Havdalah.

The conclusion of the Sabbath is marked by a short and powerful ritual called Havdala. A goblet is filled to the rim with Kosher wine and a three weaved candle is lit. there is also a cloved spice box, that is sniffed to instill the sabbath spirit which will carry itself through into the new week. The prayer recited speaks of the importance of separation between the holy and mundane,between the Sabbath and the rest of the week. The ceremony is short or as long as one would want to make it. It is deep. I have only touched the surface of it and there is so much that I do not know nor fully understand. What I do know is that there is a surge of energy that I feel upon completing this ritual. I feel ready to tackle the new week with a sense of strength and purpose. It is grounding and life giving, and it is very ancient.

Alijah

I was born a Kabalist, or so I thought, in that far north jewel called Safad. I was born a twin in what was the last vestige of a Turkish hospital. As a child I had visions of the prophet alijah on his yearly Passover pilgrimages. He always stopped to rest on my bed. I remember him sitting there with his long white beard tumbling down to the floor. He looked tired and weary from his long journey, but his warmth was always a great comfort to me, even though at times he looked scary. But a Kabalist, I am not, and the visions of Alijah have long gone. But here in this rather forlorn place, where history is more pronounced than the present, I find myself once again reflecting and wondering about those mysteries of the past, which have never left me.

The Almighty One!

They gave me a badge and a security code so that I can inter the IT monster. Im teaching an advanced English conversation course there. I walk in with practiced confidence, a prayer under my lip, and a loose tie. My students are checking me out, wondering where has this strange fish been caught. The young polish women with thin brown pressed hair offers a forced smile. I wonder how I can make her like me. But Ive learned that this is a lost cause, and in the end I am only accountable to the one who made me and lead me to this place. Fear sets in. I am the child of an almighty and great G-d. I am a worrier. I fell off a horse, but got back on again.

Saba Zell

I saw my Grandfather the other day. He stood on the tram platform smoozing with some people. He even had the white thin mustache that pressed tightly against his upper lip. It looked like he was headed for another journey, only this time he was traveling light. He had a small black leather bag and an umbrella, and that was it. For a moment I thought he was there for me. His warmth of presence entered my heart, something so familiar and yet so far away. I had almost forgotten that feeling, and wondered how would it be to really see him again. But, he was on his own journey this time, to G-d knows where, and he was merely passing through, just to let me know that everything is going to be ok, that I am not alone here, and that he will be around.

Older men in cafes.

What is it about older men in cafes, sitting about, shmoozing, a pat on the back of a friend, a laugh,a smirk. Ive noticed them gather here, especially in the evening just after closing time. You see them in the dated restaurants, with the still left over communist wallpaper. They sit there over a draft beer and smooze for hours. I got thinking that this is something we are missing in the States. yes, we have our star-bucks and our convenient Dennys, We even have some local cafes; we call them neighborhood cafes. But whats missing is the tradition as well as the pass time of merely taking time to be with others, and doing it without an agenda, or an appointment,or something other that needs attention. We lost the ability to just sit and relax and have a Goddamn beer!

Fish.

There is something about Fish. I know Im in the old country, the home of my ancestors; the call towards an older way. It manifests in small ways, like A brief and subtle feeling of familiarity, A corner that speaks to you, A building that pulls you, an old man that draws you in, and fish. I have had A craving for fish here like no other time or place in my life. It's like the old digestive ghost of the past is creeping up on me. And the fish is good here; Its one of the first words I learned to say; Rybi or Rybu, they seem to understand regardless. And can you guess what I am having for dinner tonight?

Salsa in Ostrava.

I am an avid Salsa dancer. You might even say I am addicted to Salsa dancing. I am challenged here, as there is A very small Salsa scene. Temple bar on saturday night is the place for Salsa here. From 6pm to 9pm there is A small group of salseros there, dancing away the Salsa beat. This place for me is what A rosary is to A catholic; its really A life saver for me. I am determined to find A way to continue my Salsa practice. One idea is to teach, which I have minimal experience with, but I see this as an opportunity and as way of reviving the Salsa scene here in Ostrava, as well as nourishing my Salsa hunger.

A Smokers paradise

Smokers are kings here as well as Queens. Ive already accepted the fact that second hand smoke is part of the routine. There simply no way of avoiding it, and even worse seeing children exposed. I often think how much of A setback it is, that A society needs to smoke so much. It cuts life and it hinders stamina. Smoking in moderation is another story, and here that story has still A long way to play itself out.

Mohl Bych Dostat!

There is A secret to traveling in strange lands; learn A phrase that will work in almost any give situation, and from that branch out onto new words or phrases. Mohl Bych Dostat means "I would like" in A polite and warm manner. Its amazing how people respond when they here me say it; its like some new life entered their bones and they smile with glee.

The day before Yom Kippur in Ostrava.

The memorial for the Jews killed in the hands of the Nazis lies in the middle of A small park. The sculpted dark menorah is bleak and lifeless, melting into the abstract formless granite base. I saw an old man walking his dog there. what did he know? Did he even care? I walked on, over A bridge toward the town center. There is A women who smiles at me every time I walk past her office. I walk in. We talk. She tells me she love to dance Salsa. We agree to meet sometime, somewhere. I walk on into the center. The Cathedral is very large. I pass it and walk on toward the town center. The money changers are not kind here; thats too bad. I would rather change my money with A smile.

Ostrava.

Sometimes The Wondering Jewish Dreamer is full of surprises. He lands in places long forgotten by the darkness of past wars, and the seemingly predicable short memories of short lived nations. He feels he has reason to come back to these places as A kind of pilgrimage to A forgotten people. He honors them merely by coming back, saying A prayer in there memory, brushing off old cigarettes from their memorials and walking past their graves. And yet, A few remained and there is A kind of life here for the living, as well as for the stranger of A great and living nation. Amen!