I wait to trains often, every morning when going to work and when coming back home, 5, 6 days a week and sometimes when I’m fortunate to leave the office on lunch time, I take a short trip, just cause it’s not so full and one can take a ride, find a seat and have his therapeutic reflection of life in the price of a metro ticket and a sandwich

On Weekends, when not working, I like to walk. That’s a therapy of a different kind, depending on the weather, I like to meet those strangers you often see on the same metro platform, when walking, doing their shopping, sipping a short espresso, in the café on the corner o our street, looking relaxed and in love of life, not thinking of jumping under ant speeding train god forbid.

So I go back to my thought 2 minutes before the train from St Denis arrives to pick me to work. I have just a few minutes to think in the morning, sometimes I’m grasping the door of the approaching compartment just before the beeping siren tells you it’s closing and if you haven’t been run by the train you may possibly find yourself stuck between its hungry biting doors. Sometimes, the train is stuck somewhere and then I have more time. On my second daily train when exchanging lines, I usually have more time to linger; a less busy line, a less crowded train and less people who wait with you and may think of jumping.

I always wonder about those who wait with me there, do they also have this terrible thought crossing their early morning, not yet awake mind. I think sometimes loudly with a worried curious question mark popping between my eyes , I notice that some people are looking at me back, they may have a problem with this worried woman, that so early reminds them , life is not always so great. I try to correct myself and smile back one of my hinted, private, mysterious yet charming smiles, a gesture of good will to possibly convince them that I am truly optimistic, and that life can be not so bad if you are able to squeeze yourself between the masses and get safely and on time to your work.

On a good day, an interesting one with strangers communicating with you, I get a smile back, a silent smile , not totally convinced about this non written, non spoken dialog of 2 people who goes to a different work but aim to the same destination. I’m good enough with that smile. It means a lot in places like Paris, where thoughts of running trains and troubled water are crossing the path of total strangers

Mostly I get a little nod of the head and in some cases a roll of the eyes and the quick movement of a person hiding behind a paper or a book. Extremely kind people will tell me bonne journée, a good day, but that’s rare. Rare yet so kind, to hear a positive word at the start of a day, a minute before the train comes and picks you from your evil thoughts of jumping under its raging wheels

At night I still think in English,I crave in English, I eat in english. Hebrew is my language of longing, becoming biblical at times, as if I return to be Chava or Sarah or deborah the profit.

Je suis une femme parfois, qui fait la différence avec une tique de sa langue

Waiting for the train to come on the platform of La fourche, heading south of the city to change later to line 10 at Monparnasse towards the south east of Paris. I look at my friends to the voyage as always before hand. Even short trips to an unknown mutual destination compels some introduction.

He wears a dark coat at the end of July. It’s hotter today. Not a day for a second lair, surly not for a coat, a dark winter coat, 2 sizes bigger than his own size, long sleeves that covers his long arms. Hes not a short man, but he’s posture makes him look not very tall. His blonde thin hair , growing thinner at top is un combed , tired and frizzed. His blue eyes , I can notice blue eyes from a far, are covered with thick glasses which he keeps on touching nervously, grabbing their black frames ,sliding them back and forth when he notice I’m looking. I’m focused on this traveler’s posture, he reminds me of an old tired man but he doesn’t look older than 40-45, I guess. Is he tired, sad ? having a physical problem with his back ?.

I lower my eyes when knowing I’m too obvious when staring. He has big shoes, older looking black boring shoes pointing out underneath his not very fashionable pair of gabardine trousers. He has a sweater too under the coat and he is sad I decide. He is a sad man. I want to talk to him immediately, and the train comes. We take it of course, heading to chattilion. I hope he has many stations with me so I can learn a bit more about him, My sad blonde man. We stand on both sides of the middle section of the compartment , he holds the poll of the middle section , 2 children that comes up with their mother and a trolly next to him, we are apart but still keep an eye contact, a free seat at the next station at clichey and the woman and troly and one child in her lap are seated . he holds the poll tighter when the train keeps on moving making this squeaky noises after clichey when catching a bit of speed on its way to the next station. Why are you so sad I wonder? It’s sad of a loss, I think, I know its kind, when the body gives up and cant hold itself. When the eyes lose their need to look and taste the life around them, when you need another cover as it’s so cold without whom you lost.

He has beautiful mouth, perfectly drawn with a little sad smile stretching the mouth corners downwards. A beautiful nose too. If one looks often enough he can fall in love with sadness, swollen by its fragile silhouette that flatters the heart. But this man, this man doesn’t want others to fall in love with him. He is gripping the poll firmly, with one hand and covers his weak body with the big coat, tensed and gloomy, disappearing in his own melancholy. I notice he looks at one of the children of the lady as his head leaning down anyway and his sad smile, becomes more smiley and less sad. Mmm, that’s my opportunity I say to myself, at liege, the next station I decide I will move a bit closer maybe I may bump into him and squeeze a pardon or exuse-moi and I can hear his voice.

But at liege no one goes down. The distresses suffocating air of the compartment is slightly brushed by the voice of the children talking to their mom and 2 Scandinavians tall tourists who comes up separate us even more. At st lazare Ill have my chance I think, one more station and a minute away. He glimpses at me behind his glasses, Im sure, maybe he needs to share his sad story with a stranger. As sad stories are usually better told to strangers, those who has a need to hear, but no need to judge. We reach st lazare , many people are about to come up and I need to move accordingly. My sad man looks even sadder when aiming to the door , he steps out of the train, moving his long but weak body to the end of the hurdle that steps out.

I watch him staggering and fading in the crowd of the holy lazare, I feel sad too, we only had 4 stations to share our sad story. not enough

my new land
has a new job
a new school
some new names.
a new jew
who knew you
when you were younger
and you knew ger(גר )

 wiktionary – (ger) m. (plural indefinite form גֵּרִים)

1. A foreigner, a stranger: one who sojourns in a foreign place.
2. (Judaism) A convert to Judaism, a convert, a proselyte

and I add.  Germany  = many gerim – plural of Ger

my man, handsome and sincere preparing for his holiday sits on the carpet in the living room., I can watch him for hours in that unique position leaning forward on his knees and reading an old german journal or typing a mail. no need of tables and chairs. the man I fall in love with don’t need any furniture. Just a bed where he takes me to compose our summer duets.

I read NEULAND of ESHKOL NEVO in 5 long sessions + 15 minutes.  one long session in a German blooming garden after I worked its catholic land for a couple of hours and I needed some comfort in the shape of Hebrew. another long session of reading took place in Belgium in a moving car back to paris. for some reason in that short travel in between  countries and languages ,the Belgique people allow a speed limit of only 100- 120 km per hour (that’s slow aperently) , maybe as they know people will rush through their land on their way to france or Germany with no great interest to stop for something longer than a beer and a bite of chocolate. and so the car jammed in some strange traffic planted in a flat  yet genuine scenery of farms, industry and green just pushed me to the wild sights of mountains , wildlife and human blend of the south american landscape  Nevo describes.

in Paris I had to delay my unpacking to continue with Inbar and Dori (and all their relatives in the book) when they finally plan to meet in Jerusalem as they know its impossible to deny Love even when it hurts.

I held the book close to my heart to realise how close I became to fictitious characters who could have been my best friends or may even be myself. splendid. it was a wonderful crusty and layered well baked book. like the food I like, it was detailed but simple, complexed but gently seasoned, well structured but natural. a good onion farmers pie. (with rosmarin and sage) scented and appetising . decorated with a little purple flower on an oval creamy dish as it is important to look pretty when you sound so beautiful. I just had to take more and more  portions of that tasty curvy dish and leave the last bite of 20 pages to be read eventually after long  gulpes of the refreshing stories that man brings.

Why is it always in his books that I read me ? my own story? my own writings ? my own life. it is so unusual that complete identification to my emotions , my way of telling a thought, my choices and doubts in reality that I keep on reading in an unstopable paste, maybe the end will sort of tell me something I didn’t know. Something  about the future, about what I deserve or what I will never have.   Maybe the end will determine what is the fortune of the wandering Jew once he/she stops wondering what is the future like. But the end, in this book like his others,  final as it is , surprisingly like my own story was kept open and wide and aiming to happiness but with no real clue of the way we go through to get it.

it kept me with a page I read 3 times , with final words and the breeze of Jerusalem blowing the last fragile pages, knowing there will be other books in the future, more choices to make in that way of life, choices, which the more difficult ones of them Ill pick with a confident hand but an hesitated heart to lead me to the Top of Mouunt Nevo to see the promised land .

P.S I have a crash on Eshkol Nevo already 5 or 6 years. I read 3 of his books, heard him 3 times in 2 different lands and 2 languages. I missed a chance of working with him or possibly get his critique over my writings, but I have to thank him here for warming up my heart and strengthen my hand when picking up again words in Hebrew (in a different location….) and in holding my new memories alongside the old ones

chapters to come .

- so what is the book is all about

- is there a new land or new lands

- will I ever write a book or build a new land

- Hebrew finaly. כמה מילים בעברית

second reading

I say to my boyfriend “enough with the sweet talk, lets do something about this Santarelli, we have not slept properly over 5 months and it’s taking a toll on our relationship” . “we must do something” I tell him. “You with your left wing approach of trying to solve difficult issues with diplomacy, you really solve nothing, you only make it worse” as this guy, who is not a nice guy, thinks probably he found the perfect victims to abuse. “I think we need to get my friend Zvi to help us”. He has some military background and a short fuse my as we say, my friend Zvi. I met him here in Paris, by chance and found a man with an incredible story. For many years he’s a journalist who covered evil wars in Iraq and Afganistan, he had seen it all and he truly figures out the concept of revenge. He’s not a scary guy this Zvi, but when he’s angry so he tells, he is a lot more practical and direct He will bring his friend Frankenstein who years of alcohol made him look scruffy and dangerous and together they will gently approach our neighbor to explain to him that they don’t appreciate noisy neighbors. Zvi offered to do a Russian accent that goes well with his eastern European look. Russian accent on perfect French?  I thought it may be too sexy and the affect of scary will fade. We just need to gain more points in the scary department, enough to erase Santarellis annoying green I see every time we ask him nicely to lower the volume.  I’m sure he’s smiling to himself when he hears us having an argument in the middle of the night over his noises. Sometimes we just argue, being different people my boyfriend and I, but we are people of principals and values , we don’t argue over nothing in normal days. But now it’s not normal anymore, we didn’t sleep almost 6 months, so we argue. We don’t really know about what, we’re so tired we just argue.  

My boyfriend sometimes comes up with nice ideas to overcome his disability to solve the issue, he offered to make love if we are already awake.  It’s not such a bad thought, I agreed and it may also upset our neighbor who we lost sympathy for especially if Ill cry with pleasure and he would even feel lonelier with all of his sounds systems and electronics, as girls stopped coming to his place in the last few months. But last night when we woke up I didn’t feel like making love. I wanted to start a war against the enemy from the forth floor. I cant avoid being me I tell my boyfriend, even if my left wing man kisses me with a smile and promise me he will solve this matter in no time , I cant avoid being me when I’m angry and tired. It’s my heritage you know to fight for my life, a genetic code developed in me after thousands of years of Jewish people harassed and chased by Santarellis.” This time I’m not going to let the bad guy win, I’m telling you and no I don’t care you want to kiss me right now.

My boyfriend is a nice guy after all. He still wants to kiss me after I blow up, but his blue eyes are sad now and need an embrace from this raging woman. I feel immediately guilty as part of that genetic tradition and want to take back some of the words I said. But we are in war right now, and war has its own rules. So I decide to be angry at list till the morning. I will let him kiss me than and find better solutions for Santarelli, in the morning. Meanwhile I turn my back to him and try to find a better position to sleep, on my left arm holding the pillow to cover my head. I hear the neighbor walking to the toilet walking  to the kitchen, crossing his small apartment from left to right and my boyfriend heavily breathing as we count the minutes to sunrise.

I think to hide you behind my cloud of doubts ,its spring time and paris is more patient with me !

חושבת להחביא אותך מאחרורי ענן הספקות שלי. זמן אביב ופריז יותר סבלנית עמי

My local beggar in Paris (too many to refer to them as one really) is dirty, has no shoes and he shivers at the entrance of the Metro Le Fourche near my home. sometimes he is the one with slightly shorter legs and an obvious disability, sometimes its the dirty finger nails one with torn sweater and dirty face. sometimes its the old man with truly bad shoes and dark eyes who beg so hard in a language I dont understand. they are all, not very clean, brown-eyed and with sad eyes and figure. so sad that most people when coming out of the train try to avoid while rushing up the stairs to the street of Clichey. I can’t avoid the dirty nails one. his eyes focused at an unseen point at the floor and a constant shiver makes me feel guilty . guilty of how easy it is to become poor. I handed him for the first time my change after ignoring him like everybody once or twice and feeling horrible 2 minutes later. I returned there the last time and watched him for a minute thinking of my lucky british beggar who has a hot bath and doesn’t need to take off their shoes to get people’s attention. I couldn’t care of the story that may hide behind his le miserable persona. I just wanted to feel less guilty. I exchanged an hello with him. his head was still focused at the dot on the floor, his rattling shoulders and hand are grasping my eyes . I put a shiny coin in his palm and heard a clear ” merci Madame” with a young voice, so grateful , it felt like we lost that embarrassing moment of a new encounter between a beggar and temporary lord. my coin wont get me a clear conscience I thought, feeling an expanding pain down my throat but at list I found me a new beggar to greet me when coming back home.