Dance is Not Comfortable

We have cycled through various choreographers during the last 2 months of the DanceJerusalem program as we prepared two different works. One is part of a piece called...by Vertigo. The other is part of Kamyot by BatSheva. This has been interesting, as we have received very different interpretations of the pieces we are in. Sometimes confusing, as this will often change the directions, but overall very enlightening.

The other day, we had a choreographer come in who was part of BatSheva for 10 years and just recently left. He was by far one of my favorite choreographers. The BatSheva piece that we are working on has often felt very peaceful. It was much easier for me to learn than the Vertigo piece because each movement is very specific and is part of a new story. However, this new choreographer refused to allow us to settle into the piece. He pushed us to go further into it, to really challenge ourselves and I LOVED it. He spoke to us as my coaches used to when I played field hockey. Usually, when we finish this piece, we are all fine, not breathing too heavily, ready to do it again and to correct what needs to be corrected. But, under his direction, we were all panting at the end of the piece. He would accept no less than this complete throwing of ourselves into the movement.

Stone Soup

"Once upon a time (“far, far away!” someone shouted), there was an old man.” So the story of Stone Soup began, told by a friend sitting next to me. “Now, this old man was poor and he was hungry. He had been wandering the countryside for a while and was hoping to happen upon some food. He found himself in a small village and began to ask the townspeople if they would be able to share a meal with him. But everyone refused, telling him how hungry they were, how they barely had enough for themselves. After being refused time and time again, the old man called everyone to the center of the village. ‘I would like to make you all a meal. It will be the best meal you have ever had! All we need is a pot of water and a stone.’ ‘A stone?!’ the villagers asked, incredulously. The old man assented, then paused: ‘But I have just remembered! This stone soup will be even more delicious with an onion.’ A villager piped up, ‘I have an onion!’ And off she went running to get her onion so she could add it to the soup. ‘What about a clove of garlic?’ someone asked. ‘Yes,  I think that would be quite good.’ The soldier responded. Soon all the villagers were hurrying off to their pantries, grabbing whatever they had, even if it was only a carrot or a sprig of parsley. They all brought their ingredients and added them to the large pot of boiling water. Soon, a wonderful, rich smell began to emanate from the pot. The village had made stone soup. It was the best and the biggest meal that they had eaten in a long time. The entire community had contributed what they had and they all came together that night to dine on stone soup.”

I found myself beaming as I listened to the story. A few weeks ago when I told my friends this story over one of our first “Stone Soup” dinners, they had never heard it before. It was a story I grew up with and was reminded of when friends and I began to cook and eat together here in Israel. Everyone contributes a little something, even if it was just a can of sweet corn or a red pepper. And suddenly we have a huge meal, always enough to feed the 12+ people who end up at dinner.

Trip Number 3: Eilat and Petra (Jordan)

Short bus ride. Long bus ride. Chug chug chugging along. Chug chug chug...what? No more chugging along? SPUTTER. Dead bus.
Our bus died about 30 minutes into the journey. We were stranded on the side of the road in a desert-y area while the driver mopped his forehead and peered at the engine. Three Bedouin women with black face veils, shimmery black tops, baseball caps and Adidas sweatpants/sneakers rode by on donkeys and waved. "We'll get there faster if we take those," my neighbor said cynically. Another bus came to the rescue and we were on our way.
At the midway point of our five hour drive, the driver hopped back in to start the bus. He tried. And tried. And looked like he was about to cry. We were laughing hysterically at this point, sure that we would have to wait for another bus to come and rescue us. Finally, the driver, his face red with the effort, got the bus to start and we were on our way.

Eilat with a view of Petra

We drove through the desert, which never stops astonishing me with its incredible vastness. Mounds and mounds of yellow sand as far as the eye can see, sprinkled with rock but otherwise completely desolate. Such a different world than the over-developed one that I am so used to.
We reached Eilat, one of the southern-most cities in Israel. Now, I was invited on this trip and agreed to go because, well, why not. I really had no idea what Eilat was like or why Petra was exciting. Until I spent a few minutes reading up on both in the last half hour of our bus ride. Eilat is mainly a tourist town. It's attractions are its beach, where there are beautiful coral reefs (hence much scuba diving) and....well, yeah, that's pretty much it.

YOU HAVE NEVER TAKEN BALLET BEFORE?!?!?!?!

Even if that isn’t exactly how he said it, underneath his perfectly trimmed eyebrows, I could tell that was what he was thinking. I had just completed my first ballet class with a renowned professor at the Jerusalem Academy of Music and Dance. Surrounded by graceful swans with long necks and light-as-feather-arms who were born with tutus attached to their hips, I galumphed through the entire hour and a half. The dance professor, an imposing man wearing what to me looked like very flexible combat boots(later I was informed that they were in fact jazz shoes), had kindly glued himself in front of me after five minutes of watching me try really, really hard to follow his instructions. With twinkling eyes, he unclenched my iron grip on the bar and commented generally “We want to barely touch the bar. After all, it is not supporting us. We simply rest our hand on it. Lightly.” Later in class he poked me in various places until I was standing with a “supported, strong ballet posture.” I felt more so that I had just been made into a very awkward shape, with my neck sticking out, my bum tucked in and my stomach sucked in determinedly. But he was pleased. So class continued, with me attempting to fake my way through the steps. After a floor portion, which I basically ended up can-canning, class was over and I approached the professor.

“Thank you for all your advice! I have never taken ballet before.”

Trip Number 1 1/2: A Mystical Path

Camera on, I enter the scene. I am wearing a full-length black dress, a black t-shirt that covers my collar bones and a sweater that covers my arms. I am fully covered. I am on my way to the Hasidic neighborhood to meet the professor of my Hasidism class. He invited his 40+ person class over to his house for tea/coffee and cake, then planned on taking us to various "tishes" (tishot? tishim?): huge, amazing, dancing celebrations of Sukkot. I, as always, have no idea where I am going. Despite the fact that I spent half an hour staring at a map of where I needed to get, then copied it down for myself, I somehow forgot to put down any street names or markers that would orient me if I diverted from the correct path. Which I did from the very beginning, when I decided that I was much smarter than the directions. A call to a friend and I was back on the right path, wandering through an Arab neighborhood to get to the Hasidic neighborhood. It was dark and only the second time I have ever wandered around Jerusalem by myself. I hadn't planned to go by myself, but I was damned if I was going to let that stop me from going on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Running through my mind: Am I less of a target because I look like a very religious Jew? Or am I more of a target? A target of what? I put on my "don't mess with me face" and walked confidently, trying not to think about how stupid I was for walking around at night by myself!

In Jerusalem, there is one glowing street sign per every street corner. Which means that it is not always on the same side of the street as you. After crossing many streets and then crossing back, I found my way into the Hasidic neighborhood. Although I was still being looked at funny, I found that I felt much more comfortable. The apartments I passed glowed with light, sukkahs built on balconies and porches were filled with music and the high-pitched babble of kids.