News, Views, and Shmooze....

"Buried Treasure"

If you'd like to read "Buried Treasure," my essay on my summer trip to central Europe, you can read it on Aish.com, where it was just published.

Londond and Paris--A Tour "To Die For"

My friend Barry Fisher and his partner Anne Block are leading To Die For, a unique mystery tour of London and Paris, October 17-25, 2007. From their web site:

Murder mystery fans and writers, "CSI" TV show devotees, how would you like to get inside an actual forensic lab and meet the experts who solve the crimes? Here is your chance to experience exclusive private visits to two world renowned crime labs in London and Paris! This once-in-a-lifetime trip will be led by Barry Fisher, Director of the Crime Lab of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department, and Anne Block, of Take My Mother*Please custom-designed tours.

Visit the web site for all the details.

Oswiecim, Friday, June 29

After breakfast at our hotel, we walk the short distance to the Eden to pick up kosher tuna sandwiches. When I ordered the sandwiches and our Shabbat meals (shipped from Hermolis, in England), I was struck with the irony that kosher food was availabe-- in Krakow. The person I talked to assured me that the Eden had a separate kitchen for dairy and meat, and that they were familiar with the laws of preparing food for Shabbat and keeping a chulent warm.

While at the Eden, we meet Benzion Miller, a famed chasidic Brooklyn cantor, and his wife Blimi. Benzion's father, like my mother, of blessed memory, was from Oshpetzin--Oswiecim, the city we plan to visit today. In fact, they were neighbors. Benzion is in Krakow for the Jewish Cultural Festival, which he has attended numerous times. This year he has already performed, and will be performing Saturday night, after Shabbat ends, at the open air concert in Szeroka Square, right outside our hotel window. Benzion will also be leading the davening (prayers) tonight and tomorrow, though he is not sure at which shul or shuls. The festival has attracted over 10,000 visitors, mostly non-Jewish Poles, and 100 or so Jews, including a number of Orthodox Jews who will be having their Shabbat meals at the Eden.

Back in Y's Volvo, we take the same route out of Krakow and head toward Oswiecim, after a short detour to retrieve one of my brother's suitcases. (The status of the other is still unknown.) We pass the massive brick house and other sites that are now familiar. For years I've been trying to imagine what Oswiecim looks like--the town stripped of its charm and beauty and branded forever with the infamy of the exterminatin camp that took its name. We enter the town and again I have that uncomfortable ambivalence as we pass pretty buildings.

We begin the search for my mother's apartment. We don't have an address, but several months ago, my mother's friend, also from Oswiecim, showed us a framed photo of her grandfather's large house. "Across the street from the house is a church," she told us, pointing at the photo. "And behind the church is where your mother lived."

We find the church and cross the street. A year ago, while visiting my uncle (my mother's brother) in Israel, I watched a home video he took when he and his family visited to the apartment he and my mother and their parents and five siblings lived in. I was mesmerized by this glimpse at my family history, and I recall seeing a lovely courtyard filled with trees.

"This isn't it," I tell my brother and the others. "There should be trees."

Using his cellular phone, my brother calls our uncle in Israel and puts Y on the phone. We listen as Y, speaking Polish, moves quickly first to one end of the church, then to the other. Still on the phone with my uncle, Y reverses direction and stops in front of a bank.

"Tak, tak," he tells my uncle. Then he turns to us. "This is it," he tell us. "Where your mother lived."

I am skeptical. I still don't see trees. We follow Y along a narrow street between the bank and church and there we find a small square, and the trees. The gate at the back of the bank building is unlocked. We follow Y inside into a small courtyard.

"Your uncle says their apartment had a balcony," he tells us, the cell phone pressed against his ear.

There is no balcony, and we are disappointed. But we study what looks like a newer wall and realize that at some point the balcony was enclosed and is now a room. I am overcome with feeling, standing where my mother lived with her family--parents, siblings, nieces and nephews. We stay a while longer, not talking, each of us lost in our thoughts. A bank guard enters and shoos us out. We look around one last time before we leave.

A few hundred feet from what is now the bank is another builidng, the Mishnayis Shul, where my family undoubtedly prayed. The shul, like most in Poland and in other European countries, is now a museum, restored after the war. I buy a journal with a cover photo of what I assume is Oswiecim (it's not). I also buy a copy of The Jews of Oswiecim --in German, because there is no English translation. I buy it because it has photos of the city, and more importantly, at the back, it has a list with the names of people who lived in Oswiecim--first name, last name, date of birth, date when they were taken to a ghetto in Sosnowice, another date when they were taken to a different ghetto.

My mother's name is there: Sprinca Tadanier. Or is it my mother? The birthday listed is in July--that's correct. But it's the wrong date. Then again, I tell myself, my mother  could never recall her exact birtdday. Birthdays in Poland, she would tell me, weren't monumental events.

My eye returns to her name. Sprinca Sara. I feel a stab of disappointment. "My mother didn't have a middle name," I tell Y. "This isn't Mommy," I say to my brother.

"The Nazis called all Jewish women Sara," Y tells us. "And all Jewish men, Israel."

So this is my mother. I scan the page and find other Tadaniers. My uncle in Israel. An aunt and uncle who were killed and whose photos I have never seen. Some names I don't recognize, and some aren't listed.

We enter the Mishnayas shul, beautifully restored, though now empty except as artifact. Then we watch a video of survivors, all from Oswiecim, and are surprised to see a family photo of my father with his parents and grandparents and his extended family. We learn from the pleasant, non-Jewish curator that a copy of the photo was donated by my father's cousin, who also lived in Oswiecim. I find my cousin's name and others of his family listed in the book, too.

"Are there any Jews in Oswiecim?" we ask Y again.

"Two," he replies. "Jesus and his mother."

From the Mishnayos Shul Y drives us to the main Jewish cemetery, which is situate along a wide street. Y unlocks the gate and we enter. This cemetery is much larger than the one in Trzeninia and is filled with beautiful old trees. The trees, and the sun peeking through them, add serenity that is marred by rows of headstones--those that have't been destroyed by the Nazis-- that lean with Gothic eeriness toward each other. My uncle had told us that one of his aunts was buried here. We search in vain for her tombstone and say a "K'el Moleh Rachamim" before we leave and lock the gates.

Trzebinia, part 2, Thursday, June 28

Y has made arrangements with Andre, who has the keys to the Trzebinia Jewish cemetery. Andre is a tall man in his seventies. He kisses my hand and my sister-in-law's with a flourish, then tell us what he knows about the graves, which isn't much. He is writing a book about the Jews of Trzebinia, he says--he was a child during war, and remembers almost everyone.

"Do you recall the Bobover Rebbe?" my brother asks.

"Tak." Andre nods. "He lived in that big house on Novoskaya. We always heard singing."

We glance at each other. If we had any doubts, they are gone. That was our grandfather's house.

The cemetery is long and narrow, overgrown with shrubs on which fallen tombstones lie. Many graves are unmarked, the tombstones destroyed by the Nazis and used for building materials. Very economical and practical, the Nazis. We search for the graves of my father's family who died of natural causes before the war and find the grave of my paternal grandmother's ancestor. We recite Kaddish and "K'el Moleh Rachamim" ("God Full of Mercy").

Andre accompanies us back to that pretty square and points out what used to be the cheder where my father probably learned his aleph-beis. From the square we drive to a building that houses memorabilia--some of it Jewish. Entering the building, we see a see a trio of Polish women, wearing the traditional festive peasant garb. They are singing (we find out they're celebrating the 50th anniversary of several couples), and as we climb the stairs to the museum, I hear the familiar refrain:

"Stola, stola." It's the song my parents always sang at birthdays and anniversaries. If I remember, it means, "May you live a hundred years." We all look at each other and laugh.

We browse through the museum. It doesn't hold much of interest for us, but we don't tell Andre. We don't want to insult him. Soon we leave and drive Andre to his small house. He kisses my hand again, and my sister-in-law's, and wishes us well.

"Are there any Jews in Trzebinia?" we ask Y when we're back on the highway.

"Two," he says. "Jesus and his mother."

We return to Krakow. Y takes us to a large square on which are a number of empty chairs--dedicated to Krakow's Jews, he tells us, who were expelled and later taken to Plaszow camp, the one made famous by Steven Spielberg in Schindler's List. At the far end of the square is a pharmacy whose gentile owner saved many Jewish lives. Y also shows us the Bais Yaakov School for Girls--the first of its kind--founded by Sarah Shenirer. He points out remnants of the ghetto wall, its arches symbolizing the holy Temple in Jerusalem.  We also see Schindler's factory. Y has some criticism of the film's inconsistencies, and of Schindler, who he says brutalized the Jewish factory owner to wrest control of it. (I mentioned this the other day to my cousin, who was a hidden child during the Holocaust. She She knows people who were saved by Schindler. "Maybe he changed," she told me. She's probably right.)

Before Y drops us off, he takes us to a minimarket near our hotel, where we buy soda and bottled water and spot American products that are kosher back home but may not be kosher here. Back at the hotel, we eat dinner together in our room--La Briut meals. Not great, not awful. The meatball one is okay, actually. I knock my shin against another bedpost and go to bed, but not to sleep, since outside our windows people are noisily assembling a stage along with audio and video systems for a grand concert that will take place this coming Saturday evening, the highlight of the 17th annual Krakow Jewish Cultural Festival. The din doesn't end until 2 a.m. and resumes at six in the morning.

This had better be some concert, I think.

Trzebinia, Thursday, June 28

Because British Airways made them miss their Lot flight from Vienna to Krakow, my brother and sister-in-law have to purchase two new round-trip tickets--with no "fourteen day advance" benefits.

And their luggage--both suitcases--are lost. This comes as no surprise to my sister-in-law, who has been predicting as much for months. Later, someone tells them British Airways loses 7000 pieces of luggage a year- permanently. No wonder they lost the Revolution.

I would have been beside myself and gone "terminal." My brother and sister-in-law, though not thrilled, take all this in stride. British Airways is stubbornly unhelpful. In contrast, one of the uniformed Lot Airlines representative (in a bizarre amusement-park-red suit, red tights, red shoes), works hard to get them a better fare--better than the $1200 per ticket it would have cost without her assistance, but still not great. It's business class, she tells my brother and sister-in-law.

Business class on Lot Airlines, we learn, is distinguished from economy class by a small white doily on the back of the seat with "Business Class" stenciled on it. That's it. There is no more leg room or butt room. There is a meal, but not kosher. Oh, and there's a short curtain separating Business from economy. My sister-in-law pulls the curtain, separating her seat from ours. Coincidentally, we're sitting in the row in front of her.

"We're in business class," she says.

"Thanks a Lot," I tell her, and we're laughing again.

The flight from Vienna to Krakow is just over an hour. I do a Sudoku puzzle and am reciting"Song of Songs" when our very small aircraft begins lurching up and down. I stop reading, but it's too late. My stomach is queasy. I'm perspiring. "Take deep breaths," my husband advises. I do. Several times. When the plane lands I make it through Customs and passport control, but the nausea is there.

We meet Y, the Polish tour guide who will be taking us all over during the next four days. Y is much younger than I expected. He is tall and fit. He's wearing black baggy slacks and a black t-shirt, and a black visored cap that has Hebrew, Yiddish, and English references to Judaism on the back. Y isn't  Jewish, though his wife and son are, and he has taken some steps toward conversion.

Y drives a gray, boxy seven-passenger Volkswagon minivan (he tells us it was formerly a police vehicle). I sit up front and will my nausea to stay at bay. The drive from the airport to the Ester Hotel is twenty minutes or so of lovely countryside. Y keeps a running commentary, pointing out sites of interest along the way, but all I can focus on is the rumbling inside my stomach. When we arrive at the hotel, I sit at a curbside table belonging to the hotel's restaurant and use the Lot bag I took with me. I feel much better, but I stay in the room and lie on my bed while the others take a short walk to the Eden Hotel, where we'll be having Shabbat meals. I worry that my condition will prevent me from touring that day, but the short rest makes me feel better.

The Ester, a boutique hotel in the Kazimier (the Jewish quarter), has a pretty facade--prettier than what you see on the website--with its name in shiny brass letters over the lobby door. Our room, 25, is two flights up and has two views of Szeroka Square. (Szeroka means "wide.") The room is long with three beds whose spreads camouflage the wooden posts of the bed frame. I hit my shin on one of the posts. My husband does the same.

Minutes later we are off with Y to our first destination--Trzebinia, where my father, of blessed memory, lived as a child, as a teen, as a young husband and father to two daughters who were killed in Auschwitz, half sisters whose names and existence have always intrigued me and haunted me. Trzebinia is a 45 minute drive from Krakow, most of it on a two-lane highway that alters its route from time to time to accommodate highway repairs and construction that, according to Y, will never end but will continue to add taxes to the populace. We pass a huge, all red brick house. Y explains that this belongs to a man who owns a brick factory. "The house is an advertisement," Y says. In the distance we see a blue-gray shadow of the Zakopane Mountains where my father used to vacation with his family. The fields on either side of the road are green and lush, and I feel an uneasy appreciation for the scenery in the country where my family was decimated.

We enter Trzebinia and stop at the railway station. The town is small and industrial, without the culture or charm of Krakow, which people are calling the next Prague. From the station we search for the street where my father lived. My brother has with him a plot map of the property, which is curiously assymetrical. We are looking for Ulica Novoskaya ("ulica" means street). We drive past several buildings (one used to be a huge synagogue, Y tells us) and pass what used to be a small "trade" shul. Then we reverse direction and park in a pretty, flower-filled square. From there we walk to Novoskaya and, referring to the plot map, we locate our grandfather's house.

Throughout my adolescence and my adulthood my father talked about the three-story building that was his home. There was a nursery, he would tell us, with trees and flowers. There were shops on the ground floor, residences on the top two. When the late Bobover Rebbe, of blessed memory, came to Trzebinia looking for refuge, he and his entourage lived in this house, and my grandfather built a "beis medrash," a study hall, for him.

For years I have envisioned coming here one day, and now I am standing where my father stood, and his father and mother, standing where he proudly strolled the enameled pram with his daughters, half sisters whose names I always had difficulty remembering, until recently.

The top two floors are still residential. On the ground floor are an optical shop with chic frames displayed in the window, and two hair salons--one for women, one for men. Those Polish words I can translate.

We walk through a short, narrow passage to a backyard that fits the assymetrical shape on the plot map. "The same lines!" Y exclaims. He is as excited as we are, confident that this is my grandfather's house.

I wonder which room was my father's. I picture him behind one of the lace-curtained windows, looking out on the nursery, playing a tune on his beloved violin, singing a melody that he just heard the Bobover Rebbe compose at a Friday night "tish."

We return to the street, and Y points to a plaque on the corner of the building. "This is government property now," he says. "They lease the apartments. That's good for you--better than if they were privately owned."

Over the years my brother has tried to get restitution for this house from the government, but our lawyer told us we didn't have the right documents -- birth and death certificates for our grandfather, who was shot to death in Bochnia. Now, I read, the Polish government is relaxing its criteria and more amenable to making restitution, but I am doubtful. And this government decision has already given rise to (or uncovered?) antisemitic feeling. Rev. Tadeusz Rydzyk, who controls a conservative Catholic media empire that includes the influential Radio Maryja, criticized President Kaczynski for "considering compensation for people whose property was nationalized by the postwar Communist government. Many of those people are Jews."

“You know what this is about: Poland giving $65 billion” to Jews, Father Rydzyk said on the tape, according to the newsmagazine. “They will come to you and say, ‘Give me your coat! Take off your trousers! Give me your shoes!’ ”

It has started to drizzle, and a blustery wind turns my umbrella inside out. We dash across the street and wait in the shelter of a doorway. I watch as an elderly woman approaches from the backyard of my father's house. She is staring at us, and there is something at once suspicious and menacing in her air and in her plodding footsteps and thickened body, which takes on a looming quality as she comes closer. I have heard stories from others about hostile reactions from Poles who feel threatened by Jews who have come to view their former homes or those of family members. I prepare myself for a confrontation--or a curse. A rant, accompanied by spitting?

In the end she glares at us and passes without saying a word. Across the street people in the women's salon are eyeing us. The rain stops, and we leave.

Our European Trip: Tuesday, June 26

From my journal:

Today we leave for Krakow. After our weekend  houseguests, two charming young couples who are friends of our son and daughter-in-law), checked out of Hotel Krich, I stripped the beds, did several loads of laundry, and packed my luggage. This is a challenge, since Lot Airlines allows only one checked bag and one carry-on weighing no more than 13 pounds per passenger, and we'll be away three weeks. I'm always a little spacey before I travel--"raizeh fever," me parents called it. Travel angst. I'm certain that I'll forget something, that the clothes I'm packing are all wrong. That our bags will be overweight, not because of the clothing, but because we are shlepping with us five La Briut kosher meals, a jar of peanut butter, crackers, trail mix, and  more than thirty South Beach granola bars. All this for Krakow, because there isn't much kosher food available there.

Finally, we're off. We say goodbye to our son and daughter (their original flight having been cancelled because of weather conditions in Dallas, they're scheduled to take an evening red-eye--business class, so they're thrilled--but a false text message telling them that the evening flight has been delayed causes them to miss their flight. Long story. Much frustration).

We used mileage for first-class seats, which turn into actual beds. I watch "Notes on a Scandal" (excellent and disturbing) and take an Ambien tablet, but it's a while before I fall asleep.

At Heathrow we meet up with my brother and sister-in-law, whose delayed British Airways flight has now made them miss their Lot flight from Vienna to Krakow. In Vienna, we take a shuttle to the EuroHotel, where my husband and I had reservations. On the website the hotel is advertised as being 5 kilometers from the airport. I don't think so!

The surly desk clerk tells us that he has no vacancies, and that there is a shortage of hotel rooms that night-in Vienna-probably because Barbara Streisand is performing. I'm not kidding. So the four of us share our room, which is small and spartan, but clean and serviceable. A sign on the door cautions not to leave the bathroom door open when taking a shower, as the heat may set off the smoke alarm. There is no phone in the room--tough, when you want a wake-up call. Only later do I notice a note on the door that says cordless phones are available upon request. It doesn't matter, really. We're just here to sleep a few hours until our morning flight to Krakow--although the truth is, we laugh more than we sleep.

Not a bad thing, actually.

Tuesday my husband and I returned from a three-week trip that took us to Krakow, Vienna, Prague, Budapest, and finally London. I began writing in a journal that I bought in a Jewish museum shop in Oswiecim (Auschwitz), down the block from the apartment where my mother, of blessed memory, lived until the Nazis took her to a ghetto, and then to a series of labor camps. But after touring each day, I was too tired to write. And so in my journal I'm still in Krakow.

I'm still processing everything  we heard from our various guides and everything we saw. Palaces, opera houses, monuments. Grand synagogues that are, for the most part, museums. Graveyards where we searched, mostly in vain, for family tombstones; other graveyards where we visited the resting places of renowned Jewish scholars.

People ask, "How was your trip?" I tell them it was wonderful and depressing, beautiful and tragic.

Merchants of Venice

Thursday, March 2

After getting up early and davening, we walk to the train station to reserve seats for the trip to Venice. The good news: We don't have to change trains in Bologna. Less shlepping of luggage, especially the green Travelpro, which has become my husband's nemesis and the source of much grumbing. We do have to fork up 30 euro for our seats. And another 40 euro for our trip from Venice to Zurich. By now I'm seriously annoyed with Eurail and the representative who advised me to purchase the passes.

When we return to the hotel lobby, we can hear the bellowing of our loud Germans, but mercifully, by the time we finish packing and go downstairs to have breakfast, they have gone. We say goodbye to the waitresses and to the stern-faced maitre d' -- he hasn't smiled once in the three days I've seen him. Back in our room, we take photos of our stenciled headboard, and more shots from our balcony. I'm loathe to leave.

At the train station we buy a phone card while we're waiting for our train to arrive at the track. (We should have done this when we arrived in Florence.) Once again the walk to our first-class car is a long trek. But once we're on board, we relax. Our seatmates are a delightful American couple from the Midwest. She manages a golf course. He works in a family business. They've been married almost five years and are expecting their first child.

"We feel blessed," she says.

The three-hour ride passes quickly, and soon the train rep is announcing, "Santa Lucia." The tune pops into my head. We have arrived in Venice. Venezia. We say goodbye to our new friends, drag our luggage off the train, and head for the area where waterbuses and water taxis are waiting.

I've heard much about Venice from friends who have been there. And just a month or so before, my daughter and I went to see Heath Ledger in Cassanova, which takes place in Venice. It's not really an island, by the way. It's an archipelago formed of over 100 islands, connected by over 400 bridges.

It's midday - a little after 2 P.M. The sun is shining. The weather is brisk. A few days before, Carnevale ended, but Venice has a permanent carnival air and is a riot of colors. The waterfront is crowded with tourists and kiosks selling souvenirs: Carnevale-style masks, tote bags imprinted with images of Venice, various items made of (fake?) Murano glass.

Rick Steve advises taking a waterbus - 5 euro a ticket, instead of the water taxi, which runs about 60 euro ($72). According to a map, the waterbus stops right in front of our hotel, the Dei Dogi. We opt for the waterbus. The route takes us through some of the smaller canals. Most of the exteriors of the buildings we pass look somewhat shabby, with peeling paint and cracked stucco that reveals brick, especially at the waterline. I soon discover that this shabbiness is part of the charm of Venice, an intimate peek at her no longer fresh crinoline.

Suddenly we're out of Venice, out on the Adriatic Sea. It's noticeably chillier and windy, but I'm excited. In the distance we can see other islands, one of which is Murano, famous for its glass and glass-blowing.

Minutes later our waterbus pulls up to the dock and we alight from the waterbus with our luggage. The map was somewhat misleading. We have to walk the equivalent of four or five blocks on cobblestone streets to Madonna dell Orto, where our hotel is situated. Finally we reach Madonna dell Orto and spot the hotel's red canopy several hundred feet ahead.

Friends recommended the Dei Dogi (I read that it was originally a monastery, then a French embassy), and it's definitely worthy of its five-star rating. It's in a quiet, residential area, away from the hustle of the train station and the Piazza San Marco . The lobby is graceful and beautiful, with exquisite Murano glass chandeliers and lush arrangements of fresh flowers. A tall vase with orchids sits on the reception counter.

We're greeted warmly and upgraded to a deluxe second-floor room facing the canal. The room is twice the size of our room in Florence, has a foyer with large closets, and a stunning pink-and-green marble bathroom with a separate tub and spacious shower, plush white robes ,and slippers. And Etro toiletteries that smell and feel divine.

It's after three, and we're eager to see something of Venice. After booking a two-hour walking tour for the  morning (recommended by Rick Steve; mentioning his book earns us a 10 eruo discount), we leave the hotel and, with a so-so map as guide, we make our way across several bridges to the nearby Jewish Quarter. It's a seven or eight minute walk (we pass the Mori D'Oriente, another hotel we considered; it looks nice, too), and soon we're in the large piazza that was the site of the old Jewish ghetto. I spot the old-age home Daniel Silva mentions in The Confessor. I notice a well in the center of the square. (The next day we learn from our tour guide that all the squares have wells, and that Venice supplied its own water for over 1100 years.)

First we take a tour of the Jewish quarter ("This is the shop where Shylock would have worked," our guide tells us, pointing to a store front in the piazza). We visit two of the three Venetian synagogues. One is Levantine, another is Sephardic. Our guide explains that all the synagogues were built with five windows - symbolizing the five books of the Torah -- although sometimes the windows may be camouflaged. He also tells us that since Jews were forced to live within the limited quarters of the ghetto (until Napoleon freed them), when their numbers grew, they had to build up.

"They built the skyscrapers of Venice," our guide says. "Six-story buildings."

Today there are only about 400 Jews in Venice. In general, Venice is declining in population, our guide tells us. It's expensive to live here, expensive to rent an apartment. There are no cars, of course. No bicycles either. Everything has to be brought in from the mainland.

"There's going to be a wedding in this synagogue on Sunday," our guide tells us.

I would love to see a Venetian Jewish wedding, but Sunday we're leaving for Zurich.

After the tour we walk toward the Gam Gam, Venice's kosher restaurant and pass several shops. In one of the windows we see lithographs identical to the ones we bought in the Jewish museum in Florence. We're delighted to learn that the artist whose work we bought, Michal Meron, lives half the year in Venice (the other half in Israel). And that right now she's in Venice, in her gallery that serves as her studio. We meet with her, and she shows us a work in progress. The lithographs we bought take on added meaning and pleasure.

We stop by the Gam Gam to make arrangements for Shabbat meals. In planning our trip, we talked with Rami and Shachar Banim, the lovely Lubavitch couple who own the Gam Gam, and we're looking forward to meeting them. When I last spoke with Shachar, she and her husband were at the restaurant, hosting a party to celebrate the upsherin--the ceremonial first haircut-- of their three-year-old son.

Rami and Shachar aren't there now, so we talk with the manager.

"No arrangements are necessary," he tell us. "Just come."

And the charge for Shabbat meals?

"No charge. If you want to leave a donation for Chabad, that's up to you."

It's too early for dinner, so we decide to check out the Rialto, which, in Venice's prime as a center of international commerce, was the business district. Now it's crowded with shops that sell leather goods, masks, lace table and bed linens (much of the lace is made on the nearby island of Burrano), Muranno glass items. Spread out on the ground are knock-offs of designer bags that once again remind me of Santee Street in downtown Los Angeles.

More shops line both sides of the Rialto Bridge, the "most famous bridge in the world." That's where we're headed. It's colder now. I wish I had my gloves. Our knees groan with every step on every bridge, especially on the descent. We hope we're headed in the right direction. We're following the crowd and are relieved to find signs pointing us toward the Rialto. By the time we reach the Rialto, I feel as though I've crossed each of the city's 400 bridges.

To be honest, I'm a little disappointed when I finally see the bridge. But the view from the bridge is beautiful. The Grand Canal. Gondolas. Palaces. My husband takes several shots. Then we head back to the Gam Gam.

We're freezing. The pain in our knees is so unbearable that we're almost crying. But we're laughing, too.

At the Gam Gam we meet Rami, who gives us a hearty welcome. The restaurant is  larger than I'd expected, and its pale mustard walls give it a warm, inviting ambience. Dinner is delicious (I have salmon in a lemon sauce and apple pie for dessert; my husband has onion soup and pasta). We chat with a young couple from London who have just finished their dinner. They're going to a Vivaldi concert near Piazza San Marco. I'd love to go, too, but it's food or music.

After dinner we stop at a kosher bakery up the block from the Gam Gam that offers an impressive selection of kosher products. Cheeses, wines, spreads, deli. The clerk speaks only Italian. I point.

"Duo," I keep saying.

I select a package of cheese. In the showcase are thick round breads, shaped like pizzas. I buy several wide wedges --two dotted with olives, two more with circles of tomatoes. The clerk wraps each wedge in wax paper, then places everything in a plastic bag.

"Domani," we tell him. We'll see him tomorrow, to buy pastries for Shabbat.

We return to our hotel. Only two bridges, we tell ourselves. It's dark. The waters of the canals lap quietly against the pavement. A gondola slices through the water. All the bridges look alike, and we hope we're not lost. We take heart when we pass the Mori D'Oriente, but we walk too far and have to backtrack when we cross the next bridge. The Dei Dogi's red canopy is a beacon, welcoming us home.

Our feet still ache, our knees are stiff. I maneuver the bread and cheese into the minibar. Then I draw a bath, pour in Etro bath salts, Etro foam. I shut my eyes and luxuriate in the hot water. When I'm done I wrap myself in the plush robe and slip my feet into the slippers. Nice.

My husband is in pain. He can barely move his legs.

"Take a bath," I urge. "You'll feel better."

He's resistant. He doesn't take baths. I tell him my feet and legs feel almost pain-free.

"Okay." He sounds unconvinced.

I fill the tub with water, with the bath salts.

"No bath  foam," he says.

"Well?" I ask when a while later.

He shrugs. But when he's on the phone, I hear him telling our son that the bath helped.

We sample the pastries. We decide we like the little cinammon crisps best and save some for tomorrow.

What a Pitti Palace

Wednesday, March 1

Breakfast is the usual - fruit, cereal, muddy coffee that hasn't improved in taste. Next to us is a foursome of boisterous Germans who must be hard of hearing. Nothing else explains why they're practically shouting, as if they're the only ones in the room. The man closest to me is obese, and, apparently, hasn't showered in the past few days.

The weather is fabulous. We walk to the Accademia, taking streets that are now familiar (we pass the church with the Mogen David, catch a glimpse of the ubiquitous Duomo), and join a group of students who are waiting to enter the museum. We say no, again and again, to smiling street vendors all selling those burnt velvet scarves. Other vendors are selling art work, which they have spread out on the concrete. Still others are hawking a variety of items - T-shirts, postcards, posters, calendars, totes - all imprinted with an image of male private parts, as my granddaughters would say.

Interesting...

The Accademia is smaller than the Uffizi, but we enjoy it more. It's famous primarily for its Michelangelo sculptures--a series called "The Prisoners" housed in a rectangular hall that leads you to a domed room build to accommodate the piece de resistance, "David. " Rick Steve advises eavesdropping on a group that has a tour guide. We sidle up to a tour guide - she's speaking Italian.

"The Prisoners "-- there are four or five, I can't recall -- aren't completed. That's part of the attraction, seeing Michelangelo's emerging artistry. We learn later that, unlike other sculptors, Michelangelo never practiced on models of plaster or other materials. He sculpted directly on the marble--"releasing" the figure or figures he believed were trapped within the stone.

As to "David" ... Our good friend Steve (not to be confused with Rick Steve) was awed by the statue, but nothing prepared us for its majesty and power. It's infinitely compelling, inscrutable. I don't know how long we stood there, gazing up, up, up at the face of the young David (he has just defeated Goliath; his slingshot is born casually across one shoulder), studying the pensive expression in his eyes, the muscles in his thighs, the veins in his hands. The right hand is intentionally larger, Rick Steve explains, to demonstrate David's victory, with God's help, over his monstrously large foe. 

The statue, as you may know,  is of a nude David. I flash back to the images on the T-shirts, the posters, et al. Oh, I think.

Compared to the David, everything else is anticlimactic, but we visit a room on the other side of the building. One of the docents gives us a mini-tour of the multitude of sculptures along the walls and in the center of the room. Figures from mythology; sarcaphogi; busts of the Florentine elite.

"Grazi," we tell her.

"Prego."

I'm still thinking about the David, feeling his pull. In the museum shop I consider buying a postcard image of the statue, but all of the ones I see are focused on his private parts. Me? I would have focused on his eyes.

It's drizzling when we leave the Accademia. We open our umbrellas and walk to San Lorenzo Piazza, which is nearby, and browse among the stalls. I buy coin purses for my mah jonggers, magnets picturing the Ponte Vechio - one for us, one for each of our kids. I buy pretty wallets for my daughters and daughter-in-law. I intend to get more scarves, but we're worried that the drizzle is going to turn into heavy rain.

The day before I had noticed a stall selling ceramic ware.

"Just two minutes," I tell my husband.

I find the stall and admire the ceramic items. I forget the umbrella in my hand and lean in to get a closer look. My umbrella topples a small cruet. For a second or so time seems to stop, and everything is happening in slow motion. I think I can catch the cruet. But if falls to the ground. The stall owner shakes her head and tells me she's sorry, but I'll have to pay for the cruet.

I'm sorry, too.

"Ten euro," she tells me.

My husband hands her the money. Euro bills are pretty and colorful. Did I mention that? She offers me the cruet. I decline. My husband, bless him, doesn't criticize me for my clutziness. Is he a saint, or what?

It's still drizzling. We walk to the synagogue, on Farini. It's an impressive building with Moorish accents and multiple teal domes.

"Our Duomo," my husband says. He smiles.

Security is strict. We have to leave all our metal objects, including our camera, in a locker. Then we pass, one at a time, through a small glass booth. We're taken on a short tour of the synagogue and the smaller museum upstairs. The museum has photos of the old Jewish ghetto (the origin of word, Rick Steve explains, is "getto" - Italian for foundry, pronounced with a soft "g" which was later hardened by Germans or Austrians). On the wall is a photocopy of a letter from the Jewish Florentine, a member of the Levy family, who left his estate for the construction of the synagogue.

The synagogue is magnificent. Designed by three architects (one was Jewish), it has soaring cathedral ceilings and three domes, all covered with frescoes in shades of brick and orange. Spots on the ceiling and larger sections along the bottom of the walls are evidence of the damage done by a devastating flood a while ago.

The synagogue is at once inspiring and depressing. I'm filled with pride by the beauty of this building that can house thousands. But there are only 800 or so Jews in Florence, few of whom attend services.  On the high holidays there are crowds, our guide tells us. Otherwise, it's difficult to get a minyan (the necessary quorum of ten males), even on a Sabbath. I try to imagine the shul in its glory, when Florence was a large Jewish center.

A group of young men enter the shul. They're all from the University of Michigan, they say when we ask. They heard about the shul and figured they'd stop by and see it.

"My mom will be happy," one of the guys says.

In the museum gift shop we buy two booklets about the synagogue, and two lithographs by an Israeli artist, Michal Meron. One is a view of the Florence synagogue. Another, of the Old Ghetto in Venice. Both are vibrant with color and feeling and have a whimsical tone.

Lunch at Ruth's is soup, pan Toscani, chumous and "Ruth's Special," an assortment of salads and fallafel balls. We chat with a couple from Atlanta who, like us,  will be going to Venice for Shabbat. We tell Simcha we'll see him at dinner. He tells us not to come late.

"I have a group of forty-three non-Jewish students and their teachers," he says. "They want to learn about Judaism and sample kosher food."

From Ruth's we head for the Pitti Palace and the Boboli Gardens, both highly recommended by Rick Steve. We walk to the Ponte Vecchio, which is lined with jewelry stores that sell gold and silver. I'd love to browse, but my husband takes my elbow and steers me past temptation until we're safely off the bridge. We're a little tired by now, and our feet are aching, even more than yesterday. It's a cummulative effect, I guess. We buy tickets for the palace and the gardens.

The Boboli Gardens close earlier than the palace, so we decide to tour the gardens first. To reach them we have to climb several long, steep flights of stairs. With each flight the climb becomes more painful. With each step our knees protest more. I wish I had worn my new tennis shoes.  ("Don't," a friend had advised; "Italians think it's tacky.")

Finally, we're at the top. The climb was worth the pain. The view, despite the mist -- or maybe because of it -- is spectacular. Shrubs with shades of green, purple, umber. The Duomo. Valleys, small houses tucked into lush hills. At the very top of the gardens we visit the Porcelain Museum  - and joke about being careful not to touch anything.

From the top several paths lead in different directions. We decide that the hike down and back up will be too much. We planned to see the Grotto, but by the time we make our way down the flights of stairs, we learn that it has just closed for the day. But we peek inside. My husband manages to get some decent shots. And I buy some postcards from the gift shop.

Next is the Pitti Palace, built by the Pitti family. They sold it to the Medicis, who enlarged it, and then it was bought by an Austrian dynasty who expanded further and renovated. Each room is more magnificent than the other. The walls are barely visible--almost every inch is covered with art. The ceilings are painted with various biblical or mythological themes. One ceiling catches our attention. It depicts the ritual sacrifice of animals at the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, accompanied by a procession led by the Kohen Gadol (the High Priest). I was pleased to see art that I could relate to.

We walk through room after room after room - and this, we learn, is only a part of the palace. The rest is closed to the public. In the grand ballroom we chat with one of the museum staff. She offers to take us on a tour of quarters that aren't open to the public, and we eagerly accept. We view the throne room, a private chapel with an altar; numerous bedrooms, guard rooms. Several of the ceilings display the Medici crest. Several depict one of various "virtues."

After thanking our guide profusely, we exit the palace and make our way down the steps to the street. Descending, we find, is more taxing on the knees at this point than ascending.

We cross the Ponte Vecchio. It's almost six, but stores are still open. I exercise tremendous self-control and don't enter any of them. By now it's dark. My husband stops to take a photo of the Arno from the bridge. I wait while he positions the camera on the bridge's ledge. He wants to capture the reflection of the lights on the water. My eyes go to my left and a large batch of padlocks attached to a wood beam. I'm puzzled for a moment, then recall Rick Steve talking about the padlocks: In a romantic gesture, young men pledge their love, lock one of the locks, and toss the key into the Arno.

We're off the bridge. The street is lit up by the headlights of cars and scooters. With the Arno to our left, we walk toward our hotel, passing elegant boutiques that offer clothing with familiar names - Prada, Louis Vuitton, Armani. 

In our hotel room we quickly freshen up, then take a cab back to Ruth's.  Simcha has brought in more tables and chairs. We chose a table and wait for the students, who arrive shortly with a few instructors. The room is buzzing with Italian. I love hearing the language.  When everyone is seated, Simcha talks. I can tell from the few words I understand - Hebrew words - that he's explaining about "kosher" and "Torah." I know he's being funny, because everyone is laughing frequently. I wish I understood what he was saying. I talk with the teacher who arranged to bring the students to Ruth's. She explains that her students have studied the Holocaust, and she wanted them to get a better understanding of Judaism.

The menu is typical Israeli food - salads, chumous, tehina, fallafel. Basically, Ruth's Special. My husband and I have the same.  ("I could ask my wife to make you something else," says Simcha, "but she'll throw me into the street.) Sometime during the meal two musicians enter and play songs. Frank Sinatra's "My Way." Another famiiar tune whose name I can't recall. We tip them before they leave.

Simcha tells us that musicians come in most nights to play for the diners.  "They came last night, too, but I had to ask them to leave. The London people were mostly elderly. They didn't appreciate the music."

What's not to appreciate? I wonder.

It's our last night in Florence. We thank Simcha (and his wife, Miriam) for the delicious  food and for making our stay so pleasant. We take a cab back to the hotel. My feet still ache from the hours of walking, but I'm already missing the cobbled stones, the alleylike streets. The scooters. The Duomo. The bustle of San Lorenzo Piazza. The way the sun glints off the green waters of the Arno.

If It's Tuesday It Must Be Florence

Tuesday, February 28

Our hotel provides breakfast, but since we keep kosher, we can only sigh at the croissants and other pastries. We have cereal, fuit, and coffee that looks kind of muddy and tastes, well, not like the coffee I'm used to. But I brought along three boxes of South Beach nutrition bars, which are in my camel tote, along with a zippered plastic bag filled with almonds.

After leaving our key at the front desk (the clerk recommended leaving it there, and our passports locked in the safe in our room -- pickpockets, again), we head for the Uffizi, Firenze's most famous art museum. Friends had told us to order tickets in advance. The museum is a main attraction, and it's often impossible to get in, and even if you can get tickets the day you want to tour, you'll have to wait in line for hours.

So I booked two tickets on-line for the Uffizi, and two more for the Accademia for the following day. I paid a fee for booking on-line, of course. And if my copy of Rick Steve's Italy 2006 had arrived in time for me to actually read it (I ordered it three weeks ahead, with the understanding that it shipped within 24 hours- not), Rick would have told me that my hotel would have booked the tickets for me, with no extra charge. Next time...

It's a twenty-minute walk from our hotel to the Uffizi along the Arno River. The day is glorious. The sun glints off the river, off the houses on the south side of Firenze, off the bridges we pass. Perched precariously against the embankment of one of the bridges are young lovers, lost in an embrace. I could stand here for an hour or more, gazing at the Arno, but we have to be at the museum before ten.

Firenze is full of cars, including the occasional "smart cars" - it has no back seat. And scooters. Tons of scooters. Sidewalks are narrow, and we find ourselves frequently moving sideways to allow people to pass. The air is crisp, but not cold. And I'm wearing the silk underwear I bought at Sports Chalet. A good purchase, as it turns out. We pass the famous Ponte Vecchio - Old Bridge - cross the street, and enter the courtyard of the Uffizi.

It's an impressive courtyard, surrounded on either side by impressive gray stone buildings that block the sunlight. We find the ticket-holders line, learn that we first have to pick up tickets in another area. While my husband gets the tickets, I fend off two women trying to sell me burnt velvet scarves.

Inside the museum we pass through security and pay for headphones and a taped tour. 6.50 euro for two of us with a shared tape. So now we're tethered together. Our guide narrator is British and knowledgeable. He expounds upon room after room of famous art, most of it religious and, after a while, overwhelming. To do the musuem justice you'd need hours to study each masterpiece, but a taste is really enough. I admire Botticelli's "The Birth of Venus," "La Primavera." A Rembrandt catches my eye. The rest becomes a blur. I want to return to the Botticelli's, but I can't remember what room they're in, and the narrator can't oblige.

On the second floor courtyard we snack on South Beach bars and watch the pigeons that come up to our feet. From where we're sitting we can see a hint of the Duomo. In the museum shop I'm tempted to buy postcard-size reproductions of some of the art, or maybe a deck of playing cards. But I'm a bad decision maker, and in the end I leave empty-handed.

We stroll along the narrow streets and step into some leather shops. I'm looking for gifts for my mah jong pals, but nothing catches my eye. In San Croce Piazza we ask a woman where we can find San Lorenzo Square with its outdoor leather stalls. Turns out she was born in California, came to Florence years ago, married a Florentian, and has lived here ever since. I can see why.

More strolling takes us to the Duomo, an enormous, magnificent cathedral that defies description.  (My husband took this shot, and all the others, aside from that of the Cisalpino train. For an aerial view of the Duomo, click on the link.) We gaze at the building a while - we don't go in - and walk along side streets that take us to San Lorenzo Piazza. The place reminds me of Santee Street in downtown Los Angeles. Stall after stall with leather goods, scarves, trinkets, magnets, purses. I buy a taupe pashmina shawl and a lamb's wool plaid scarf from a lovely woman named Nicolette. I'm tempted to buy more scarves for gifts, and a turquoise pashmina for myself, but I'm also eager to check out the other stalls. Maybe I'll like something else more. Maybe I'll find better prices... And my husband is becoming impatient. Actually, he was impatient the moment I picked up the first scarf. Although he did get a beautiful red silk tie...

Tourist rule #1: Don't wait for "better" or "less expensive." If you like something, buy it. You won't find better or cheaper. You won't go back to the original place. You'll brood about this for several hours.

Tourist rule #2: Plan a day for shopping, and arrange an alternate activity for your spouse or signifcant other.

I tie my new plaid scarf around my neck and slip the taupe pashmina into my tote. From San Lorenzo we walk to Ruth's, where we enjoy lunch and a conversation with Simcha, our new best friend. We meet an American couple who have just toured the synagogue. We had planned to visit the synagogue after lunch, but they tell us it's closed for the day.

There's always domani.

Simcha tells us, with regret, that he won't be able to accommodate us for dinner that night.

"I have a big group coming, from England. No more space. Unless you want to come after nine-thirty?"

Nine-thirty sounds late for dinner. There's a teeny kosher market a block from Ruth's. We check it out, but aren't familiar with the products, so we pass. It's almost three. Lunch was filling. And I do have more South Beach bars, and almonds. And two chocolate chip Danish.

We return to our hotel, taking side streets that change names with mercurial frequency, checking our map to make sure we're headed in the right direction. Our feet ache from the cobblestones, but taking a taxi is silly. We're almost home. We pass more shops that look inviting, more piazzas with churches (one has a Star of David at the top; we learn later that the architect was Jewish). More scooters.

It's around five when we're back in our room. We don't have an evening plan. Ruth's is out. We watch Italian TV - a program that resembles American Idol. Then a singer makes her entrance - she's met with huge applause. She's a star. She looks stark, and her song is morose, lugubrious.

I read more of Daniel Silva's The Confessor. I check my e-mail. I do a few Sudoku puzzles and some Yoga stretches to work off the pan Toscani, then go to sleep.