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I came across a couple of interesting riddles lately. One was introduced by a good friend, Barak Paztal, who just returned from Beijing (welcome back Barak and Irit), the other was told on the radio. I thought they are worth sharing. I will share the solutions (and some insights) next week. Anyone cares to take a crack at the riddles? Any insights?
1. If one wanted to surround the earth with rope, he will need roughly 40,000 km of rope. What if he wanted to have the rope 1 meter away from the ground, how much additional rope is needed?
2. A father of three was on his deathbed. He was the owner of seventeen camels. He wrote a will: “please give half my camels to my older son, a third to the middle son, and two ninths to the youngest”. The brothers were utterly and totally confused. They didn’t know how to execute the will. Finally they went to a wise lady who lived close by. She solved the problem for them. Can you guess what her solution was?
As I said, solutions and insights next week.
My wife and I took the kids to see “Up” yesterday. My younger child is six, and he is at the point where he is almost ready to sit still for the duration of a movie. “Up” is a wonderful summer children movie. Only it isn’t a children’s movie at all. Of course, all children would see a young and clumsy child befriending an older man for a beautiful adventure with a mechanical dog, an amazing and colorful big bird and a crazy explorer. Using an actual house hooked up to what seems to be thousands of balloons, the unlikely couple goes to South America, following the tracks of the crazy explorer. The superficial level is funny, refreshing, and sweet. But there’s a lot more to it. There’s another level, possibly more.
The story begins with two young children striving for adventure. They marry later on in life, sadly unable to have children of their own, even sadder not being able to fulfill their dreams. They are shown saving nickels and dimes in a large glass bottle. The “adventure savings bank” keeps getting smashed for its content due to urgent needs: a broken car, a storm, an illness. The wife dies, and the sour taste of broken dreams fills the screen and the heart. It is then that I had some reflections, which caused my eyes to water. My six years old boy saw it and asked if I was catching a cold, so I sneezed a couple of times and assure him that indeed, I was coming down with something…
My reflections were twosome. One on myself, and the other on a close friend of mine. As for me, my dreams were not broken. In fact, I believe I went further than I ever thought I would, I have seen more places than I dreamed about, I met people more exotic than I could imagine, I read books and magazines way more exciting than I could ever hope for, I experienced. I have been blessed with a great family. Wonderful parents, a sister and a brother. Great children, great nieces and nephews. You could say that my dreams were not extremely ambitious, and I might actually agree. But they weren’t modest, and I believe I accomplished at least the realistic part of my dreams and aspirations. Possibly more. I am a happy man.
But my heart went out to a good friend of mine, whom I believe had very little expectations from life, but wasn’t even able to have those expectations realized. She grew up expecting to marry some guy, and to serve him as is common in her community. Like her mother and four sisters, she expected to have many children, work outside the home, cook, clean, wash, entertain guests, raise children. She was expected to be happy with what she had, to not spend a lot of money, to save, to be modest. She dreamed only to be treated nicely. And she wasn’t. In fact, she isn’t. For twenty something years, she has been taken for granted, by her husband and children, day in day out. Watching “Up”, I was thinking, if I had a big bundle of balloons, at least a metaphoric one, I would let her use it. So at least one time in her life, she would be able to take off.
And to all I would say: for as long as you breathe, never stop dreaming, and never stop pursuing happiness. (And never let anyone take you for granted).
A Swedish reporter is accusing the Israeli military of capturing Palestinians for the sole purpose of harvesting their organs (more).
To my dear friends in Sweden. You may have the wrong perception. My ancestors did not use children blood for religious rituals. In fact, one could claim that my ancestors blood was used for some rituals, religious or not. And my military, sure as hell, didn’t capture Palestinians in order to harvest their organs. The accusation is ridiculous as much as it is despicable. Like most blood libels are. Nobody cares to provide proof, and proving it false is impossible. But Israelis would never badmouth the Swedes. After all, they make real good cars, and after all many Swedish girls made Israel their home. I, personally, feel sorry for them. After all living such boring life, surrounded by more than reasonable neighbors, with strong economy, and lots of blond women, does not provide a people with the mental skills to understand or relate to the environment we live in.
I hope that in the future, their reality changes enough to help them develop these skills.
In 1967, the Israeli airforce took the Egyptian airforce by complete surprise, practically concluding the war before it even started. Superiority in the sky, we were taught, is everything. I certainly was not an accredited military strategist when I was young, nor am I today. But at the age of fifteen, I knew I wanted to be one. They were young, handsome, in great shape, and they enjoyed the admiration of the men, and the hearts of the women. In addition, it seemed like a good combination of profession and hobby. I decided to join the “air scouts”. A youth movement sponsored by the air force, which used the love of aviation and the building of model airplanes to lure kids into signing up. I spent a couple of years learning aerodynamics, avionics, and building model airplanes from pieces of balsa trees, rice paper, and glue. It was a lot of fun, and I remember those days fondly.
I didn’t become a pilot, although many years later, when I was close to forty, I did take flying lessons only to realize that after all, I was going to leave the business of flight to the professionals. I decided to love airplanes and traveling, and hate self aviation… My six years old boy, like many his age, love airplanes. He is fascinated with the idea of flying machines. A few months back, as we were driving back from Eilat and through Beer Sheba, we saw signs for the Israeli Air force Museum. Last Friday I kept my word. We picked my parents up in Tel Aviv, and headed south to the Israeli Air Force Museum.
 We were walking around along the long lines of old airplanes. Turboprops, jets, double winged, cargo, reconnaissance aircraft. They were all there, motionless, weathered. Many have seen combat. Some took part in defending the skies of this small country. One, nicknamed Downs Champion, downed thirteen enemy airplanes… So much history, so much activity, such a shameful end. I was standing there, looking at Spitfires, Messerschmidts, Sikorskies, Belles, Phantoms (F4E), Skyhawks, F-15, F-16, and I could easily imagine the roar of their engines, see the smoke coming out of the exhaust pipes, the pilots signing the victory signs. I could almost smell the fumes of the jet fuel. Seeing them standing in line, some with little or no air in the tires, their flags and signs faded away, I felt mainly respect. Respect to the old and experienced. Respect to the ones who gave their share, maybe more, and were let go when the time came.
Then, as I was taking off on the wings of my imagination, the roar of a fighter jet was heard, and then another one. Two fighter planes engaged in a dog fight. One was obviously trying evasive maneuvers to escape the attacker. They were flying low and hard. They were flying fast. But then, when they flew over the museum, I thought I saw them wave their wings in recognition and respect of the old.
Three generations of men were present. My seventy four year old father, myself, and my six years old son. I have plenty of respect for my father, I can only hope that my son has the same respect for me. Three generations: old glories, present routines, and future hopes. We each had our own memories and thoughts triggered by seeing the old flying machines.
The Israeli Air Force Museum. I strongly recommend.
It was late at night. I was driving back from Washington DC to Long Island New York where I was going to school at the time. It was year 1987 and I was driving a 1980 Oldsmobile Delta 88, converted diesel to gas engine (in short a young clunker). It was dark, I was by myself driving north on route 95, I felt my steering wheel pulling to the right, I managed to stop on the shoulder to realize that I was one tire short. The doughnut (a ridiculously small spare tire, placed in great American cars, which is good for 50 miles only) was out of air. I was stuck. The only two positive things I remember from that night was the huge statue of Virgin Mary, “Our Lady of the Highways”, and the policemen who helped.
Mind you, just in case you were wondering what happened to cellular phones, AAA or any other roadside service – the year was 1987. No cellular phone was available to poor students. Such as myself.
 Five minutes after I pulled over, a Highway Patrol car pulled over as well. There were two officers inside. I saw them fiddling with some radios, then I was instructed over a loud speaker in a very strict voice: “keep your hands on the steering wheel please”. The driving officer then left his vehicle and slowly stepped over to mine. He was holding a flashlight, and was hand was gently touching the holstered gun. He signed for me to roll down the window. “Slowly” he said, “slowly”. I complied. Of course. Big car, with dark colors. The flashing red and blue lights. The stick, the uniform, the hat, the look. The climate was very clear: “do as you are told”. I did. With the window rolled, the officer said: “good evening sir, what seems to be the problem?”. I described the situation, and the climate changed immediately. He became all smiles, and willing to help. To make a long story short, the cop radioed in a request for a tow truck. A few minutes later, I was towed to a near auto shop.
My first experience with US police was intimidating at first, but in the end, they helped me. I concluded that they actually mean it when they state that their mission is to “protect and serve”.
Years later, in Tucson Arizona, I was driving to work one morning. I was listening to loud music, enjoying the early hours of the desert morning. When I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw the police car so close to me, I almost freaked out. I pulled over right away. The approach procedure was repeated. I must have been so anxious, that the policeman actually asked me to relax, explained that he was pacing me, that I was speeding, that he was going to give me a ticket, that I should take it easy and refrain from speeding in the future. I was thankful. Indeed, the $50.00 ticket was a poor way to spend hard earned money, but the lesson was priceless. I paid it gladly.
The reason was simple. I wanted to believe that the intimidation is practiced on all. And that by practicing it, it helps protecting me and my family as well. I liked the “bad policeman” concept. Particularly since it was also helpful, and it helped me to feel protected.
If you have the unhappy experience of being pulled over by Israeli police, you will have a different experience altogether. For starters, you will be asked to step out of the car and walk over to the cop, sitting comfortably in the plain looking blue and white police car. Begging will not help, explanation won’t either. The cop will not try to help you. The citation will be written, the window rolled up, and off you go back to your car. Not an intimidating or educational experience.
And then it strikes you. The cop is not intimidating to you, nor he is to all the potential rapists and murderers walking the streets. I’d rather have Israeli police in big bad cars, wearing dark uniform with mandatory hats. The Israeli cop should walk over to your car (not vice versa). The Israeli policeman should at least make you believe that he protects you, and possibly even serves you. But in all honesty, I wish for only one thing. It’s in my head, of course, and I don’t think the police can change it. I wish that when I see something wrong, like a crime in progress, some juvenile delinquents misbehaving, some drunk driving, I wish that the first thought in my mind would be: “call the police, they will be here shortly, and they will take care of the situation”. Instead, all I can think about is: “don’t bother calling the police, they will not come, and even if they do, they can do nothing to take care of the situation”.
And until Israeli police fixes my perception (and the perceptions of millions of other Israeli citizens), I expect nothing.
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