Four years ago , in the summer of 2006, I went to England.
I had a plan , or I thought I did. I got in contact with a sweet lady who lived on a remote island , north of Scotland . She needed volunteers to help her shear sheep. This would solve the problem of where to stay. We spoke on the phone .
My mother was restless and worried . I could see she was in a conflict. Her will to set me free ,and let me , at the not so young age of 36 to see the world was conflicted with her fears ,that the world is a dangerous place for a Jew ...
The name of the island was North Ronaldsay.
The sheep of North Ronaldsay are wild sheep .They roam free and feed on sea weed.
In my mind's eye , I was walking the shores of this small island , chasing the wild sheep in order to shear them ,and in my free time I simply wrote , or thought about life and the world ,and lofty things..
I bought a ticket for three weeks, but just to make sure , 2 days before my departure I told my plan to Mrs Friedman. Mrs Friedman is a friend. She is originally from a Jewish neighbourhood in London ,but has been living in Jerusalem for quite a few dacades. she is Ultra-orthodox , looks fragile and small ,but she is a mother of 11 children , and a grandmother of many more .
I think she was shocked ,but you can't see that on the phone. She gave me the address of her brother who lives in the Jewish neigbourhood of London ,and told me that , come what may I should go there before anything. Since I arrived in the airport late at night , I thought it would be a good idea to spend the night there. I had prepared in advance candles for lighting on Friday afternoon, lot's of food for kosher reasons : A jar of Mionese , those dreadfull cookies from Passover , that some people chocke on , 30(!) Pitta breads and a Salami sausage . Now why did I do that ???? I don't even like Salami.
As I landed, it turned out that the Mio exploded on the plain , so I had to throw one of my bags. I don't know if my readers (or should I say reader?) understand the fear of buying a ticket and going on a bus in a foreign land alone ,but it is the equivalent of going , let's say to the forests of Brazil for a regular person. To my surprise ,and in spite of my mother's warnings , I was not kidnapped by terrorists or attacked by drunk English men , nor was I pickpocketed or anything of the sort. And as for being a Jew , no one asked me about it , but sometimes Indians spoke to me Sanscrete assuming I was Indian...
It was only the next morning that I learned that England is a bit larger than Israel , so I would need a 12 hours bus ride in order to get to the city of Aberdeen where I would need to take another bus to the port , then a fairy to one island , from which I would need to wait for a plain, that goes once a day to North Ronaldsay - but not incase of rain and storm ,which are quite common... Then going back I would have to make the trip back , making sure not to miss my flight . Unlike in Israel , in England travel fair changes in the summer . The bus compeny does not respect Israeli credit cards. If you book in advance you can get a ticket for reasonable prices ,but I couldn't have known that , and in any case I could not have booked tickets from Israel , and so it was getting more and more complicated to get there .
I did get to Glasgow(about 9 hours trip form London) ,but decided to return.
My hosts , Mrs Friedman's brother and his wife thought it was crazy, but they had young friends who had three small daughters ,and they could use a helping hand.
To make a long story short , I ended up babysitting three cute girls in the afternoons and evenings . In the mornings I went to the city of London , or to a nice peacefull park called Kenwood. It was only on my last three days in that London suburb that I realised that I took the wrong bus to the city of London , so instead of a 20 minutes ride , it took me 2 hourse.
The young couple was Jewish , so there was no problem of kosher food. I was happy to get rid of the chockable Passover coockies , which they liked , as well as the chocolate , and the Salami and all the rest .
London was hot and humid like Tel Aviv ,but thinking I was going to work on the muddy shores of North Ronaldsay , I had brought all sorts of winter cloths, and so , I spent my traveling fair ,buying myself summer clothes and English books for my students and for the children I'll have when the Almighty decides to spare my soul .My spiritual journey of thinking about life and the world turned to be a materialistic shopping journey. I tried on clothes of Eve Saint Lauren on Bond street just for fun, and I saw the palace , where the queen lives . I was amused . One day a woman made a pass at me . She was a nice lady , and I like chatting with people ,but just to make sure I said I have a boyfriend (I do , I just haven't met him yet) It was a fun trip , accept for one thing that shaded over it .The usual thing :
Four days after arriving in London I learned that the second Lebanon war broke . The first two weeks of the trip , I sort of ignored it . Somewhere in the back of my mind , I just couldn't face it. I didn't go to synagogue during my stay in London until my last Shabbat (Saturday ) when I finally went . After the service, the Rebi spoke . Now, here is the difference between Israel and London. In Israel on a service a rebi would have never spoken of what is painful and sad - because one does not talk about sad things on Shabbat , but back then in London the Rebi spoke of , a young officer named Roi klein . He saved his troops by jumping on a granade , and it cost him his life . He left a wife and two boys. Hearing that was like landing from Lala land back to Earth . Tears started rolling down my cheecks ,and I felt imbaressed . I went to the ladies room and in the privecy of the toilette cried my eyes out . I think I cried for a bout half an hour ,and only after washing my face ,making sure I looked normal and Shabastic again, I went out of the synagogue . Mourning is forbidden on a Shabbat . Some say it is forbidden to cry too.
Two days later I flew back to Israel.
The next Shabbat , Friday night as we were dining , a bomb shell exploded somewhere in my region. My mother got up and stood under a door , as had been shown on T.V, but my father and I continued sitting and eating . My father because he could barely move anyway ,and myself ,because I didn't care. It was rather a funny scene.
I wonder if one of these days I will end up sheep shearing in a small island north of England.