All through my self-isolation, into the nation-wide quarantine and the travel ban, my mom started each day by taking a photo in her daily hike and sharing it with me, all copped up in my Tel Aviv apartment. My parents live in the southern part of the north of Israel, which is a convoluted way to say they are only an hour away. It's a village my grandparents built, where my parents grow up, fell in love and spent most of their adult life, and where I spent my childhood.
Through her eyes I saw the changing landscape, from winter greens to spring blossoms to summer browns. As we moved into summer, she struggled to find an image worthy of capturing, with everything around us drying out, taking on shades of yellow and brown. Very little is green in the middle east in summer, and summers are seemingly endless.
As the second nation-wide quarantine came to an end, I took the opportunity to pack a bag and travel to my family's home. With the hottest September ever recorded, autumn winds were late to arrive. This year they started in mid-October, right on time for me taking my impromptu break. I love fall in Israel. It is nothing like the real fall where the leaves turns shades of red and yellow. It is so fleeting that some people say it doesn't even exist. But it does - it's in the summer sun going softer around the edges. It's in the blossoms of the Carub tree, who's male flowers emit a strong, distinct scent. And it's in the winds, showing up every afternoon.
I set my new "office" on the deck, moving around as the sun climbs and then descents in the sky. I look around the yard and remember how it's changed, and how it stayed the same throughout my childhood into adulthood. The home that was once my grandparents', a small red-roofed two-bedroom, is now my parents's. The Ficus Religiosa , once dominating the yard with its twice-a-year fruits, is no longer here. The Plane tree, once overshadowed by the Ficus, now gets its litteral place in the sun. Every once in a while one of its fruits - green, round and spiky - falls on the roof in a loud bang.
The Toot Shami - a local mulberry tree - bears the best berries known to humankind. Trust me, it's better than any berry you've ever tasted. It's dead now though, yet somehow still providing us a few berries each year. Its skeleton is a like a memorial to the grand tree it once was. Many hours of joy were spent here by several generations of family children, climbing naked on the tree to gorge on its fruits, racing against time and the endless parade of insects drawn to it. I still remember how its bark felt under my bare feet as I was standing on its almost horizontal branches to fill pots and pots with the juiciest purplest fruit, turned into a tangy-sweet sauce by my mother. I recently read that in Syria this is sold in juice form by street vendors during its short season. Why didn't we ever think of that, I wonder.
The bougainvillea on the other hand, is blossoming. It seems to be in bloom all year long, its dark pink flowers visible at a distance. It is one of a few plants that provide some colour in the long summer months.
The crows wake me up every morning. I say morning but I mean 4 am. The parrots , once a rare sighting now so regular my nephews don't even know they are not local, swoop over every afternoon, calling each other very loudly and occasionally drop a pecan they nicked off the tree further in the yard.
Every morning we see signs of wildlife around us. Wild boars come visit, leaving behind patches of muddy overturned garden. They are vegetarians but running into them at night is not very pleasant. There's a porcupine family living somewhere among the farmhouse buildings. I've never seem one alive, but they often leave a quill or two behind.
There are several cats around. They are not wild, nor do they belong to us. They merely tolerate our presence in what they surely believe is theirs to rule. There used to be a big, ugly ginger male roaming the out-houses, impregnating every female cat around. He is gone now, and with him the ginger line.
There is a wasp that comes for a round every morning, hoovering around me looking for food, then leaving when she doesn't find any. Bees are always around, certain plants buzzing of them. Being the daughter of a bee keeper, i'm used to their presence. I've been stung enough times to know it's not a pleasant experience, but nothing to fear too much.
There is a pile of tubers ready to go in with first rain. My father and my nephew are planting artichokes, the 2 years old appointing himself in charge of the hose, soaking everything and everyone, including himself. He adores his grandfather, just as much as he adores everything to do with noisy farm tools. Nature vs. Nurture has a clear answer with him.
It's easy to forget the outside here. I wake up, have a cup of coffee with the morning paper, go for a hike, eat a salad for breakfast (it's only 8:00 by now!), start my work day. I take a break at 10:30 or so, make another cup of coffee. Lunch is at 12:30, appropriate for people who've been up since before sunrise. A quick nap, then afternoon work. Dinner at 19:00, salad again, and then some TV or a book and off to bed at 10:00. It's not as if my life in Tel Aviv is much different, but in here this routine feels at home. I'm not deluding myself that this is life for people who live here, but it's so relaxing it's almost tempting to imagine this as my life. It's the best vacation you can have in this strange new world, and I often wonder how did we get so used to go places, moving around, spending money.
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