I remember a high wind and driving rain. Night is darker here, I thought, as the bus’s engine expired in a series of knocks that sounded like the final beats of a broken heart. We pulled our duffel bags and backpacks from the luggage compartment and dragged them in the direction of the faintly lit doorway of the remotest of immigrant absorption centers, in Kiryat Shmona, in the Galilean panhandle, in the uttermost north. It would be, for the viagra soft tabs online pharmacy next three months, our home and our school, the beginning of cialis by mail a year’s stay in Israel.
“Only once in his life can a person arrive in the Land of Israel for the first time,” wrote Yehuda Ya’ari, with regret and, probably, considerable remorse. Ya’ari, a literary light of the idealistic, ideological, post-Great War Third Aliya, abandoned his socialist kibbutz paradise early on and parted from his utopian comrades. He was still alive, and living in Jerusalem, when I arrived in the Land of Israel that October night three decades ago – not that I knew of him then.
There were 28 of us in the shabby lobby of the absorption center, waiting to be assigned our rooms. Damp spots stained the corners of the ceiling where the rain was seeping through, and the plaster was cracked. A telephone – one of a handful in the entire town – stood on the reception desk at one end of zithromax on sale the room, firmly locked.
I’d made some initial acquaintances on the four-hour ride up from the airport….
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