Jerusalem: What Causes the (In)Famous Syndrome

No wonder an American tourist to the Holy Land suffered an acute attack of the Jerusalem syndrome and jumped off a building two weeks ago. According to a local paper, "the syndrome manifests in psychosis, delusions with religious themes; prevalent in devout tourists overwhelmed by visit to Israeli capital, mostly afflicts Christians...[who] feel euphoric at being surrounded by so many holy sites."

And indeed there are a great many places of worship of all stripes, colors, shapes, sizes, and denominations. Here are just a few:




El-Aqsa Mosque and Dome of the Rock (the largest mosque in Jerusalem -- can fit 5,000 worshipers -- and world's third holiest site for Muslims, respectively. Both on Temple Mount in the Old City).


In front of the Western (Wailing) Wall, locally known as the Kotel. The holiest place for the Jews, for more on its significance see here.


A model of the Second Temple (on scale 1:50, at the Israel Museum), originally built in 515 BCE, restored in 164 BCE, and then again in 63 CE. Destroyed for the last time in 70 CE along with the entire city of Jerusalem, which marked the beginning of the Exile of the Jews.




Inside of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which was built on the hill of Golgotha, the site of Jesus's supposed death and resurrection. Today, completely mobbed by pushy tourists, which makes monks and priests of several Christian denominations that share the church (and who reportedly don't get along) uniformly annoyed and protective of the holiest of the sites ("No pictures! No pictures!" one of them kept yelling in all the languages he could muster in front of the place where Jesus was crucified).


Church of Maria Magdalene, a Russian Orthodox church built by Russian Tsar Alexander III outside of the Old City on the Mount of Olives.

Not to mention and bore you with the pictures of the tiny little mosques on the streets of the Old City, numerous synagogues, Armenian and Greek monasteries, 14 stations of the Christ, and various Protestant churches and houses of prayers. Even the Mormons have an outpost in Jerusalem -- a branch of the Brigham Young University.

Who wouldn't go ga-ga here?!

Signs of the Times

If you're getting married in 2008 when Israel celebrates its 60th anniversary, this might be a wedding dress for you (displayed in a store window on Dizengoff street which houses an unusually large number of bridal stores):


If you're concerned your display of patriotism will be too noticeable, don't fret -- you are not alone, the "waning of Zionism" is hugely exaggerated. I haven't seen so many flags being displayed by people (not municipal or state authorities) even during my Soviet childhood:






But globalization is reaching even the most insulated communities in this corner of the world. According to Yediot Ahronot, local versions of American TV hits like "Survivor" and "American Idol" ("A Star is Born," in Israel) are now being followed by "The Upcoming Voice," an "Idol"-like contest for the ultra-orthodox community. Says an organizer of the show: "The objective is to find the next nightingale of the Orthodox community, who will be able to...make people rejoice in his voice...in a positive, kosher atmosphere." People of this community don't watch TV and only use "kosher" cell phones that don't allow texting; hence the fairly low-tech dissemination of contestants' performances on CDs and over the internet and, presumably, mail-in voting.

I am eagerly anticipating the haredi (ultra-religious) version of "The Biggest Loser": I think it will do the community some good to brighten up their black outfits with some red and blue. The secular version of the show had its salad stand -- and a huge billboard -- at the Food Festival ("Taste of the Town") here in Tel Aviv a week ago. Although I have not seem that many unfit, let alone overweight, people here...

Security Matters

I learned recently that what I had called the Israeli cousin of Donald Duck in one of my previous posts is actually a high-tech security device. Inside the inflatable duck are, reportedly, high powered cameras equipped with face-recognition software. The idea is that the out-of-place ducky would attract attention of those hanging out in Tel Aviv's main square for long enough to take their pictures and determine whether they are a security threat. I think it's ingenious: even though I now know what it is, I can't help but look up at the duck each time I pass by. (It is reassuring to know that Shin Bet -- the Israeli domestic security outfit whose motto, in my loose translation, is "An invisible shield" has repeatedly decided that I was not a threat.)

Until CAG and I went to Jerusalem a few days ago (of which more in a separate post(s)), I did not think that everyday security measures were particularly strict here, at least not as strict as I had expected. Some supermarkets, drugstores, malls, and cafes have security guards who -- haphazardly -- check bags and occasionally wand men. The guards are usually men in their 50 or even 60 who don't look that threatening and might not even be armed. Public events that attract crowds are guarded more stringently by the police, but even they often seem laid-back. I've been told that security seems so lax because of (unofficial but nonetheless practiced) profiling, and I guess I, again, look respectable and harmless enough not to be searched and interrogated.

But Jerusalem was a completely different story. At the Hebrew University campus where we stayed I was asked for the purpose of my visit (since I didn't have university-issued credentials) and even had to show my passport and visa. Each public bus that arrives on campus is inspected albeit cursorily, and at least one of the receptionists at the university guest house (all of whom were men in his 30s) boasted a handgun on his belt.

We happened to be in Jerusalem for the Jerusalem Day (for a bit more, again, see here), which seemed to be celebrated by more people and with more hoopla than the Independence Day here in Tel Aviv a month earlier. The city center and the Old City's Jewish Quarter were flooded with tourists like us, hundreds of youth groups who must have come from all over the country, party-ready locals of all stripes (from drunk and rowdy students to families of ultra-religious folks -- bearded men clad in black, women in wigs and toe-covering skirts carrying babies), and regiments of uniformed men in full combat gear. The last group's presence in the city became especially apparent in the afternoon of the holiday: military and police units were moving around the Old City and smaller groups were posted on many street corners and around the perimeter of the Old City walls. They looked pretty intimidating, but a few turned out quite nice and friendly when we approached them with touristy questions like "What is that old-looking tomb down there in the valley?" to which they usually did not have an answer.

But most unusual were civilians carrying -- very casually -- rifles or machine guns. They must have been settlers and/or Religious Zionists for they wore distinct -- knitted -- kippot and were usually in a company of a modestly (but often stylishly) dressed woman and about half a dozen kids. It was an incongruous sight -- a man carrying a big gun in one hand and a child in another. Even women in these families had arms -- strollers -- which, unlike their husbands, they did not hesitate to use on passersby. Coming from New York, a city where gun-ownership is strictly regulated and where most of the law-abiding population is averse to weapons, this was a distressing sight even though I was pretty sure these guns where not intended for me.

I completely understand the need for tighter security measures in Israel and I am ready to volunteer my purse and myself for the inspection any time, but I can't get used to -- and I am not sure I condone -- such a conspicuous display of weapons by individuals. I suppose, when it comes to the Bill of Rights' Second Amendment, I am with those who interpret it narrowly, as a collective not an individual right.

What's in the Name...*

Evidently, I am not the only one living in the linguistic limbo these days. According to a German observer of contemporary Russian life, my compatriots in the old country are having trouble coming up with a way to address each other; it is a sign of having departed from the old Soviet discourse but not having entirely adapted to the discourse of the West, capitalism, or social hierarchy (for the original article in German see here; the Russian translation can be found here).

For obvious reasons, tovarishch (the Russian for "comrade"), which not only denoted classless society and adherence to the communist ideology but was also gender-neutral, is not popular anymore. But neither are pre-revolutionary equivalents of "ma'am" and "sir," "Mrs." and Mr.," at least in the oral speech. As the article points out, "comrade janitor" was acceptable, but "madam janitor" sounds ridiculous and even mocking. The hybrids like "comrade mister" or "madam comrade" while quite appropriate for the "transitional" period did not become popular either.

What is really interesting and very ironic, is that grazhdanin, the Russian equivalent of "citizen," or French citoyen (introduced in France after the Revolution of 1789 and connoting social and civic equality) has never, even in the Soviet days, been very widely used. When it was used, instead of stressing the equal standing of the one to whom it was addressed, it denoted their untrustworthyness, dubious standing in the polity, and lower designation in the society. I guess it was a way -- although probably not quite conscious -- to signal that political society with its comrades was above civil/civic society and citizens. But it is also telling that "citizen" has not gained a positive connotation in the "new" Russia.

The country's post-socialist leaders have not provided much guidance on the issue, nor have shown consistency. Boris Yeltsin used to address his constituents as "dear compatriots," which is fine for a statesman but would hardly work if you need to ask your fellow bus-rider to get out of your way so you could exit the jam-packed vehicle. Vladimir Putin reportedly used "colleagues," but this too would not sound quite right between people in a line to the doctor's office or at the post office. Interestingly, the new president Dmitrii Medvedev is said to use "tovarishch", but it is still too early in his tenure to say whether it is a sign of things to revert to the communist past or just some personal quirk of his.

For now, the Russians are left with "young man" and "miss" even if the addressee is neither young nor single. It might be inaccurate and politically-incorrect, but at least it depoliticizes the interaction. I have to say though that these are not entirely new designations: I remember them being used in my childhood, before the official end of the Soviet endeavor. Which is just another example of my dissertation thesis: delegitimation of socialist ideology (as exemplified by reluctant usage of "comrade") began before Gorbachev's reforms; the collective and uniform (as in tovarishch) was replaced by more private and personal (even if still the same for all and imprecise for many) but nothing ideologically specific like the "capitalistic" "madam" and "sir."

We'll see what happens first: the linguistic stabilization, the political and economic consolidation (I am purposefully refraining from using "democratic" and "market" as it is unclear that Russia is still moving in that direction or that it ever has), or the completion of my dissertation. Personally, I am rooting for the last, as selfish as it might be.

* I'm taking time off from sight-seeing to do some academic work. More travelogue to come soon -- we are going to Jerusalem for a few days in the end of the week.

Leaving Tel Aviv-Yafo Municipal Boundaries for the First Time, and Coming Back

One of the most difficult things to master in a new city is, in my opinion, its public transportation system. It is especially hard in a country whose alphabet you can barely read. As a result, in the month since my arrival here, I've taken city bus and taxi only once each. (Although this is in part due to the fact that TA is very walkable and it's fun to explore it on foot). That is until yesterday, when my knowledge of how the public transportation works grew exponentially.

CAG and I were invited to dinner in Rehovot, a city some 20 km/12 mls south of Tel Aviv. Prior to my arrival, CAG had made himself familiar with only a handful of city bus routes and had only a vague idea about sherut. (But he is a maven when it comes to intercity commuting. Go figure!) In any case, since we dawdled too long changing outfits for the dinner party a few times, we needed to take a bus to the train station. With only a vague idea what bus to take and where, we walked to one of the bus stops on a major street in the neighborhood. With my almost supernatural ability to decipher maps even in foreign places and CAG's masterful command of this country's backwards (but beautiful) script -- we *are* a perfect match! -- we figured out pretty quickly which buses to take. One of them came almost right away, and we even had exact change although here, unlike in New York, you don't need to, the driver can give you change. When you pay, you are supposed to take a ticket and retain it for the duration of the trip in case a conductor comes onboard. Which I of course didn't know when I took the bus for the first time (CAG wasn't with me to explain) and the driver had to send a fellow passenger after me; it was kind of both of them, I thought.

The buses here are pretty cheap, about $1.5, but they -- and everything else -- are getting more expensive by the day for those who are paid in the currency that was formerly known as the powerful American dollar. There is no subway in Tel Aviv, although there is some talk about light rail in some near future. But the bus network is quite extensive; from what I can tell, the buses run frequently and late into the night. But there is no service on Shabbos, i.e. from Friday late afternoon till Saturday evening. (Same goes for intercity buses and trains.) The one thing that surprised me about buses was that they all -- I am generalizing from my still limited experience -- have trashcans onboard, usually tucked between seats around the rear door. Not only this is uncommonly civilized for public transportation, but I also thought trash receptacles can be used to hide bombs (I seem to remember something about the IRA using a trashcan to bomb London Tube). But I guess in this part of the world it is more common to use a person than a trashcan for a bomb.

But back to our trip. Israeli trains are cozy double-deckers, very civilized in their own way. Seats are comfortable though a bit smaller than their Amtrak counterparts and are organized in a way that four seats share a table. We shared our little "compartment" with a soldier, who was probably going home for the weekend (Thursday is the last workday of the week here). As a matter of fact, there were many soldiers on the platform waiting for the train with us -- and many carrying their guns -- so I was left wondering who guards the country over the weekend. "Our" soldier was unusually pale, blond, and freckled for a Sabra; I thought he might be from the old country up North. And sure he was, as we found out when he took a call on his cell phone. There were a few others speaking Russian within hearing range. I still find it a bit strange, but not as startling as before, and even getting used to it: the "cheese ladies" in our supermarket are Russian-speakers, and so is the guy from whom I buy cigarettes. They haven't given me any special treatment or discounts, although I've been told the Russians here like to take care of their own. The cigarette guy upon learning I was from Russia immediately suggested that I stay here for good.

Our host in Rehovot was also of Russian descent, although I didn't have a chance to bond with him on these grounds, we all mostly talked academics. We happened to witness the observance of a minor local holiday, which began with lighting bonfires at sundown. Even though our hosts had all the windows closed, the bonfires in their neighborhood were so numerous and big that the smoke got into the apartment anyway. You could see the smoke rising all over, and, to tell the truth, it was somewhat disturbing. I guess the sight and smell of fire in an urban setting brings back certain unsettling memories.

Despite the smell of the smoke we lingered till past the last train back to the city. Our hosts had reassured us that that would we okay as we could catch the sherut, the most mysterious means of public transportation around here. Sherut, literally meaning "service," is usually -- and misleadingly -- translated as "a shared taxi." In CAG's description, it sounded very unreliable and shady. In fact, it is one of the most dependable and efficient means of getting around. It is ten-passenger vans that run along the same routes as city and intercity buses, cost the same or a bit less, pick up and drop off passengers anywhere along the route (as long as there are free seats), and operate afterhours and on Saturdays. But we did happen to have somewhat shady co-riders on our sherut from Rehovot: one looked like a Russian wiseguy with a lot of bling around his neck and on his fingers, too much cologne, and a snazzy suit, and the other -- like a low level drug runner or a pimp for dime-a-dozen prostitutes. Also, the sherut dropped us off at a random curb outside the Central Bus Station, in a parking lot swarming with dozens sheruts, their screaming drivers, and this time truly shady characters. The atmosphere of that place reminded us of the Port Authority Bus Station back home twenty times amplified. It was also a new part of town for both of us, and for that reason it looked scarier at midnight than it would have at noon.

We walked back home through the working-class Florentin, the touristy Allenby street, and the quiet and respectable City Center. When at the Promenade -- where we went to see more celebratory bonfires -- a Hebrew-speaking stranger asked us for directions and I could understand her and explain to her -- in English though -- how to get where she was going -- I felt I was back home.

Back in elementary school, we read many stories about kids going on various trips. Most of them closed, or at least it seems to me that way now, with "They came home tired but satisfied." It had never occurred to me before, but now I wonder whether "they" were satisfied by the trip, or because they were finally back home.

I love going to new places. But I also love the feeling of being home. Have I made Tel Aviv my home or, as I used to say a lot when I was younger, home is what you carry inside you? I can't choose now; either sounds quite good.

The Old, the New, and the Weird

It's been three weeks since I arrived, but I haven't been outside of Tel Aviv yet. First, because I am working on an article manuscript and a dissertation chapter. But then, there is so much to do and see here in the city (not to mention the temptation of the beach which is less than a five-minute walk from our apartment).

Of course, there are not as many Biblical sites or Roman ruins here as elsewhere in the country. But one can argue that Tel Aviv-Yafo, as the municipality is officially known, epitomizes the amalgam of the ancient and the modern that the Jewish nation and Israel as its state (and "historic homeland," as it is often referred in my old country) are today.

Yafo is about 3,000 years old. Tel Aviv will celebrate its centennial next year. And the weird is timeless.


CAG and the Whale, the one that reportedly swallowed Jonah right outside of Yafo (aka Joppa or Jaffa)


View of Tel Aviv beaches and beachfront hotels from Yafo outskirts


Donald Duck's Israeli cousin on top of the City Hall Building, in front of which Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated in 1995


Mural of Jewish intellectuals-residents of Neve Tzedek (the first Jewish neighborhood outside of Yafo, established in 1887) in late 19th-early 20th century


A courtyard in Neve Tzedek. And more palm trees!


Contemporary sculptures in front of the house of Neve Tzedek's founder, Shimon Rokach, by his granddaughter


Old house -- contemporary additions, Neve Tzedek

I Think I am in Love...

...with palm trees.

They are everywhere here: beach and boulevard, backyard and city square.




I am not exactly sure why I like them so much: maybe because I find them so exotic, or maybe because they look so good against the very blue sky. Or maybe because they are tall and proud -- and a little scruffy -- just like the local people.


But they give me butterflies in my stomach and make me happy each time I see them.


It was love from the first sight. I can only hope it's mutual.

Second First Impressions

Now that I’ve unpacked my suitcases (even the one with my dissertation materials), got organized and acclimated to local time and weather, I’ve begun paying attention to native ways beyond food, drink, and smoke options, although most of my observations are so far from Tel Aviv, so things elsewhere in the country might be quite different. But a few things here have caught my attention as they are different from either New York or my prior expectations.

First, very very few women wear dresses or skirts, despite or maybe because of declarations of some local religious authorities that “women should not wear pants even when alone” as it is immodest and sacrilegious. Pants, shorts, capris, and of course jeans seem to be the bottoms of choice for local women regardless of age. I do wonder whether it is a way – not necessarily completely conscious – to manifest their secular-ness. Or is it because most women serve in the army where skirts are not an option? Whatever the real reason, a non-pants wearing woman is likely to be either religious or a foreigner. I feel both very foreign and very “Jewish” in my summer skirts and dresses, although of course the truly religious immediately recognize my above-the-knee and sleeveless outfits as decidedly different from theirs and just as immodest as pants.

If less “traditional” in dress, it seems to me – although my evidence is based entirely on naked-eye observations – that local women marry and have children earlier than their counterparts in New York. CAG and I have been to a few public events in the past few days and there were a *ton* of people younger than us with children, often more than one per family and who seem to be older than children of our friends in New York. In fact, strollers were a *huge* nuisance! I am only assuming these couples are married: I don’t quite understand yet the local customs regarding wedding rings. There does not seem to be a pattern: some wear them on their right hand, others – on the left; sometimes only one person in a couple has the ring; and the rings themselves seem to look different from what I’m used to seeing in NY, but again there’s no discernible pattern. As a result, my own wedding ring (not ostentatious but it won’t be missed or misinterpreted on the other side of the Ocean) is probably just another piece of jewelry in the eyes of the natives. Otherwise, I don’t think I would have been asked on a date while watching the Independence Day Air Show (although it mostly likely would have been just a hookup, had I agreed).

And speaking of hookups: the local Russian-language newspaper that I picked up a few days ago has a sizable “personals” section where I saw several ads by men – at least one of whom was married – looking for “discreet” relationships and/or willing to offer “[financial] support.” I don’t really read personals back home, but I don’t think solicitations are that open there.

And my Russian compatriots are indeed ubiquitous here, a rare trip outside goes without hearing my native tongue. I of course knew that over a million Russian Jews came here in the 1980s-1990s, but I was under the impression that Tel Aviv was expensive for them, as it is for many other newcomers. But I must have been mistaken, as I bump into them wherever I go: supermarket, mall, promenade, and especially the beach; basically every sixth or seventh person on the street is a Russian-speaker. Many local websites (the bus company or cable providers) have Russian language websites, there are Russian food products in the store (Baltika no. 9 – the strong and very tasty beer – and three kinds of pel’meni – Russian meat dumplings – are among our favorites), and many businesses, like the one in the picture below (which reads: "Always fresh, tasty, cheap"), have signs in Russian. Not to mention at least half a dozen of television channels – produced both locally and in Moscow – that the local cable company carries.



As a result, I’ve been having a minor case of identity crisis. Because of all the exposure to the mother language, which I haven’t had to the same degree in almost eleven years, I am again dreaming in Russian. A couple of times I woke up as if from a nightmare, but then realized that my distress came from dreaming in a different language than I’m used to. English is my language of choice when I need to communicate with the locals, which I try to avoid as much as I can for I do feel embarrassed and inferior because I do not speak Hebrew. But since I don’t have a choice (speaking Russian isn’t really an option for me for a variety of reasons), I’ve come to accept that for the next three months I will be playing the role of a “stupid American girl” who sometimes buys a Russian newspaper. I do wonder whether I might encounter pressure to at least try to learn some basic vocabulary. Not so much because “in Rome do like Romans,” but because as every self-respecting Jew I need – and ought to want to – make an aliyah, learn the language of my people, and become an Israeli. Even though some academics claim that Zionism is no more (I personally think this is an acute case of the Ivory Tower syndrome or severe projection on the part of some Israeli intellectuals), I have already met a few people who upon discovering that CAG and I were Jews asked us whether (but probably meaning "when") we were going to make aliyah or those who complained that some new olim (immigrants), particularly from the former Soviet Union, did not want to learn the language and to assimilate. But this pressure also might come from within: I now understand the strong emotional connection to Israel some diaspora Jews have, and I have experienced it myself. Sometimes I do want to rid myself of my paleness, bad posture, and fear of pogroms after sporting events (like big football games in that Midwestern town I frequent) and be one of them – fit, tan, and speaking this beautiful though incomprehensible language.

The one thing that definitely bothers me about Tel Avivians is their rudeness and pushiness, especially noticeable on the sidewalks (New Yorkers do not stand a chance against them). I am relived to report that this is not only my personal perception: in a recent local opinion poll, over 60 percent of respondents named impudence and impatience the most distinctive features of the Israeli national character. In my opinion, it is a remnant of the 2,000-year exile experience, not chalutz fortitude. But as much as I might not want to, this is an easy thing to emulate, and maybe a necessary one not to be bulldozed over by the incoming pedestrian traffic. I might not have the mental agility to learn the local language quickly, but I sure do have the physical one to blend in on the streets. Hey, lady with a stroller, watch out -- here I come!

Relocation, not Exile

As many of you already know, I've left -- temporarily -- New York and my couch there for the warmer and sunnier shores of another not-quite-capital city, Tel Aviv. I will be here for the next three months and am hoping that the local couch would make me much more productive -- as both a blogster and a dissertator (I brought a suitcase full of books and research materials with me and, to my great relief, the airline did not lose it).

In the last few days in New York, I had some serious pre-travel jitters. I hadn’t traveled outside of the US for almost ten years (I’m not counting my two trips to Canada: despite border control, different currency, and their funny dialect, it did not feel too much like “abroad”). Somehow, in New York I feel pretty cosmopolitan, but as soon as I booked my flight, I began feeling like an uncouth hick going to a metropolis whose language I didn’t speak and whose customs I didn’t understand. On the other hand, for three-quarters of my flight here I felt guilty and imperialistic for speaking English to my German flight attendants. But then I remembered that I am not an American and English is not my first language and therefore the “parochial Yankee” stereotype does not apply to me. But then, when entering Israel, I was reminded that some might see me as a “ubiquitous Russian” – I heard a muted sigh of disappointment from the passport-control officer when she, after having interrogated me in Russian (!), found no excuse not to let me in. This was one of those days when I really resented notions of nations, states, citizenship, silly ideas of self-determination and longed for the worldwide spoken Esperanto.

This feeling mostly passed as I recovered from sleep deprivation. I also realized that between my Russian, English, and rudimentary Hebrew (for now I can only recognize “tuna” in “טונה” and “chips” in “צ'יפס” and say – timidly – “thank you,” “excuse me,” and “please”) I’ll be okay, if still a foreigner. After all, I am almost like the natives – I am a Jew – albeit a lot paler. And this is the thing that astonishes me the most: almost everyone I encounter (three out of four people, I am told, and probably even more here in Tel Aviv) is Jewish. After a lifetime of knowing you belong to a minority – and often a despised or feared one – it is really hard to wrap your head around the fact that it can be otherwise. I wonder whether Sabras – native-born Israelis – truly comprehend the uniqueness of their situation and, also, whether any minority person rejoining her people from the diaspora will be in the same awe I am.

And speaking of group solidarity: Today is the Holocaust Remembrance Day here in Israel. I went outside just before 10 AM to see and participate in one of the public commemorations of the day. Exactly at 10, sirens went on around the entire country and everyone and everything stopped. Traffic halted, drivers got out of their cars, people got up from their café tables or froze on the sidewalks. For two minutes, there was no sound or movement. It was dead silent, except for the sirens, eerie, and very moving – even for me, usually skeptical of collective action.

And here are a few more, more mundane, observations:

1. Cheese, bread, and produce taste WAY better than in the US.
2. Tap water, comparing to New York, sucks. Some say it has a foul taste. I won’t go this far, but it does have some funky, not in a good way, flavor.
3. That is probably why Israelis drink so much bottled water and every so often on the streets you see these cagey looking depositories for bottle recycling. Otherwise, recycling is nonexistent; everything else – cans, paper, glass bottles – goes into trash. When CAG jokingly suggested that it all must be going to the Negev (a desert in the south probably half the size of the entire country), our friends without a smile confirmed it.
4. Falafel sandwiches are stuffed with pickles, sauerkraut, and French fries.
5. There is no skim milk and ultra-light cigarettes here. Apparently, living healthy stops at 1% and “blue label,” respectively.

It’s been only a week since I arrived and I clearly haven’t done much but sleep, eat, and drink. I am still waiting for my sociological instincts to come back completely, but hopefully it won’t be too long.

Immigration: Step Three. Almost There!

My precarious days as a non-resident alien in this country are almost over. My beloved, who flew from the sunny and warm Tel Aviv, and I had our immigration interview last week. Even though our marriage is completely bona fide, as they call it in the legal lingo, I was nonetheless worried about having to prove it to the immigration authorities, especially since the two of us, because of the nature of academic job market, live together only 4-5 months a year. As far as I know, immigration is the only part of the US legal system that is not governed by the presumption of innocence (well, there’s also Guantanamo Bay detention camp for suspected terrorists, but that’s a completely different story). When I applied for visitor and student visas in the past, I had to prove that I had no intention to remain in the US; I also witnessed several harsh and unpleasant interrogations of foreigners on the US-Canadian border. The system also does not seem entirely rational: even though there is an immigration office in Manhattan, our interview was scheduled in Long Island, 30 miles away.

At the advice of our lawyer, I put together all of the proof of our seven-year relationship I could possibly think of and find: phone records, correspondence, travel itineraries between NYC and Midwest, apartment leases, joint bank statements, a bag of photo albums etc etc etc. I had also found a sample of questions married couples might be asked about each other and we practiced the night before the interview. The questions ranged from completely innocent – “How did the two of you meet?” (in graduate school) and “What did you have for dinner the night before the interview?” (black bean chili) – to quite intrusive, “What is your favorite sex position?” (we couldn’t pick just one).

The Long Island Homeland Security office is in a nondescript, boxy two-story building in the back of a shopping mall. Here, even the security guards were not very friendly, and the intake personnel were outright rude. In all, we spent three hours in the building, but most of it was lining up to a window, sitting to be called up, lining up to a door, sitting to be called up again. We met with our lawyer who prepped us once again for the interview. Actually, he wasn’t our regular lawyer, but some sort of an independent contractor specializing in representing other lawyers’ clients during interviews. My beloved, used to informality of academia that has been recently reinforced by even more informal Israeli academia, made a faux pas of calling our counselor by his first name. As a result, we got a somewhat stern lecture from him about the formal etiquette of the interview. The gist: don’t call the interviewing officer or the counsel by their first names, but instead Officer So-and-so, Mister So-and-so. I wasn’t surprised by such expectations, after all it was a government office and we were there on an official business. What did surprise me, was how informally most other petitioners were dressed. The two of us were the most dressed-up people – we both wore suits and my sweetheart even had a tie on. In fact, he was better dressed that our lawyer (tweed jacket, slacks, and some stubble); most other applicants wore jeans, t-shirts, baseball hats. There were a couple of other couples wearing “smart” clothes; not coincidentally they also had lawyers by their side, while most others did not. Of course, those, like us, who could afford legal representation, could also afford nicer clothes. After the last year fee increase for all immigration-related applications (now, “green card” is almost $1,400, and citizenship is another $700), it is remarkable that people who don’t have well-paying middle-class jobs can file for immigration at all.

An hour and a half after the scheduled time, we were finally called in. The adjudications officer was soft-spoken, smiley, and generally nice to us. But our lawyer had warned me that nice immigration officers might be the most dangerous ones and I kept my guard up. Although in this case she probably was a genuinely nice person and did not intend to entrap us by her congeniality. She swore the two of us in; I almost felt as if I was on “Law and Order” testifying in court. But this was pretty much the only similarity. For most of the time, the officer was checking out application materials, demanding more paperwork and generating some of her own. She sympathized with my efforts to recycle paper: some of the documents I brought were printed/copied on my students’ final papers from the last semester. The only substantive question she asked was about how we met and started dating. But she didn’t seem to be very interested in the answer. In truth, it seemed to me that our case had been decided before she ever saw us and the interview was a mere formality, even when she asked me whether I had a criminal record or had been involved in illegal gambling, prostitution, or abetting illegal immigrants (I don’t and I haven’t). However, she looked through all five of our photo albums with great interest and even made a few comments but nothing pertaining to our case.

Even though the interview was “successful,” I don’t have my green card yet. The FBI is still doing background checks on me and if my fingerprints don’t turn up on some old crime scene (see my post from February 11, 2008, on fingerprinting) I should be cleared within a few weeks.

The morning of that day was dreadfully gray and rainy. And to ease my anxiety about the interview CAG kept promising that when we leave the immigration office after the interview, the sun would be shining bright and the road back to the train station would be paved with gold. Neither happened, but the rain let up and the taxi drive didn’t seem as long as on the way to the interview.

The security guards might have been terse, the building dreary, the wait long and nerve-raking, but all in all this part of the immigration processes, much like the previous ones, wasn’t so bad, not to mention that the interview was actually scheduled four months earlier than I had expected. I keep wondering whether we were lucky or, as our lawyer suggested, positively “profiled:” young (well, relatively); (overly) educated; quite good-looking (especially the husband); and, according to official classifications, white. What country would pass up on such opportunity! Seriously though, I do wonder whether all those factors played a more important role than they should in a “rational” bureaucratic system.

When we got back to the city, we went to our favorite kosher deli to celebrate. Their pastrami is so good that had we lived any closer to it, we each would be a hundred pounds heavier; but we only go there for special occasions like this one. But who do we see as we walk into the deli! Our lawyer to whom we said goodbye an hour earlier and thought we never ever see again. I guess roads of many New York Jews lead to pastrami sandwiches and kosher dills! Welcome to post-Ellis Island America, dear!

Famous by Association!

I’m married to a published author! CAG’s first book is finally out, in the bookstores and on Amazon.com! Last weekend, while I was presenting at a conference, he stopped by our neighborhood bookstore, and there it was both in the “new releases” and in the regular sociology section. We went back the next day – I wanted to see it for myself. My imagination ran wild and I was picturing dozens of copies laid out on the most prominent displays and selling like hotcakes. Of course, it wasn’t quite the case. The store only carried four copies, although it seemed to have sold at least one already. In the regular sociology section, the two copies were quite appropriately (albeit merely by alphabetical chance) placed between Erving Goffman, the father of the symbolic interaction school, and John Goldthorpe, the British scholar of class and inequality. I was a lot less happy with the book’s placement in the new releases section – it was hard to see on a lower shelf and was dwarfed by something a lot taller but with a lot less tasteful and interesting cover – so I placed one of the copies on a display table, right next to the most recent book by French sociologist Luc Boltanski. But my marketing effort was in vain: on a subsequent visit to the store a few days later, the book was back on the shelf.

Since that weekend, CAG and I have been quite obsessed with the book’s sales ranking on Amazon. It experienced a meteoric but short-lived success: overnight the ranking shot from below 1,000,000 to mid-80,000; it was in the top 10 of new releases in non-fiction/social sciences/poverty category. As of today, the book’s ranking is in 500,000, but it is a respectable number 20 in Poverty category and 44 in Civil Rights and Liberties.

It will probably be a while, if ever, till his book becomes a New York Times bestseller or be chosen by Oprah for her Book Club, but it is sure to win a couple of professional awards, and the publisher is already thinking about a second print run. We’ll have a book party, but not until CAG is back from the Promised Land in August, so y’all have plenty of time to get your own copies for the esteemed author to autograph!

Gender-Bender

I’ve been down with the flu for almost a week now. And by Friday night, I got fed up with many of my favorite comfort foods, at least the ones that were available to me without much effort in my sickly state: I’d had chicken twice, chicken soup twice, mashed potatoes twice, and turkey sandwiches three or four times. So on Friday I decided to get lo mein for dinner from the Chinese place around the corner (*not* the one that had been closed down for health code violations). It was a perfect choice: steaming hot, greasy, salty, soft noodles with crunchy carrots and snow peas. As any Chinese food, my noodles came with a fortune cookie. I like the cookies, but the “fortunes” – unlike the cookies – I usually find generic and bland. But not this time, for better or worse. It read: “You are a gentleman of outstanding wisdom.” In my ten-year experience with fortune cookies (do they have them in China, by the way?), it was the first that was not gender neutral. I got quite outraged, I guess several days of fever and bad headache made me overly sensitive and highly irritable. Not showering for a few days, drooling and snoring in my sleep, and hanging around the house in sweatpants and a stained t-shirt do not make me a man! I almost went back to the restaurant to tell them off for their presumptuousness. But even now, in a better physical and emotional health, I can’t understand the rationale of this “fortune.” Is it a mistranslation? Did they mean to say “gentle person” instead? Or is it an attempt to have cookies more personalized? If so, the restaurants should make sure they don’t give “boy” cookies to girls and vise versa; although I understand that requires extra labor and effort, probably scarce on Friday night. I guess I could have focused on the second half of the fortune – my “outstanding wisdom” – after all, as I’ve said, the noodles *so* hit the spot. But somehow I couldn’t. Maybe it wasn’t just the fever, but the sexist coverage of the Democratic presidential race that made me see even Chinese cookies as gender-biased.

Thank you, Nicholas Kristof!

It was never my intention to write about politics here. But this one absolutely deserves attention.

I made exactly the same point as Kristof makes it today's paper a week ago commenting on Wisconsin Yankee's post on paranoid style of American politics. And I am really glad the Times picked up on this too. I'd like to see Clinton and McCain "show leadership," as Kristof puts it.

=============================
The New York Times
March 9, 2008
Obama and the Bigots
By NICHOLAS D. KRISTOF

The ugliest prejudices in this campaign season are not directly about race. Barack Obama’s skin color may cost him some working-class white voters, but it’s also winning some votes among blacks and among whites eager to signal their open-mindedness.

Sexism seems more of a factor. Americans have typically said in polls that they are less willing to vote for a woman than a black, and Shirley Chisholm (a black woman who ran for president in 1972) always said that she encountered more prejudice because of her sex than her race.

Yet the most monstrous bigotry in this election isn’t about either race or sex. It’s about religion.

The whispering campaigns allege that Mr. Obama is a secret Muslim planning to impose Islamic law on the country. Incredibly, he is even accused — in earnest! — of being the Antichrist.

Proponents of this theory offer detailed theological explanations for why he is the Antichrist, and the proof is that he claims to be Christian — after all, the Antichrist would say that, wouldn’t he? The rumors circulate enough that Glenn Beck of CNN asked the Rev. John Hagee, a conservative evangelical, what the odds are that Mr. Obama is the Antichrist.

These charges are fanatical, America’s own equivalent of the vicious accusations about Jews that circulate in some Muslim countries. They are less a swipe at one candidate than a calumny against an entire religion. They underscore that for many bigoted Americans in the 21st century, calling someone a Muslim is still a slur.

There is a parallel with presidential campaigns in the 19th and early 20th centuries, when one of the most common ways to attack a candidate was to suggest that he was partly black, or at least favored racial intermarriage. For example, the Federalists charged that Thomas Jefferson was “the son of a half-breed Indian squaw, sired by a Virginia mulatto father.” And the word “miscegenation” was coined in 1863 and 1864 in charges that Abraham Lincoln secretly plotted for blacks to marry whites, especially Irish-Americans.

As late as the 1920 presidential campaign, a quarter-million letters were sent to voters accusing Warren Harding of being descended from a “West Indian Negro. ... May God save America from international shame and domestic ruin.”

In looking back at that history, you wish that a candidate had responded not only with, “No, I don’t have any black ancestor,” but also with, “So what if I did?”

Likewise, with countless people today spreading scurrilous rumors that Mr. Obama is a Muslim, the most appropriate response is a denial followed by: And so what if he were?

Granted, that’s not politically realistic as a comeback. A 2007 Gallup poll found that 94 percent of Americans said they would vote for a black candidate for president and 88 percent for a woman. In contrast, a Los Angeles Times poll in 2006 found that only 34 percent of respondents said they could vote for a Muslim for president.

Even if a prejudice is directed to a matter of choice, like religion or long hair, it’s still prejudice. It’s possible to believe that Catholics have every right to be president while opposing a particular Catholic candidate who would ban contraception; likewise, it’s possible to believe that Muslims have every right to hold office without necessarily embracing the candidacy of particular Muslims who advocate enveloping all women in burkas.

To his credit, Mr. Obama has spoken respectfully of Islam (he told me last year, on the record, that the Muslim call to prayer is “one of the prettiest sounds on earth at sunset”). If he were to go further — “and so what if I were Muslim?” — many Americans would see that as confirmation that he is a Sunni terrorist agent of Al Qaeda who is part of a 9/11 backup plan: If you can’t reach the White House with a hijacked plane, then storm the Oval Office through the ballot box.

This is a case where Hillary Rodham Clinton and John McCain should take the initiative and denounce the fear-mongering about Mr. Obama as hate speech. The wink-wink references to “Barack Hussein Obama” and lies about his going to a madrassa are the religious equivalent of racial slurs, and Mr. McCain and Mrs. Clinton should denounce them in the strongest terms. This is their chance to show leadership.

When Mrs. Clinton was asked in a television interview a week ago whether Mr. Obama is a Muslim, she denied it firmly — but then added, most unfortunately, “as far as I know.” To his credit, Mr. McCain scolded a radio host who repeatedly referred to “Barack Hussein Obama” and later called him a Manchurian candidate.

Martin Luther wasn’t a model of tolerance but even he took the position that, “I’d rather be ruled by a wise Turk than a foolish Christian.” In this presidential campaign, we should at least aspire to be as open-minded as 16th-century Germans.

Unrealized Reality TV

In general, I’m glad that television writers’ strike is over. Hopefully some of my favorite shows (let them remain unnamed lest I appear as a total geek) will run full season instead of a meager 6-8 episodes.

There’s only one regret. I thought that if the strike draged on a lot longer, producers would be looking for fresh ideas for reality shows and I could pitch them mine, “Dissertation Boot Camp.” Can you imagine how quickly graduate students would finish their dissertations if they were faced with fierce competition, had writing coaches taking them through the process step by step, and could potentially win a prize of hundreds of thousands of dollars to pay off their student debt! And what a treat it would be for the viewers: sociologists taking on economists, historians teaming up with anthropologists against cultural studies folks, comp lit people making out with art historians. And all those riveting repartees between Marxists and feminists, Kantians and Hegelians, small-N and large-N political scientists…

For now, I’ll have to motivate myself, rely on my friends for support and stimulating conversations, and hope there are enough jobs for all of us. And watch less TV!

Immigration: Step Two

Monday last week I had a biometrics appointment. In plain English, the Department of Homeland Security called me to be fingerprinted and photographed, as a part of my immigration process. The appointment notice sounded very strict: if I didn’t show up or reschedule, my application would be “considered abandoned;” I couldn’t have a cell phone, camera, or any other recording device with me; I couldn’t have scars or bandages on my fingers (they’d prevent proper fingerprinting); I was advised not to bring anybody with me unless I needed their assistance (with paperwork, interpreting, etc.) during the appointment because of the limited seating at the DHS office.

As a law-abiding citizen-in-the-making, I got up at 7 AM (to be downtown by 9), left my cell phone at home, and even trimmed my nails the night before: I wasn’t sure how the fingerprinting was going to be done – hi-tech electronic image scanning or the old-fashioned way, how it was ten years ago when I went with a friend of mine to keep her company during her procedure – and if I was going to dip my fingers in black powder, I didn’t want it to get stuck under my nails. Expecting the same low level of efficiency and organization as I usually experience at the infamous West 112th street post office, I brought a ton of reading materials with me. I also got another cup of coffee on the way, from a guy who assumed I had stayed up late the night before watching the Giants win the Superbowl and who was disappointed to know that I was not a football fan. (Until that day, I actually thought it was Super*ball* as in foot*ball*.) To my distress, it turned out that no beverages were allowed at the DHS office either. Does this government of yours have to be so rigid?

But in this case its efficiency exceeded all my expectations. It sure looked like a DMV: fluorescent lights, rows of cheap plastic chairs, electronic number display on the wall, and mostly minority employees (Latino and African-American security guards and Asian women technicians). And of course there was more paperwork: in addition to an inch-think application package that our lawyer had put together, I had to fill out yet another “personal data sheet”. Mostly, it wasn’t hard: date and place of birth, my name and names of my parents, height, color of my eyes. But three items proved tricky: My weight – I hadn’t weighed myself in almost a year and knew only approximately what the number was. Color of my hair – did they want to know the color I was born with (dark brown), as it is likely to be now (one third salt, two thirds pepper), or how I’ve wearing it for the past seventeen years (reddish-brown); after a consultation with one of the friendly guards, I put down “red.” And, lastly, my race. This one is always a challenge for me. Is this a category of official designation or subjective perception? I am clearly not African- or Native-American, Hispanic, or even Asian (although I often do think that I must have some Asian ancestry, if only because of the two hundred plus years of the Mongol Yoke in Russia). But people rarely think of me as a Caucasian. And so do I. While, arguably, Jews in this country had become “white” by the time I arrived ten years ago (although one of my sociology professors, who’s an American-born Jew himself, strongly disagrees with this point of view), we are not quite as “white” in the old country. For example, the nicknames I had growing up ranged from the affectionate “little chocolate bar” to the hurtful “crow.” So, in this respect, you can take a girl out of the old country, but you can’t quite take the old country out of a girl. I wish they had “rootless cosmopolitan” as one of the options. But they didn’t, and I went for “race unknown.”

No one seemed to care how accurately I filled out this data sheet. At this time, it was much more important that my fingers were clean and I didn’t fidget while being fingerprinted. Even though each of my fingers was scanned – yes, it was hi-tech! – at least three times (and some more than that because I did fidget and the sensitive scanner did not take it well), I was out of the door and having another coffee by 9:15. So far, this immigration stuff is taking far less time than I anticipate.

On my way back home I kept thinking whether I hadn’t totally inadvertently left my fingerprints on some crime scene. I was also wondering how long they would be kept on file. Are they going to be expunged once I become an American citizen? If not, it doesn’t seem fair that naturalized citizens without a criminal record (I hope!) are treated differently than the native-borns. Maybe I should ask ACLU about this, I doubt the Department of Homeland Security will give me a straight answer…

The darkest days are behind us!

At least, for the next eight months or so.

When I happened to look out of the window at 5:30 PM today, it was not pitch dark as it has been for the past couple of months. Even though we’ve been having the coldest weather of the season lately, I’m optimistic that the spring is coming, no matter which groundhog pair – Chuck and Hal or Phil and Mel – you think was correct in their predictions.

Twenty-eight days until Daylight Savings Time!

Twenty-seven – till International Women’s Day (the unofficial beginning of spring in the old country).

Yankees pitchers and catchers report for spring training this Thursday.

Can spring be far behind?

(I am a lot less certain about the Democratic presidential nomination.)

The Language of Matrimony

A few weeks ago, for the first time ever I had to introduce CAG, my beloved, as my “husband” (we spent our first month as a married couple almost a thousand miles apart, that’s why it happened only recently). He later commented on the seeming ease with which I did it. I told him he was quite wrong. But not so much because I’m still not used to us being married, but because I don’t like the word. It seems to lack affection, romance, and fun of couplehood and implies, to me at least, nothing but responsibility and burden, not to mention the old-fashioned patriarchic domination. It got me thinking – is there a word that would satisfy me more?

I don’t seem to find one entirely to my liking, in either languages I speak (English and Russian that is, for those who might be wondering). Unsure whether this is my very subjective perception, I did some etymological research, which was a lot easier to do from the couch than pretty much any sociological study: my main data source were the Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, the Oxford English Dictionary online, and the Russian version of Wiktionary (the last, I concede, is not the most authoritative source, but the only one available to me without a trip to a library). Here are my findings.

Turns out, I wasn’t so wrong about “husband”: as far I can decipher MWCD’s abbreviations, in Old English it meant “master of a house” and in Old Norse – “householder.” What else but relations of property and power comes to mind?! (“Wife,” on the other hand, is “of obscure origin,” as OED puts it.) The politically correct and now hip “partner” would seem a lot better: it’s gender-neutral and almost unequivocally suggests parity of both participants. But it does not transcend, in my opinion, the connotation of marriage as a business-like union that two sides enter for utilitarian rather than romantic reasons.

For someone, who does not speak Russian, “spouse” would probably be ideal. It too evokes equality of the two sides and even hints at something metaphysical, not just purely material: it is related to “espouse,” one of which meanings is “to take up and support as a cause, become attached to.” I kinda like it: marriage as faith rather than a business venture. But the Russian ruins it all. “Spouse(s)” translates as suprug for him, supruga for her, and suprugi for them together, which quite literally mean “joined together by a harness (upriazh').” The two of them, like workhorses covered in sweat and grime, pulling a plow, forever yoked together, that’s the image that comes to my mind. Suprug is not a lover, soul mate, or even friend; he is bonded to, if not by, his spouse for backbreaking toil.

There are also muzh and zhena, which, respectively, come from “man” and “woman.” Not bad maybe, but the former rhymes with “gorged on pears” which connotes “kicked back, slacked off,” while the latter – with “Satan,” no analysis necessary here although the roles of domination seem to be reversed. Another wonderful marriage-related Russian word is brak, the institution of marriage itself. Apparently, it comes from Old Slavonic for “take” and, in this particular context, to “snatch, kidnap [the bride],” as apparently was a custom of ancient Slavs, according to Wiktionary. Better yet, a modern homonym of brak means “defect” and “waste.” Why would anyone even contemplate partaking in an institution with such a name?!

In any case, husband, spouse, partner, muzh, or suprug, are all either too bland for my taste or smack of old-fashioned conception of marriage as an economic union, rather than romantic relationship. Well, it is widely known that marriage based on love rather than economic considerations is an utterly modern phenomenon (see, for example, “Love and Property” in Randall Collins’s Sociological Insight). But does it mean that we have to carry on using the terms with outdated meanings? After all, as offspring of cultural and linguistic turns in humanities and social sciences we need to remember that language constitutes reality just as much as the other way around. Maybe the decline of the institution of marriage – high divorce rates, late nuptials, commitment-phobia, marital infidelity etc. – is to a certain extent a result of this discrepancy between expectations of affectionate companionship and the old notions of marriage as economic enterprise that still pervade the language we use to describe it?

I don’t have a universal solution to the problem, after all I am not a linguist, just a sociologist. For now, my beloved and I settled for “wifele” and “husbandchik” to stretch a bit the linguistic limitations within which we have to operate for now.

I also propose that if we all want our unions to be joyous (most of us do get hitched sooner or later) we call it *merriage*. Any other suggestions, folks?

Why I am not in Therapy: Do I *Need* Another Fib?

Even Freud was more optimistic: at least he promised to turn neurosis into "ordinary unhappiness," whatever that means!





Robert Mankoff's December 10, 2007 New Yorker Cartoon is available for purchase

The Making of an American: First Step

So I’ve begun my immigration process. Yesterday, I went for a special medical exam, which all aspiring immigrants have to take. Out of hundreds of special doctors, certified by the government to attest to the good health of newcomers, my lawyer recommended a doctor in Chinatown. To assure me that there was no impropriety in his recommendation, the lawyer said he had never seen or talked to the man, nor got as much as a Christmas card from him. The last part of the argument didn’t seem convincing to me: the lawyer is a Jew and the doctor – Chinese, so even if they *were* tight, why *would* they exchange cards on Christmas?!

I went to this doctor anyway: he was taking walk-ins and was, supposedly, cheap. I cursed my way through half of Canal Street – you try to stay calm amidst holiday shoppers and tourists mesmerized by counterfeit Prada purses and Chanel perfumes! – looking for the address. Even though the entrance I needed turned out to be well lit and marked by a bright-blue awning, I could not find it at first distracted by overpowering sights, sounds, and smells of the fish shops on both sides of the door and along the entire block.

The doctor’s office was the least medical-like establishment I’ve ever been to (maybe with the exception of a “home office” of a respiratory-disease doctor my parents took me to almost thirty years ago, where I had to inhale some eucalyptus concoction for my bad sinuses in a corner of his living room). First, I talked to the receptionist, who did the paperwork, informed me about the payment (cash only, but it was half of what I had expected), and made sure I am not pregnant (for vaccinations and X-ray). When it came to the last issue, the woman, despite her pretty good English, decided to also use sign language: she started making circles in front of her stomach and then crossing it. I got confused at first: to me it looked like she was asking whether I was hungry, or whether I had eaten recently, or had digestion problems. Nothing in the sign evoked babies. But it must be a universal sign for pregnancy for the Chinese communicating with foreigners: when I went down to radiology, the man there did the same circle, only now I knew what it meant and almost preempted his question with a resolute “no.”

The immigration form for the medical exam makes it sound a serious affair. The applicants are warned that they will have to get undressed to allow a doctor a thorough check-up. They are urged to share any medical history and health concerns they might have during the exam. I was prepared to spend a good half-hour with the doctor discussing my higher-than-desirable cholesterol, my psychosomatic bladder problems, my bad posture, and persistent sinus problems (those visits to the “home office” of the Russian doctor evidently were a waste of time and money – also, cash only!). The man wouldn’t have it: all he did was draw some blood and give me a TD shot; I didn’t even have to take off my sweater all the way, just bared my forearm for the former and shoulder for the latter. More surprisingly, though, the doctor didn’t wear latex gloves, or even a lab coat. I wasn’t even sure his syringes were sterile. He barely spoke to me, and the whole thing didn’t last more than a few minutes. When I brought back my chest X-ray taken in a lab two floors down, his diagnosis – my lungs are healthy (which is surprising after so many years of smoking) – came way too quickly, but I am hoping it is because of his profound expertise rather than professional sloppiness or dislike of Russian Jews. I am due back next week to pick up results of my blood work; at least this takes some time to process.

I am not sure whether this encounter is a reflection on the immigration system of this country; or on the state of its healthcare; or on the standards and work ethic of Chinese doctors, although here I wonder how different my experience would have been with a Russian doctor in Brighton Beach and besides the man was chosen and presumably trained by the United States government. Or am I a cultural imperialist with no understanding and respect for another culture? In any case, something seemed a bit off, shady, and fishy, and not only because of the fish market outside of the doctor’s office. On the other hand, if the entire process of immigration is this quick and unintrusive, I’m all for it.