Rebbe on the Road Europe 2008 Part One: Hard”ship”

Radical awe is my favorite companion in life. Via cruise, we’ve just spent a day each in Rome and

Barcelona, cities where the tipping points of civilizations yield magnificent markers of art, literature and architecture. Time’s airbrushed streets of Barcelona’s former Jewish ghetto reveals the curved stone channels through which Sephardic Jewish culture once flowed, today, a dense bar, travel token, and restaurant quarter mostly graffitized with tales of many nights recent reveling. We pause at building #4 on a certain street our guide book says was the home of medieval rabbi. There I hear his daughter’s anguished deferential whisper, “But father, if I marry the son of the trader Aurore, he is to be posted to establish a business outpost in

Alexandria. Once our ship sails I am likely never to see you and Mama, nor any in our household again! No Papa, not a fabric merchant, please, Papa, I’d rather a poor scholar, please Papa, don’t send me away.”

Did you ever notice the word ship in the term hardship before? I hadn’t until thinking about this mythical bit of herstory.

Two days before, at the Empire Palace Hotel [we recommend it] lobby I was sitting amongst businessmen whose conference badges identified them as from

Lake

Como in

Northern Italy. I noted they were passing a newspaper cartoon amongst themselves and from their ages (60’s), chanced they are old enough to have learned French when it was the international language. In my moderately decent French I inquired: “What’s so funny?” explaining: “My father and I share a love of cartoons.” A maximally dapper fellow replied:

 “You see the rich repast set on the table in this building? We know it to be a special-invitation spot in the

Vatican. Here, the Church is once again becoming a force with which to reckon. The business community is depicted as young boys holding their favorite toys [a Boeing aircraft, a building with the name of a major hotel chair atop it, etc.] also with fine laptop cases preening at the attention they are receiving from this Prelate with a um, bump, under his gown. They are foolishly thinking their reception a great honor….the cartoonist implies they will shortly find themselves….uh…you know.”

“How will this affect you?” I inquire.

 “We shall see,” he replies, “Power works both ways; without a convenient plague to exploit, they have no upper hand.” His companions snigger.

“But the down turn in the economy may suffice…” I point out the obvious. He bows slightly in acknowledgement of the other option. My French wasn’t good enough to capture the last bit of phrasing, so they broke his rejoinder down for me in very fragmented English. I believe he said: “Then we will manufacture crosses and build churches, and design and build germ resistant environments and new pharmaceuticals, our conglomerate is perched to prevail.” His comrades guffaw in a cartoonesque gluttonous glee.

Before leaving the States, we had set aside the newly available fax-it-in opportunity for a group audience with the pope, and similarly available private

Vatican tours given by monks. Old soul sparks within me want to lurch for this Pope’s throat raging that he has disavowed the overdue, hard-won writ of his predecessor that granted Jews as whole in our own faith. Those old souls within are beyond fear, they want to tear at the patterns of time and demand genetic recoding to prevent the emergence of religious triumphalism – or without it, would something worse have appeared? Perhaps it has - capitalism, or an equal or interim evil? How can one know? In the Trevi Fountain, we learn in the newspaper, this very day there floated a model Alitalia plane thrust in by the union members enraged at the proposed purchase of the line by Air

France. Leftist parties are out in booths everywhere and posters of huge heads of those running for office posed to look more trustworthy than avaricious are omnipresent.

Not so long ago it was more convenient to have learned conversational French, and so recently was English the standard that I can see the words in the air between us all. German is the more useful second international language now. Germans I’ve met traveling are learning Chinese, so it seems civilizations’ tipping points are flying this way and that.

I’m reading a Michael Crichton novel that opens with some science journal précis regarding quantum theory and multiverses, speculation that  there really is no time and according to the theory it seems, no such thing as time travel – no before, not after, only nows, each slightly and increasingly variant. I want to call Jeff Bub, Barry’s cousin in DC who is a philosopher of science to find out more……might the Noah’s ark verses in Torah be metaphoric residue of memory of some ancient black hole moment? Intentional? Accidental? The Jewish practice of yirah writ large, radical “awesome fearsomeness” of It All shivers through.

Speaking of awesome/fearsomeness, as happens in families, ours had two Jeff Bubs. Last week, one of my husband’s four brothers, one of the Jeff Bubs, died in his early sixties, all-too-young of a virulent lung cancer. I think we saw Jeff and his very quiet wife Sheila in person three or four times since our marriage a decade ago, their life together split part-time in

Cape Town, South Africa and part-time in

Los Angeles. Several things struck me about this strident man, in particular his generosity. In South Africa, even on Shabbat in an Orthodox synagogue, it is customary to stipulate by amount a “natan” a financial donation to the synagogue when called up to witness the reading of Torah [scripture] at a service. He always gave a natan, a generous one. He did well, and he gave well. For those who, as we, would like to honor his memory in the traditional way, here is the link to how to make a credit card donation to a very worthy local charity in

Cape Town, the Highlands House: http://www.chaisouthafrica.com/about.html. Sadly, many who emigrate leave parents to this institution and “forget” to pay their bills not long later. Why should the elderly suffer the sins of their children, when we can be an invisible family of preference, who cares and acts?

My personal life motto is “all things change. I know for Barry, it also felt a false thing to do, to make plans to attend the burial of someone where the relationship had not been a close one. Barry, as is his way, found another route to authenticity. Rather than surface too late, he sought his brother out on Skype, and through the sometimes miracle of trauma, found Jeff ready to meet him for perhaps a minyan of heart-felt and healing talks over the last months of his life. The remaining State-side brothers, we trusted, and did, do the traditional right thing, fly down to

Cape Town in the final days of the brother’s life to ease the healthcare, say good-bye and to ensure his mother would feel fortified with caring presence.

Within the week in which Jeff, z”l died, a mandatory Medicaid sale of my father’s house so long on the market resulted in my having to finish dash between legal authorities to deal, a property on which we’d placed an offer was accepted, inspected and a mortgage had to be finessed and packing at least half finished to meet the timing of settlement upon our return from my obligation as a Passover cruise rabbi in Europe. Of course, right then,  the final publisher’s edits (several hundred) on the last volume of my Reclaiming Judaism trilogy arrived with a few days deadline to review and advise, and I was finishing a major remake of the ReclaimingJudaism.org website timed to June release of Living Jewish Life Cycle, and of course, our taxes returns were due. We had, as had long been scheduled my clergy students from the nearby Buddhist seminary and a faculty member coming for a traditional Lithuanian Shabbos dinner in this same interval. Barry cooked  5 courses himself while preparing to teach a three hour seminar that represented a major professional breakthrough he’d been working toward for close to a decade.

I, the usual rock in times of distress, found myself startling easily and severely exhausted. If no one will fall dreadfully ill or die on the ship, this gig feels like a potential G*d-send, a tether in time, my G*d sense told me to reach for it and not let go. I persisted when Barry, feeling quite anxious and acting deeply depressed, resisted. He wanted to stay in his nest at our apartment, to cancel the trip and cancel the condo purchase, his message to me “Just stop the stress, I have to get off.”

But we’re here and settling into a rhythm of three weeks aboard a ship full of round-the-world in 102 days passengers. For some this turns out to be a form of assisted living, one man is on his 60^th cruise, many are frail and all are the kind of quirky folks who are not about to miss a minute of the glory of creation.

Yesterday, in sunshine rather than the predicted spring rains, we walked the charming markets and quays of the medieval town

Antibes and then wandered a pre-festival

Cannes. We experienced the “zeh” and zest of carpe diem, versus ceasing the gift of life, knowing gratitude for this retreat, just in time.

 

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Curacao was heart-breaking. A world heritage site is located here that contains a room of a man named Jacob’s collection of biblical period and earlier artifacts is better known for its museum on the history of the slave trade on that island. Here individuals stolen from their villages in Africa spent two years being broken into slave-attitude, or killed or they committed suicide. The horrendous iron tools of the slavers are displayed, pens and housing, written policies and philosophical statements of slavers. Like at Yad VaShem, the Jewish holocaust memorial, I forced myself to stay present, to read, to learn more, to let hot tears of terror at what was and the knowledge this ability still lies within us, we who are inhumanity, let’s use our real group name, inhumanity.

You think I’m wrong? Read about the waves of complete mushuganosis that overtake human populations and lead us to acts of utter cruelty in every generation that the majority won’t act to stop until feeling threatened ourselves. Ashamnu, we who know as equally guilty….humanity is an organism on this planet, we can pull together…..to me that is messianic, not some dead Jew butchered by collusive men of power who people wish would come rescue us. We are it, it’s not toys are us folks, it’s G*d is us, not “him”, us…and beyond us in the fabric of all of creation. We’re potentially useful nodes that might be allowed to stick around by evolution if we stay differentiated and useful. Remember, when a species gets too specialized, it can’t survive. Watch Nova more often if that comes as a surprise. Diversity is a saving grace of creation, not unified beliefs, as some purport to be essential.

Curacao also has two synagogues, of course. One more orthodox, one more liberal. The latter has an impeccably preserved colonial temple which is still in use, the floor is sand covered, a few inches deep. The museum at this synagogue is fascinating because the lay/professional process of being in relationship pokes through the exhibits. For example, there is a tiny sterling silver and crystal hour glass that runs for exactly 20 minutes. It was commission for the president to use when the rabbi would start a sermon. Twenty-minutes, no more, fartig, as we say in Yiddish. Personally, I prefer 8 minute talks from those leading services, one point is enough to mull and that’s enough time to make one.

At this synagogue they also have ancient circumcision chairs of beautiful dark carved wood where the grandfather would sit with the child on his lap, high up enough for the mohel, the professional who excels at circumcision to kneel on a rung with his tools on a fitted tray and quickly perform the honors. (Jewish circumcision methods take under 1 minute 40 seconds, medical/surgical methods are done in the cold ambience of a med center and take much longer and are more traumatic.) The loving warmth of a grandfather or zandek (godfather’s) lap or these days in many community’s, that of the mother has to be infinitely wonderful as a memory being created for a child. When babies cry during Jewish circumcision (mine didn’t), by the way, it’s not cause it hurts (a local anesthetic I used) but cause, just as when you change their diaper and they protest, the air hits them and this is surprising. Medical circumcision, the kind done in hospitals involves the use of a tight clamp, which definitely triggers an infant reaction when one clamps you know where.

Another special stop was the moving bridge and floating market in St. Martin. Container ships come through the center of the town which is bifurcated by a channel. A pedestrian bridge connects the sides and when a ship is moving through, one instead takes a ferry. The pedestrian bridge has a motor so it can be steered back to the shore to allow ships to pass and you can stand on it while it’s moving, it’s fascinatingly smart. From

South America come tiny fishing vessels bearing fresh caught fish and veggies and they line up against a dock so locals can shop. The beaches here, while pretty, are plagued by crime, it was uncomfortable to have to keep watch on every little thing. Barry’s sunglasses were swiped when he set them down for seconds to change his t-shirt. Special here was seeing a really great mix of races as proprietors. Half the island is French, half Dutch.

Those who know me, know my first love (sorry Barry) is appel geboeck (a-pl kheh-bock), dutch apple cake. The best in the world we discovered here, topped with whipped cream, mitt shlag, of course. Note the utterly blissed out Goldie in the accompanying photo. [to be inserted]

The pride of place, language and culture we witnessed among residents of Puerto Rico resembled what I wish more Jewish people could recover. This sense of cultural pride was uniquely evident on the cruise ship we boarded for a week’s travels around the islands.  While I was serving as rabbi, there were few Jews with whom to celebrate the last days of Hanukkah, because of the 3000 aboard the ship, some 80% of paying voyagers were middle and upper class Puerto Ricans. When a band in a bar, or the dining room, or a walkway would play a Spanish folk song or popular Spanish love song, those eating or strolling simply, sweetly, and un-self-consciously, so far as I could tell, would burst out singing.  Oddly enough both in Puerto Rico and on the ship we rarely saw folks other than Caucasian Americans or the odd European smoking. And not once did anyone leave “sprinkle on the seat,” women, you know what I mean.

Paramount was the cultural norm of bringing one’s parents, children and grandchildren along for the cruise. There was little of the acting-out that American families with children often bring to a resort. There was dignity here. We were impressed. This cruise was one where the population took “formal nights” seriously. I wish you could have been there to watch the multi-generational family photographs being taken. Beauty radiated from each body present, the kind that is sometimes physical and also spiritual.

The ship itself, the meals, the cabin, the entertainment and the staff attention on Royal Caribbean were the best we’ve experienced anywhere. Definitely recommended.

There was even the improbable arrival of latkes and applesauce as we concluded services for Shabbat and the last two night of Hanukkah. The small batch of Jews who gathered from crew and passengers enjoyed a spate of English and one elder present was honored with turning the light bulbs each night in the candlebra, candles not being allowed due to fire hazard issues now prevalent in many public institutions. I taught on how each branch of the menorah corresponds in Kabbalah to a different quality in the Tree of Life practice known to ancient and contemporary Kabbablists. Not the new-agey stuff, rather the real material from Zohar and other traditional texts. This proved deep and meaningful for those present.

Puerto Ricans, we learned are typically genetic mixtures of Spanish conquerors and former black slaves or long ago present Taino natives and black former slaves. There’s some Christian imperialism warring, we noticed with efforts to embrace an earlier indigenous lineage among the youth. When one art museum tour guide spoke of how horrible it was that the local art had been burned during an insurrection action the government, it turned out she actually meant church art. When I asked about art by those who had been living there before the church took over, she looked briefly thoughtful and they responded, “Well, they must have been some primitive art before we brought civilizations here.” Other museums contained Taino art fragements/reconstructions.

What is Taino? Pre-Columbian indigenous inhabitants of the Bahamas, Greater Antilles, and the northern Lesser Antilles. It is believed that the seafaring Taínos were relatives of the Arawakan people of South America, how they came to Puerto Rico is under scholarly dispute. It is documented that their women were stolen for wives by warring Caribs for many centuries, and so were likely involuntarily added to the local genetic mix. The delightful musical instruments in a beautiful old mansion in Ponce, for example, does include instrument fragments attributed to Taino culture. Also a guitar that folds into a suitcase and soundscapes from room to room that teach the evolution of salsa. It was closed when we arrived, due to an air conditioning failure, but when we said we didn’t mind the young curator with a PhD in musicology took us through, picking up each instrument and playing it beautifully and with such soulful contact to our interest and the instruments capacity that we began to have tears of pure joy at the encounter.

On this huge cruise ship, recently known as the world’s largest, on many of the floors at various points in the day musicians play in combos. When one chose to play a Latin love song, everyone walking past spontaneously began to sing along in sweet, often rich voices. Soon perhaps 750 or 1000 people on that one floor of the ship were singing the song together. I wept, couldn’t help it. When the Dutch ship’s captain did his best to give daily welcomes in Spanish, they cheered. It wasn’t until later in the voyage when a mostly Spanish-speaking man from San Juan stopped me in the hall to thank me for trying to understand what he was saying at lunch, that it struck me how he wasn’t the first person to say that. So I asked him if other Caucasians on the ship were less friendly.” “They don’t want us on these ships.”  “The crew?” “No, they are mostly minorities too, the problem are the passengers.” (He showed me his meaning with a gesture towards the hoards passing by.) I told him I’d grown up in an anti-Semitic neighborhood and could relate. “Ah, but you could be quiet. Few Puerto Rican’s are quiet by nature, plus our color gives us away.” His humongous girth and hug almost erased me as he saw my tears for his words that I have heard in other cities and lands, and at home in Philadelphia. Even being quiet, the kids in my neighborhood had tried to crucify me after a priest preached that we killed their messiah. I didn’t both to explain that, just happy to have him and his six children, three grandchildren and wife as friends to touch base with during the trip.

Jews used to be considered people of color in North America. I once read a book about that. We come in quiet versions and all-too loud ones as well. The Puerto Ricans had a different relationship to body space than North Americans. They’d stand centimeters behind me chatting when I was playing ping pong, oblivious. Their boisterous enjoyment of it seemed most every minute of the day created a din that both enchanted and at times made us want to jump ship. With a strategic mass, my friend told me, they realized they could be themselves. How holy is that. Awesome.