I waited for a tow truck. I learned that Carlos is from Mexcio City, he visits his parents there occasionally, and in his career as an Abandoned Auto Investigator, he has developed some very particular habits concerning his car, which he was kind enough to pass along to me. For instance, whenever he puts something in his trunk, he then drives around the neighborhood for a while, as so to make anyone watching him think that he dropped off the items in the car. I told Carlos the story of the theft of my car, and his assessment was swift and decisive: "Your car, I think, was stolen by black people." I left our brief meeting still unclear as to how he arrived at this conclusion, but it colored all his other opinions. When I asked about pawn shops in the area in which to look for the jewelry that had been in the trunk, he averred that such a search would be a waste of time. "Those people," he claimed, "don't use pawn shops. Your things were probably sold on the street."

I volunteer for the Rape Crisis Center here in town, and last Saturday we had an all-day training session at Howard University Hospital, where the district's SANE program is based. Howard University is historically black, as is its hospital (and as is the entire district, for that matter). So when I and two of my fellow volunteers walked through the entrance that morning and hesitated in the lobby, unsure of the classroom's location, a voice beckoned us from down the long corridor. "Come on this way. I know what you're looking for. Room 3800, right?" We hadn't asked directions of anyone; I take from this experience that the hospital doesn't get much white traffic, and as volunteers, we are warned of as much. During role plays that afternoon, I was confronted by a victim, as black woman, who was angry at having to deal with first a white cop, then a white nurse, then me, a white advocate. I can't say I would have blamed her.

shellfish city

Silent, grim, colossal, the Big City has ever stood against its revilers. They call it hard as iron; they say that nothing of pity beats in its bosom; they compare its streets with lonely forests and deserts of lava. But beneath the hard crust of the lobster is found a delectable and luscious food. Perhaps a different simile would have been wiser. Still, nobody should take offence. We would call nobody a lobster with good and sufficient claws.
-O. Henry

As promised, I must continue to regale you with further stories from the subway! The next stranger I had occasion to observe was actually a Hasidic couple--at least, I think they were a couple. Their relationship was unclear, but it was certainly unlike anything I have remarked.

I first encountered the ultra-Orthodox in Jerusalem two summers ago. (Of course, the Haredim, as they are known, in Jerusalem are different from the Hasids in Brooklyn, but both sects have some of the same customs and deportments. Plus, both are so many worlds away from mine as to be almost indistinguishable.) In Israel, there are tensions among secular and religious Jews on the one hand and the ultra-Orthodox sects on the other. The latter are exempted from the compulsory military service that the rest of the country faces and also receive considerable government subsidies because ultra-Orthodox men eschew work in favor of constant Torah study. In addition, some refuse to recognize the authority of the Israeli government (because it heads a secular Jewish state), and in 1948, during the War of Independence, many members had to be forcibly restrained from taking up arms with the Arabs against their fellow Jews. Most also do not speak Hebrew except in prayer, refusing to profane by everyday use what they consider to be a holy language. Also, they're more likely to jaywalk. No, seriously.

One afternoon, I got off a bus in the New City in Jerusalem with my friend kepha and decided to take a different route to the Old City. Shortly afterwards, we found ourselves in Mea She'arim, one of the most well-known ultra-Orthodox neighborhoods in the city. The name means "one hundred gates" and comes from the biblical passage, "Isaac sowed in that land and reaped in the same year a hundredfold" (Genesis 26:12). Two blocks over, young secular Israeli women wear so little as to leave nothing to the imagination, but in this neighborhood, a sign urges a high level of decency. I had on a skirt that barely grazed my knees and short-sleeved shirt, and all the men who passed averted their eyes; but this kind of behavior is de rigueur for every Orthodox man when faced with any woman who is not his wife. I realized I was in a whole other world, however, when I was refused service and asked to leave the bakery that kepha and I stopped at for a snack.

Okay, reeling myself in after my digression: back to the Hasidic pair, a man and a woman, on the subway platform. Both were dressed traditionally, the man in a black suit and Borsalino hat, bearded and with peyot (long, curly sideburns); the woman in an ankle-length skirt and long sleeved shirt. What caught my attention--after the fact that the man actually locked eyes with me and didn't look away--was the rapport between the two. Speaking in Yiddish, they seemed to be actually exchanging ideas, and their body language bespoke a comfort and a familiarity not usually seen in public between a Hasidic couple. He stood so close to her that his shoe was in between hers, and at several points, he brushed up against her with his arm. In short, they actually seemed to like each other.

And if they were married (which it seems they must have been to have been interacting in such a way), it was unusual that they had no children along. Family is a huge priority, and kids almost always accompany their mothers. If they weren't married, then they were violating all kinds of rules of decorum. I say, more power to them!