July 31, 2006
Beyond Hayfa
Along t the northern coast of Israel, just south of the Lebanon border, sits the gulf of Hayfa. The gulf, which is quite small compared to what most Americans might think of as a gulf, is the second most densly populated region in Israel. The best town to compare it with in the United states would be Seattle, if it ever decided to rain in Hayfa.
The town too which the gulf gets its name—Hebrew for Beautiful Beach--surrounds the bay at the base of the gulf. There is a steep slope that rises up into the high elevations that run parallel along the Israeli coast.
Most famous of these high elevations is Mt. Carmel. This town has biblical significance, the place where Elijah the prophet brought fire down onto those who fought to worship the ancient idol god named Baal. From atop the mountain, there is a stunning view of the cosmopolitan city that crawls up to meet the eastern Mediterranean Sea. At what is believed to be the cave where the prophet lived. In the 12th century, a group of Christian hermits moved to the top of Mt. Carmel, the group eventually growing into what today is the Carmalite order of monks and nuns.
From atop the mountain, the two major economic machines that drive Hayfa are clear. In the bay, there is the giant oil refinery, that cranks out 66,000,000 barrels of crude per year. The bay is also lined with petro chemical plants. The second industry is technology, with Microsoft, Intel, Philips and IBM all staking claim in Hayfa. There modern buildings rise above the arid dry rooftops of regular businesses and apartment complexes. Technology and fuel have helped make Hayfa a technologically advanced town for the Middle East,the tlass front office towers intersected with newly paved blacktop roads. Transportation is fairly advanced, Hayfa having an accessible train and bus system. In fact, it is the only town in Israel that runs public transit during the Sabbath.
In the summer of 2000, I traveled north of the ancient Roman aquaducts just north of Tel Avive, a technical wonder in their day, and followed the road up to Caiphus, the christian name given to Hayfa. What impressed me the most about the town was the overwhelming feeling of acceptance the town had toward other faiths. Hayfa, in its long history, has seen cultures come and go. It is the home of the Bahai World center, with the Shrine of Bab, where it's founder was buried, and an impressive garden that the Bahai faith constructed as its gift to humanity. The garden can be seen from the top of Mt. Carmel, stepping its way down the mountain in its elaborate series of terraces.
the Bahai faith is most known for taking important traits of the world’s great spiritual leaders--their finer points, if you will--and fusing them into a spirituality that promotes peace and tolerance. It's a fitting place for this faith, Hayfa seeming much more tolerant than the other parts of Israel I visited that summer.
Most of Israel felt as though it would break under the pressure between Israeli Jews and Palistinians. Whenever an Israeli jeep would ride through the christian quarter of Jerusalem, where I had stayed for a while, the streets cleared out like something from an old western film, when the sheriff and bandit would step out of the saloon and onto the dusty road for a duel.
Hayfa, somehow, had spared this tension. As the hostilities began to rise, just as we were leaving Israel, Hayfa seemed more concerned about carrying on with its corporate interests.
On July 13, Lebanon began to fire rockets into northern Israel. Israel responded with its own military force, greatly escalating the conflict. There was a breathless sigh of despair as I watched rockets fly into downtown Hayfa. There was, amidst the sea of bombings after my return from Israel, a seed of hope for the Middle east. Hayfa represented this hope with its focus not on religious or ethnic differences.
It should be said that Israel operates a sort of "separate but equal" mentality on existing with Moslems. there is, I believe, room for Israel to move closer to a true Democracy than they might paint themselves to be. Yet, even in their separate but equal age, Hayfa had hope. Though I feel that it's hope might not last for too long. On July 16th, the monks of Mt. Carmel celebrated their feast day. I can imagine that the sounds of their bells rang with great tribulation, rather than celebration, against the screaming sound of the air raid sirens.
July 27, 2006
The world IS flat!
there's a place where the earth meets the sea, where the high western ridge of Long Island falls into the shimmering reflected lights that shine onto the water's edge. It's there, where the world seems to en, that a New Yorker feels as though it indeed has.
In the evening, when the sun has set over the Port of Bayonne and the twilight pines its last glimmer, the distant horizon becomes blacker than black. Not even the constant allumination of the city pierces the void of a starless night over the Atlantic. It is the lights of the Verizano-Narrows bridge that fill their absence as it climbs from these banks to Staten Island.
Originally, this western ridge of New Amsterdam was called Yellow Hook, named after the yellowish earth that lay beneath its wooded banks. Though after the spread of Yellow Fever in 1849, the Dutch ancestry that had cultivated cabbage and potatoes along this ridge for 150 years abandoned their homes, taking with them the name that had brought bad favor to such a fatal disease.
The small enclave of farmers in what was the Village of New Utrecht, gave way to a new expanse of immigrants settleing in old Brooklyn and New York. Before long, what was now known as Bay Ridge, was swallowed up by the larger New York, just as the Atlantic sky swallows up the sea at the end of the day.
It was Giovanni Verrezanno who first explored this shore while sailing under a French flag in 1524. I often wonder that if his Italian counter part, Christopher Columbus, had been born in these lands, might he have peered off into the horizon and wondered if the world did end beyond these shores? Indeed, it’s easy to think that as you step from the R-line of the New York City subway, after the conductor announces that you’ve arrived at 96th Street, the end of the line.
“!All passengers must now leave. This train is going out of service!”
The other night I ventured to bay Ridge with LK for the first time. I had been there before for matters of a quick visit. But I had not explored the reaches on this southern end of Brooklyn, much like verrezano might have explored it in his day. For those visiting New York, with time to spare and a desire not to be caught up in the stampede of tourists, I would recommend taking the R-train to its final resting place in Brooklyn.
On a hot summer day, the breeze is cool from the Atlantic, and the air is heavy with the sweet flavor of salt and the sea. The path along Shore ave. offers an impressive view of the verrezano Straight, and in the winter a clear view into Hudson bay. I had discovered that there is a museum at Ft. Hamilton, which is under the verrezano-Narrows Bridge on the protection of the harbor. And the turn of last century homes offer a different feel from the more stoic brownstones of Brooklyn and the city.
In all this, there is a greater sense of adventure, of exploration, as one peers through the arches of the mighty suspension cables and looks into the darkness that called so many explorers to sea. It’s easy to live in New York and forget about the ocean. I had gone to Coney Island one afternoon, to pass the time walking along the boardwalk, when a visitor came up to me and asked what the body of water was at the beaches end.
“The Atlantic,” I said.
“You mean we’re on the Atlantic Ocean?”
“Yeh, we sure are,” I replied.
His voice was rural Americana, perhaps from the plains or the Ozarks. It dawned on me that most people come to New York and never even see the ocean. The bay they’ll see, heading on the Ferry to get a glimpse of Lady Liberty or the bridges up the east River. But the harbor does little to show the vast expanse of land on the other side of Brooklyn and Staten Island.
For myself, I’ve always needed to be by the sea. It’s calming, especially when the craze and haze of the city tries to press down on you, tries to hold you down amidst its busy hours and seasons. I think that’s why Brooklyn appeals to me so much, why I chose to move to this part of the country. There is an energy that burns like a super conductor, and yet for a $2 subway fare, you can peer out into the void and see the same sky as the native Americans did when they came to where the land would go no further.
In the evening, when the sun has set over the Port of Bayonne and the twilight pines its last glimmer, the distant horizon becomes blacker than black. Not even the constant allumination of the city pierces the void of a starless night over the Atlantic. It is the lights of the Verizano-Narrows bridge that fill their absence as it climbs from these banks to Staten Island.
Originally, this western ridge of New Amsterdam was called Yellow Hook, named after the yellowish earth that lay beneath its wooded banks. Though after the spread of Yellow Fever in 1849, the Dutch ancestry that had cultivated cabbage and potatoes along this ridge for 150 years abandoned their homes, taking with them the name that had brought bad favor to such a fatal disease.
The small enclave of farmers in what was the Village of New Utrecht, gave way to a new expanse of immigrants settleing in old Brooklyn and New York. Before long, what was now known as Bay Ridge, was swallowed up by the larger New York, just as the Atlantic sky swallows up the sea at the end of the day.
It was Giovanni Verrezanno who first explored this shore while sailing under a French flag in 1524. I often wonder that if his Italian counter part, Christopher Columbus, had been born in these lands, might he have peered off into the horizon and wondered if the world did end beyond these shores? Indeed, it’s easy to think that as you step from the R-line of the New York City subway, after the conductor announces that you’ve arrived at 96th Street, the end of the line.
“!All passengers must now leave. This train is going out of service!”
The other night I ventured to bay Ridge with LK for the first time. I had been there before for matters of a quick visit. But I had not explored the reaches on this southern end of Brooklyn, much like verrezano might have explored it in his day. For those visiting New York, with time to spare and a desire not to be caught up in the stampede of tourists, I would recommend taking the R-train to its final resting place in Brooklyn.
On a hot summer day, the breeze is cool from the Atlantic, and the air is heavy with the sweet flavor of salt and the sea. The path along Shore ave. offers an impressive view of the verrezano Straight, and in the winter a clear view into Hudson bay. I had discovered that there is a museum at Ft. Hamilton, which is under the verrezano-Narrows Bridge on the protection of the harbor. And the turn of last century homes offer a different feel from the more stoic brownstones of Brooklyn and the city.
In all this, there is a greater sense of adventure, of exploration, as one peers through the arches of the mighty suspension cables and looks into the darkness that called so many explorers to sea. It’s easy to live in New York and forget about the ocean. I had gone to Coney Island one afternoon, to pass the time walking along the boardwalk, when a visitor came up to me and asked what the body of water was at the beaches end.
“The Atlantic,” I said.
“You mean we’re on the Atlantic Ocean?”
“Yeh, we sure are,” I replied.
His voice was rural Americana, perhaps from the plains or the Ozarks. It dawned on me that most people come to New York and never even see the ocean. The bay they’ll see, heading on the Ferry to get a glimpse of Lady Liberty or the bridges up the east River. But the harbor does little to show the vast expanse of land on the other side of Brooklyn and Staten Island.
For myself, I’ve always needed to be by the sea. It’s calming, especially when the craze and haze of the city tries to press down on you, tries to hold you down amidst its busy hours and seasons. I think that’s why Brooklyn appeals to me so much, why I chose to move to this part of the country. There is an energy that burns like a super conductor, and yet for a $2 subway fare, you can peer out into the void and see the same sky as the native Americans did when they came to where the land would go no further.
July 25, 2006
She's got a ticket to ride
I always heard growing up that Elephants never forget. I also heard that you never forget how to ride a bike. I use to think both of these were true, until I went totally blind for eight years and then regained a little sight.
It was early summer, 1996, and I was living in Athens, GA, in an old Victorian house on Brittain ave., just off of Lumpkin near the practice fields. for those who know Athens, you'll know the practice fields well, where the red Coat Marching Band rehearses, and where you get a lovely view of the athletic Center offices, in the (yes, it's a real name) Butts-Mere building.
The town was alive that summer, gearing up for the '96 Olympic Games. Soccer, Gymnastics and a few other sporting events were to be held in athens on the University of Georgia campus. Brittain Ave. was even more alive, as doctor's were able to restore some of the sight in my left eye, allowing me to see after eight years of being blind.
The trees were greener than green, the sky was more blue than blue, and I was a jolly lad learning how to see again. Yes, you actually have to learn how to see again after eight years.
After I stopped running into things (well, I still run into things, but for different reasons) I gained enough confidence to do something I had wanted to do in more than eight years.
I headed down to Dixon's bike shop on washington Street, right across from the 40-watt club. I wasn't sure where to even begin. when I lost my vision, it was all about the BMX bike or the ten speed. But now, there were all these new bikes, fancy bikes, bikes with weird names and levers that did things for extreme bikers. I just wanted to ride to stevarino’s for pizza and beer.
I opted for what I knew, I bought a basic bike worthy of taking out on the trails, but not mountains. I still had no depth perception, and thought mountains would be a bad idea to start riding around, or off of for that fact. Nervous, with all the speeding cars racing down Lumpkin Street, I pushed my new bike down the hill and up again to my home on the other side of town.
Upon getting back to the house, I realized something that played a major part in the events to come. I should have tested my own abilities before purchasing my new toy. I had, indeed, forgotten how to ride a bike I lifted up on the pedals, and within two meters was laid out across the pavement. I tried again, and again I fell. The whole process seemed alien, not right. No matter how many times I tried to ride, the speed at which the world moved toward me was so disorienting, that I would become overtaken with anxiety, cry like a little cub scout who accidentally lit his pine car on fire, and dig my head into the dirt as my room mates laughed at my failed attempts.
Needless to say, my days of riding a bike were over. It wasn't until the past week, however, that my interest in learning to ride had resurfaced, some ten years later.
It's blue, a cool ocean blue, with chrome handlebars and black chrome fenders. The tires are white walls, like an old thunderbird, and it has a bell that rivals any bell in the south Slope.
LK ordered it several months ago. Yes, it’s a sore subject. It finally came, though not with all the parts. When the parts came, there were no instructions, in fact I think the parts were for another bike. Anyways, like good adventurers, we succeeded in putting it together. And for the first time in I don’t know how long, I heard the sound of total joy. Not just any joy, but the joy like a child has on Christmas morning when the living room lights turn on and aluminate all the shadows around the Christmas tree.
To say the least, I’m very happy that the bike is finally up and running. And, if I’m lucky, maybe someone will give me a ride, if not let me try it out (in a big field, of course). Old elephant’s never forget. Though I’ve yet to see one ride a bike.
For what it’s worth, the bike I had bought was donated to a camp. Yes, a camp for blind children off the Georgia coast. Don’t worry though. They have lots of big fields and soft sand for buffering falls.
“Was that a speed bump?”
“Nope, just a gator…Keep riding. For the love of God, just keep riding.”
It was early summer, 1996, and I was living in Athens, GA, in an old Victorian house on Brittain ave., just off of Lumpkin near the practice fields. for those who know Athens, you'll know the practice fields well, where the red Coat Marching Band rehearses, and where you get a lovely view of the athletic Center offices, in the (yes, it's a real name) Butts-Mere building.
The town was alive that summer, gearing up for the '96 Olympic Games. Soccer, Gymnastics and a few other sporting events were to be held in athens on the University of Georgia campus. Brittain Ave. was even more alive, as doctor's were able to restore some of the sight in my left eye, allowing me to see after eight years of being blind.
The trees were greener than green, the sky was more blue than blue, and I was a jolly lad learning how to see again. Yes, you actually have to learn how to see again after eight years.
After I stopped running into things (well, I still run into things, but for different reasons) I gained enough confidence to do something I had wanted to do in more than eight years.
I headed down to Dixon's bike shop on washington Street, right across from the 40-watt club. I wasn't sure where to even begin. when I lost my vision, it was all about the BMX bike or the ten speed. But now, there were all these new bikes, fancy bikes, bikes with weird names and levers that did things for extreme bikers. I just wanted to ride to stevarino’s for pizza and beer.
I opted for what I knew, I bought a basic bike worthy of taking out on the trails, but not mountains. I still had no depth perception, and thought mountains would be a bad idea to start riding around, or off of for that fact. Nervous, with all the speeding cars racing down Lumpkin Street, I pushed my new bike down the hill and up again to my home on the other side of town.
Upon getting back to the house, I realized something that played a major part in the events to come. I should have tested my own abilities before purchasing my new toy. I had, indeed, forgotten how to ride a bike I lifted up on the pedals, and within two meters was laid out across the pavement. I tried again, and again I fell. The whole process seemed alien, not right. No matter how many times I tried to ride, the speed at which the world moved toward me was so disorienting, that I would become overtaken with anxiety, cry like a little cub scout who accidentally lit his pine car on fire, and dig my head into the dirt as my room mates laughed at my failed attempts.
Needless to say, my days of riding a bike were over. It wasn't until the past week, however, that my interest in learning to ride had resurfaced, some ten years later.
It's blue, a cool ocean blue, with chrome handlebars and black chrome fenders. The tires are white walls, like an old thunderbird, and it has a bell that rivals any bell in the south Slope.
LK ordered it several months ago. Yes, it’s a sore subject. It finally came, though not with all the parts. When the parts came, there were no instructions, in fact I think the parts were for another bike. Anyways, like good adventurers, we succeeded in putting it together. And for the first time in I don’t know how long, I heard the sound of total joy. Not just any joy, but the joy like a child has on Christmas morning when the living room lights turn on and aluminate all the shadows around the Christmas tree.
To say the least, I’m very happy that the bike is finally up and running. And, if I’m lucky, maybe someone will give me a ride, if not let me try it out (in a big field, of course). Old elephant’s never forget. Though I’ve yet to see one ride a bike.
For what it’s worth, the bike I had bought was donated to a camp. Yes, a camp for blind children off the Georgia coast. Don’t worry though. They have lots of big fields and soft sand for buffering falls.
“Was that a speed bump?”
“Nope, just a gator…Keep riding. For the love of God, just keep riding.”
Rusted '76 Dodge Charger
Right now in my head, I'm hearing the sounds of an old '76 dodge Charger struggling to keep from cutting out. It's that sort of sputtering sound when the spark plugs won't live up to their name, and all you get is a sort of studdering mule sound.
Lately, however, I think this blog thing will finally start taking off. Two main reasons there. The first is that I've been so busy this half past a year working on the book--you know, one of those things that people read when there's no Internet around--and have been so focused on writing, and now rewriting, that I've had little interest in writing anything else after banging my head against my Mac all day long. Though, I'm planning on finishing the second rewrite later this week; well, in the next week at least. so, I'm feeling that there is finally some time to add to this. In fact, it will be nice to write something other than the same seventeen chapters of a memoir over and over again.
The second reason for wanting to write more on this thing is that it seems I'm not the only one here. After LK linked this blog to her own, there seems to be finger prints along these cyber shelves.
For those who have visited, or I should say to those who now visit, a very hardy salutation and cheers. Hopefully, this blog will be worthy of your revisit.
Cheers,
Anthony
Lately, however, I think this blog thing will finally start taking off. Two main reasons there. The first is that I've been so busy this half past a year working on the book--you know, one of those things that people read when there's no Internet around--and have been so focused on writing, and now rewriting, that I've had little interest in writing anything else after banging my head against my Mac all day long. Though, I'm planning on finishing the second rewrite later this week; well, in the next week at least. so, I'm feeling that there is finally some time to add to this. In fact, it will be nice to write something other than the same seventeen chapters of a memoir over and over again.
The second reason for wanting to write more on this thing is that it seems I'm not the only one here. After LK linked this blog to her own, there seems to be finger prints along these cyber shelves.
For those who have visited, or I should say to those who now visit, a very hardy salutation and cheers. Hopefully, this blog will be worthy of your revisit.
Cheers,
Anthony
