Once again, we are spending some of our summer in France, savouring the niceties of life in la belle France. The countryside certainly is beautiful, with rolling green fields, meadows and hills as far as the eye can see, interrupted only by stately-looking trees and hedgerows serving to define where one farm ends and another begins.
After a rather hectic week in London, where the unusual heatwave had given rise to some form of mass hysteria with people too scared to get on a train or bus to get from A to B, it was quite a relief to find ourselves once again in the depths of rural France, where no one ever gets het up or excited about anything much. Life goes on at its usual stately pace, with cows ruminating in the fields, restaurants serving their usual meals to their usual customers and trucks trundling along the highway delivering goods from all over Europe to other parts of Europe.
Although I try to stay as quiet and still as possible, and even manage not to get annoyed by the church bells telling me the time every hour, I can’t avoid having to go shopping at the supermarket in the nearby town or visiting the adjacent pharmacy. But those occasional forays into the outside world are kept to a minimum as my kind-hearted OH has undertaken to get the morning baguette from the boulangerie in the nearby village, and also to bring me the Friday newspaper with all its coloured supplements, enabling me to keep abreast of French life, culture and language.
So I really have no cause to complain. The only problem is my deteriorating brain and body. Travel isn’t good for people who can’t remember where they put things or even what they’re looking for. I lose things (what on earth happened to the navy-blue cardigan that went with everything?), misplace things and forget where I’m supposed to be. My poor, longsuffering OH is unvaryingly patient and forgiving, but I wonder how long he can keep it up. After all, saints aren’t supposed to wear jeans and T-shirts and roll up their sleeves to cope with plumbing disfunctions.
And as for my deteriorating body – the less said about that the better. That’s just another aspect of life that isn’t helped by being schlepped on and off trains, planes and buses and taken from one country to another. Gone are the days when I would happily cope with luggage, passports, handbags and the novel I was in the middle of reading as we moved from one destination to another. My days of Wanderlust and living the gypsy life are over, and it’s just about all I can do to tag along behind OH or sit docilely in the passenger seat of our rented hybrid car, admiring the view, as he forges ahead along yet another highway or byway.
So let me just sit in my comfortable armchair, enjoy the music on the radio and allow the general aura of peace and tranquillity that pervades this lovely area to enter my soul.
Travel these days is not for the faint-hearted. If one is not deterred by reports of overcrowded airports, lost luggage or delayed or even cancelled flights, one can but summon up all one’s courage and venture out into the wide, wide world.
So that is what we did. Neither of us is young any more and although OH doesn’t seem to flag at the sight of endless corridors or station platforms along which our suitcases have to be rolled, I must admit that I found it all a bit too much to take. Call me a little old lady, if you want, because that’s after all what I am. And little old ladies should stay at home, sit in an armchair and keep as still as possible. The sight of this little old lady schlepping suitcases along the endless stretches at Paddington station in London was enough to make anyone cry.
And London was not as welcoming as it has been in the past. It started with the hotel room we were given by the hotel at which we have stayed almost yearly for the last fifteen years. Although we specified when booking that we wanted a room overlooking Russell Square (which I enjoy painting from the window), we were given a room overlooking the side street. This room was so small that we were unable to sit or even stand anywhere comfortably. When we protested and demanded a room in accordance with our request, we were moved to a better room the next day. Then we realised — the room they had given us originally was in fact a single room! A new definition of British Chutzpa!
Then there was the weather. Anyone would think the British spent their holidays at the North Pole, the way they were carrying on about the heat. People were warned not to travel anywhere any time in or around London. And the scare tactics caused many people to avoid leaving home for the week or so of the hot weather. In fact, people did still move around and use public transport, as we did, and nothing went amiss. The many Israelis who were holidaying in London didn’t seem to be bothered by the weather, and carried on enjoying themselves as usual (as we did, too). It’s true, our room did not have air-conditioning so got rather hot, but we were given a fan, and we could sit in the air-conditioned foyer (the Atrium), which was very pleasant.
London theatre is as enjoyable as ever. Not only did we see an interesting and original play (Life of Pi), but at our hotel we were able to participate in the ‘Faulty Towers Dining Experience,’ which combined a slap-up evening meal with actors portraying the characters we know and love from the TV series of many years ago. It was a lot of fun!
At the National Gallery they were showing an impressive exhibition of works by Raphael, and at the Courtauld Institute, with its amazing collection of Impressionist paintings, there was an intriguing exhibition of work by the Norweigian painter, Edward Munch.
We managed to meet some of our friends in person and speak to others on the phone, so we felt that our journey had not been wasted. But considering the physical, mental and financial effort involved I wonder if it’s such a good idea for people of our advanced age to go and travel again.
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Travel these days is not for the faint-hearted. If one is not deterred by reports of overcrowded airports, lost luggage or delayed or even cancelled flights, one can but summon up all one’s courage and venture out into the wide, wide world.
So that is what we did. Neither of us is young any more and although OH doesn’t seem to flag at the sight of endless corridors or station platforms along which our suitcases have to be rolled, I must admit that I found it all a bit too much to take. Call me a little old lady, if you want, because that’s after all what I am. And little old ladies should stay at home, sit in an armchair and keep as still as possible. The sight of this little old lady schlepping suitcases along the endless stretches at Paddington station in London was enough to make anyone cry.
And London was not as welcoming as it has been in the past. It started with the hotel room we were given by the hotel at which we have stayed almost yearly for the last fifteen years. Although we specified when booking that we wanted a room overlooking Russell Square (which I enjoy painting from the window), we were given a room overlooking the side street. This room was so small that we were unable to sit or even stand anywhere comfortably. When we protested and demanded a room in accordance with our request, we were moved to a better room the next day. Then we realised — the room they had given us originally was in fact a single room! A new definition of British Chutzpa!
Then there was the weather. Anyone would think the British spent their holidays at the North Pole, the way they were carrying on about the heat. People were warned not to travel anywhere any time in or around London. And the scare tactics caused many people to avoid leaving home for the week or so of the hot weather. In fact, people did still move around and use public transport, as we did, and nothing went amiss. The many Israelis who were holidaying in London didn’t seem to be bothered by the weather, and carried on enjoying themselves as usual (as we did, too). It’s true, our room did not have air-conditioning so got rather hot, but we were given a fan, and we could sit in the air-conditioned foyer (the Atrium), which was very pleasant.
London theatre is as enjoyable as ever. Not only did we see an interesting and original play (Life of Pi), but at our hotel we were able to participate in the ‘Faulty Towers Dining Experience,’ which combined a slap-up evening meal with actors portraying the characters we know and love from the TV series of many years ago. It was a lot of fun!
At the National Gallery they were showing an impressive exhibition of works by Raphael, and at the Courtauld Institute, with its amazing collection of Impressionist paintings, there was an intriguing exhibition of work by the Norweigian painter, Edward Munch.
We managed to meet some of our friends in person and speak to others on the phone, so we felt that our journey had not been wasted. But considering the physical, mental and financial effort involved I wonder if it’s such a good idea for people of our advanced age to go and travel again.
What kind of people do we want as our leaders? Is it unreasonable to expect the individuals who govern our country and determine our fate, at least to some extent, to be honest, righteous and upstanding? The sad reality seems to be that decent, honest individuals are not the sort of people who go into politics, or who succeed in the cut and thrust of that world.
Looking around at the characters who have come to prominence in various countries that are close to Israel in outlook and electoral system (i.e., democracies) is enough to make one tremble in fear. America happens to have someone who appears to be a fairly decent individual at its head at present, but as he is someone who has survived the cut and thrust of USA politics for many decades one cannot help wondering how much decency and honesty he has had to abandon on the way. Of course, the alternative to the current incumbent (and the one he replaced) is ten times worse when it comes to decency, honesty, integrity and all the other qualities one would hope to have in the leader of a great country. Worse, still, there is good reason to believe that that individual will return to the position of power at the next election.
And what about dear old England, the country of my birth, the country that gave refuge to my parents when they were at risk of losing their lives to a brutal regime some eighty years ago? England of today seems to be in a sorry state on many fronts, with large parts of the population suffering financial hardship, whether as a result of Brexit or the current global economic crisis following Covid and Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. The person at the head of the British government is currently being assailed by massive resignations of members of his government, as they demand his resignation and accuse him of lying, mismanagement, and a general lack of integrity. As I write this I’m informed he has indeed resigned, though it’s anyone’s guess what will happen next.
Here in Israel the public is currently being beset by revelations of what went on in the residence of the former prime minister as deliveries of top-grade cigars, jewellery, cosmetics and crates of the most expensive champagne arrived regularly from generous donors. Not to mention the fabulously expensive luxury airplane that that individual instructed Israel’s aircraft industry to construct in emulation of the USA’s Airforce One. In a country where much of the population is struggling to feed their family, pay the rent or mortgage and keep their head above water one would expect there to be some kind of outcry against conspicuous consumption by their leader. But there is no such commotion, and that leader is still more popular than any other.
What conclusion, if any, can be drawn from the persistent popularity of individuals who seem to lack any shred of human decency or sense of fellowship with the populace they purport to lead? To my naïve mind it would seem to be a deliberate decision on the part of the voting public to ignore the qualities that were once considered to be required in a leader. I’m not going as far back as Moses, who was the very epitome of humility, or Ben Gurion who, while not humble, did not demand luxuries that most people could only dream of. Even in my time, leaders like Eshkol and Begin did not engage in conspicuous consumption and were content to adopt a lifestyle not very far removed from that of the general public.
It seems that in this day and age we are condemned to endure leaders who don’t care about setting an example to others as long as they are able to live according to a standard and style that is as far removed from that of the public they supposedly serve as was that of mediaeval monarchs from their subjects.
But in those far-off days no one thought or talked about democracy. Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.
A few years ago, after I stopped being a translator, became a writer and had several novels under my belt, I finally allowed myself to apply for membership of the IAWE – the Israel Association of Writers in English. I was overjoyed when I was accepted and allowed to pay my membership dues.
But then Corona came along, and there were no more meetings, at least not in person, and it seemed a trifle daunting to confront my fellow-members through the medium of Zoom, so I remained cut off from my new community for two or three years.
When a call went out from the editor of the Association’s quarterly newsletter for material related to writing – no longer than 360 words — I was ready, willing and able to jump in with a contribution about my effort to convert my first novel, ‘The Balancing Game,’ into an audiobook. It already existed in paperback and ebook form, and since the word on the publishing network was that audiobooks were the thing to go for, I went for it.
Easier said than done, and my travails in attaining that objective are still under way. But the subject of this blog post is the event that marked my entry into live IAWE events. It was advertised as ‘A Celebration in the Garden,’ and was due to be held in the Jerusalem garden of one of our fellow-members. The evening program would give members the opportunity to read from work that had appeared since Corona began.
Of course, I was eager to present myself and my work to my fellow-members, and spent some time deliberating and eventually deciding which passage of my latest book, ‘Rootless in Zion,’ to read. We were told to bring friends along, and also to bring books to sell to our colleagues.
At the set time on the appointed June evening, accompanied by husband, sister and grown-up granddaughter, I turned up toting books in the hopes of being able to sell some. The weather was balmy, our hosts had prepared seating around a lawn of artificial grass for some thirty participants and our kind hostess had baked brownies and other goodies.
As participants trickled in we introduced ourselves to one another, pleased to see so many kindred spirits. Finally, just as the light was beginning to fade, the compere (who was not the host) decided that it was time to begin. To my surprise and, I must confess dismay, he announced that the proceedings would focus at least at first on those participants who had contributed to ‘Arc,’ the Association’s annual journal. ‘Arc’ is a very professionally-produced and intelligent publication containing contributions from members. Most of the contents of the two editions I have seen (2021 and 2022) are impressive, but since I write neither poetry nor short stories, to date I have not sent in a contribution of my own. The brief contributions requested by the quarterly newsletter are a better fit to the kind of essay I write.
As the evening wore on and more contributors to ‘Arc’ read out poems they had written, the Jerusalem night descended, bringing cold air and darkness, as well as the distant sound of sirens from emergency vehicles. The patience of the other participants, myself included, was beginning to wear thin, and it was only after thinly-disguised grumbling was discerned that the compere’s attention turned towards ‘the others,’ namely, the relatively unknown members who had not contributed to ‘Arc,’ but had written and published work in the relevant period.
Finally, my turn came, and I was able to stand up and read out a passage from my recent novel. I did my best to project my voice so that everyone could hear me, and to make the part I had chosen sound interesting. I was given a polite reception when I stepped down, although my nearest and dearest had reservations about the passage I had selected, claiming that it was inappropriate for that particular audience.
More people read poems. No one other than me seemed to have written prose. The chill of the Jerusalem night induced our host to bring out blankets in which to wrap the shivering audience. As a grand finale our host recited by heart the fifty-two stanzas of the poem he had written that combined the obscure with the obtuse, displaying pyrotechnical linguistic ability and a breadth and depth of knowledge on subjects too numerous to mention.
No one showed much interest in any of the books on sale.
From Dorothea's Desktop 