The Tipping Point

 

To tip or not to tip? That is the question. And that is a subject that has occupied my thoughts inordinately for the last few days as the result of something that I witnessed with my own eyes.

Until recently OH and I regarded one of the restaurants in the nearby Arab village as a ‘home away from home,’ as it were. On returning from a trip abroad it was the easiest place to go to for a meal before we descended once more into the routine of shopping and cooking. If there was an occasion to celebrate, we would use the opportunity to eat there. The food was on the whole good, if uninspiring, and the service was generally efficient and friendly. We could pick up the phone and order a table for two, four or more, with the greatest of ease, and we were always greeted cordially upon arrival.

Last Saturday we repaired there for lunch after attending a concert in the nearby church. We were ushered to the table for six we had reserved and were ready to help our four grandchildren (and ourselves) order the main course, as meanwhile the table was bedecked with numerous small plates containing salads of various kinds, as is customary in this kind of restaurant.

It was a sunny day and the restaurant was full with diners—mainly families—enjoying the opportunity to eat out. We felt very much at ease. When the waiter came to take our orders he duly noted the various requests on a pad, and our wait began. That’s probably why they’re called ‘waiters.’ They make you wait.

After a very long wait, two servings arrived, and the recipients began to eat, expecting the rest of the party to receive their plates forthwith. This did not happen, however, and it took quite a while before another two portions were brought out. One more portion arrived, but one poor granddaughter was left without food while the rest of us tucked in. When the waiter did finally bring her order, most of the rest of us had already finished eating.

I know that it was a busy time and this is a family-oriented restaurant in an Arab village and not a repository of haute cuisine and the customs of fancy restaurants in town. Nonetheless, it has been customary even in family restaurants to serve all the people sitting at a table at more or less the same time. In fact, I even saw this happening at other tables in the restaurant while we were sitting there.

At this point OH told me that he was not going to give the waiter a tip. I did not take him seriously, so did not protest. However, when he settled the bill OH told the manager he had not been happy with the service, and strode out of the restaurant without another word/ The four grandchildren and I trailed out after him, but as I left ‘our’ waiter tapped me on the shoulder and said: “He’s forgotten me. He didn’t leave me a tip.”

Mortified, I tried to find some money in my purse, at which point one of the other waiters said: “Never mind. Next time.” To my regrest, I put my purse away and left the restaurant. But the incident has haunted me ever since.

One thing is sure: I feel too uncomfortable to go to that restaurant in the near future.

 

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‘Haminhara’ (The Tunnel) by A.B. Yehoshua

 

This book, published (in Hebrew) by The New Library in 2018, was recommended to me by someone whose opinion I value. But it turned out to be a great disappointment. The only thing I can say in its favour is that the tunnel of the book’s title is both a physical entity and a metaphor for the chief protagonist’s declining mental faculties. That in itself is a clever and fascinating concept. It’s a pity the book doesn’t live up to the potential implicit in this idea.

Other writers, notably Emma Healey in ‘Elizabeth is Missing,’ have tried to describe the interior workings of the brain of someone whose cognitive faculties are deteriorating, and in that particular case I found the account both fascinating and insightful.

However, Avraham B. Yehoshua succeeds only in taking the reader through what seems to be an interminable series of banal thoughts, conversations and interactions of someone who is of very  little intrinsic interest. The overriding sense of boredom I experienced while ploughing through this book left me completely indifferent to the fate of the main character. His thoughts and conversations are tedious and trivial, and the few characters with whom he has any interaction seem to be flat and stereotypical. There are no moments of illumination, no insights into internal processes or motivation, and nothing that aroused my interest in what would happen next. I kept on reading because, as a writer myself, I feel obliged to finish a book once I’ve begun, and am always hoping that things will improve. In this instance, however, they did not.

The fact that the author puts the same nasty comments about women drivers in the mouths of two different male characters in different parts of the book did not endear the writing to me either. The editor should have spotted that and cut out one of those diatribes (if not both).

Although the book does pick up a little towards the end, with some interesting encounters and situations, as well as a completely atypical and unexpected (and also unconvincing) course of action undertaken by the main character, Zvi Luria, the effort of reading the book did not make this worthwhile. In fact the ultimate conclusion of the book is unsatisfactory and elliptical to the point of being annoying.

 

If Music be the Food of Love…

The idea came to me when the announcer on the radio said that the next item in the music programme would be one of Mozart’s ‘Haydn Quartets,’ i.e., quartets composed by Mozart and dedicated to and inspired by Haydn. I had known about the relationship of mutual admiration between the two composers back in the eighteenth century, but in a flash of insight I suddenly saw the saga of great composers as a kind of marathon or relay race, with the baton being passed from one to the other with a beauty and inevitability that commands respect and admiration and, yes, love.

Of course, there was great music before Johan Sebastian Bach, and some of those composers were even relatives of his, but I’ll start with him, because he towers above them all, and has endured in the most steadfast way. In what follows I’ll probably be displaying my ignorance, but I want to share my insights into – and love of – great music with anyone who happens to read this.

I am grateful to Wikipedia, which makes it so easy to find the dates and correct spellings of all those titans whose music has helped and inspired me on a daily basis. I am also grateful to the music program of the Israel Radio, whether in its current form or its previous incarnation, for providing me with an almost constant companion of beautiful and varied sounds.

Bach (1685-1750) passed the baton on to Haydn, though his contemporary, Handel (1685-1759) also left his mark in the annals of music. Haydn (1732-1809) lived a long and very fruitful musical life, and his logical successor was indeed Mozart (1756-1791), who managed to produce an astounding wealth of great music in his tragically short life.

In the early music of Beethoven (1770-1827) one can hear strains of Mozart, especially in his first two piano concerti, but of course as he developed his style changed. His natural successor, and a great admirer of the man and his music, was Schubert (1797-1828), who was even a pall-bearer at his funeral. Here, too, one can often hear echoes of Beethoven in Schubert’s music, especially his symphonies and piano sonatas. Schubert’s short life was also one of immense creativity, and his music endures as a lasting memorial to him.

The logical successor to Schubert in this genealogy was Brahms (1833-1897), who was doubtless aware of his musical predecessor through another link in the chain, Robert Schumann (1810-1856), who befriended Brahms and knew Schubert’s music. In his role as music critic Schumann was a pivotal figure in the musical world, serving as a link between composers who never actually met in person. He was a notable composer and his music was also influenced by that of his predecessors.

Schumann was personally acquainted with Mendelssohn (1809-1911) and it is one of the ironies of history that it was Mendelssohn who revived interest in the music of Johan Sebastian Bach, which had been forgotten. It was Mendelssohn who conducted the first performance of Bach’s colossal ‘St. Matthew Passion’ after it had been set aside and forgotten for generations.

There are many composers who could qualify as the successor to Mendelssohn and serve as the link between his music and that of my great hero, Mahler, but I would point to Chopin (1810-1849) as the composer who bridges the divide between Mendelssohn’s romantic style and the music of the modern era. The music of Richard Wagner is also considered by cognoscenti to bridge the divide between romantic and contemporary music, but I am not sufficiently familiar with his music to pass an opinion of my own.

In my view, it is Mahler (1860-1911), who stands like a colossos astride the junction between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. His music bridges the gap between the centuries and the music that time, showing us both the light and darkness of the contemporary world. In line with the title of his first symphony, he is a true Titan in the world of music.

East, West, Home’s Best

Travelling on planes, trains, taxis, cars and even a bus on one occasion, not to mention a great deal of walking, staying in New York, Las Vegas and San Diego in the USA, and Amsterdam in the Netherlands, taking in visits to museums and meetings with friends and relatives in most of those places. All that was accomplished in the course of three weeks until we finally landed back in Israel a few days ago at the ungodly hour of 2 a.m. OH and I have survived to tell the tale only to reach the conclusion to which the heading attests.

Our wonderlust is assuaged for the moment, and it’s difficult to say whether our sleep disturbances are occasioned by jet-lag or advanced age. The discomforts of overseas travel are many and varied (unfamiliar food, strange beds, foreign languages, cramped seating on planes, traffic jams in cities, different manners and mores, not to mention expenses of various kinds), but the overall benefit of meeting up again with friends and relatives, gaining access to the wonders of museums and art galleries, taking in a Broadway play and a symphony concert in one of the world’s finest concert halls, make all the discomfort worthwhile. After all, who can put a price on the renewal of ties of friendship and family, as well as our love of art and music?

Thoughts of the comforts awaiting us at home were never far from our minds, no matter how enjoyable the various experiences were, and that brought me to thinking of my parents and grandparents, who were forced to leave their homes and wander to unfamiliar lands or, worse still, face exile and deportation to concentration camps and death.

My grandfather who died in his bed at home in Hamburg in 1936 is now seen as ‘the lucky one,’ as my other three grandparents all died in tragic circumstances far from home. Looking at the situation in the world today, we see so many people exiled from their homes and forced to seek shelter on foreign shores. That word ‘home’ raises so many emotional echoes in my mind, and I’m convinced that thoughts of the parental home that was lost must have haunted many of those millions who sought refuge abroad, whether sent away as children on one of the Kindertransport trains or forced as adults to make their way to a sanctuary of any kind anywhere in the world. To the best of my knowledge, most of the Jewish refugees who were scattered all over the world as a result of the Nazi peril in Europe made the best of their situation, established families and contributed to society. Those who came to what was then British Mandatory Palestine helped to build the Jewish State, in an effort to ensure that there would always be a home for Jews suffering from persecution anywhere in the world.

And so, once again, an enjoyable trip abroad has brought me to think about the Holocaust and its repercussions that are still with us. It seems unimaginable that after the persecutions that the Jews have suffered throughout the generations there are still those who would deny Israel’s legitimacy, claiming that its existence has caused injustice to others. But when the pioneers first came to the country that had once been Jewish they did not seek to disenfranchise the local population but rather to live alongside it. When the fledgling State was attacked on all sides, it had no option but to fight for its life, setting off a train reaction that resulted in the mutual exile of populations (Palestinian refugees and Jews in Arab countries). Nowadays no-one pays much attention to that concept, as the Palestinians have deliberately perpetuated their refugee status in order to use it as weapon in the battle for hearts and minds, while Israel has endeavoured to assimilate and integrate its Jewish refugees.

So many expressions refer to home. Home is where the heart is. There’s no place like home. Robert Browning’s poem, ‘Home Thoughts from Abroad.’.A pop song with that title by Clifford T. Ward, written in 1973. And many others with which I’m not familiar, and doubtless written in other languages.

I consider myself fortunate to have a home to return to whenever I go travelling. I thank providence that I can still indulge in the luxury of going to foreign lands and then return home. I hope that I will still see in my lifetime a solution to all the problems of all the refugees, wherever they may be.