Katka in Katamon

Tonight I went to a party for my friend Katka's birthday. She is one of a number of Polish people I've become friends with, and at the party in her Katamon apartment I was the only American among a large group of Czecks, Polacks, and Israelis. We drank Czeck vodka (a strangely thick yellow liquid that tasted like cloves and cinnamon), red wine, and cherry liqueor, smoked out of a huge communal hooka, and sang "happy birthday" in three different languages. We talked about politics (of course), the American accent versus the British accent, the fascinating circumstances that led us each to Israel, and Katke's dog, a mix of--unbelievably--a Daschund and a German Shepherd. Nobody knows which parent was which, but I think we all secretly hope the father was the Daschund. And what a brave, desperate little Daschund that must have been.

I also got into an interesting discussion about religion with a British/Israeli Jewish educator, and I found that, in spite of my recent spiritual quasi-ennui, I described and half-defended my faith with a vigor I don't actually feel. You can take the girl out of the religion...