Like most Americans my preconceived notions held that New Yorker’s are rude, arrogant, too busy, elitists and rather nasty to non-East coasters.  I met nobody like this, either from New York or visiting. From the moment I landed at JFK, the hand extended to me felt warm and inviting.  Securing a Super Shuttle into New York, the befuddled look on my face from the directions to the stop caused the agent to personally walk me over to the pick-up area, making sure I was comfortable and knew where I was going.

My first encounter: Israelis on the Shuttle

Once the shuttle picked me up, we were soon packed with eight people: a family from Australia, a couple from Israel, a native New Yorker and another couple.  At first, hearing Hebrew and recognizing the Israeli accent of the couple sitting in front of me, I was nervous.  In my hands, the book, “The Final Apostasy” by Dr. Gordon Ginn, explaining why dispensationalism, (the belief that Israel the country is the fulfillment of Daniel’s prophecy) is neither biblically based nor a Christian belief.  I was sure this set me up for the usual Zionist vs non-Zionist confrontation at that moment I preferred to avoid. Nervously, realizing hiding the book at this point wouldn’t help, I ventured a hello and welcome to the United States in Hebrew.  They were a little shocked…to say the least. 

Newlyweds, the couple pressed me about the Gaza pullout, curious about how it played here.  Seems they were rather embarrassed by the whole situation, specifically the behavior of the settlers. They had heard that America is anti-Israel.  Now it was my turn to be shocked. I explained that Americans including myself who are critical of Israel are critical of the country’s policies, not the Israeli people. Currently we are the minority. I also explained that the majority of Americans still believe the Palestinians invaded Israel.  Ball went back to them and it was their turn to be shocked.  “Don’t Americans know the truth?” the husband asked.  The short answer: no.

I gave them several examples of the one-sidedness of the reporting here and told them they’ll find it quite interesting how un-anti-Israel it is and heavily one-sided to Israel’s advantage, closing that many Americans practically worship Israel and Israelis.  They thought that was rather strange. Since most of these Israel-worshipers also call themselves Christians, I laughed and agreed.

“What do they think we are,” the young Israeli wife asked. “Superman?  We’re just people trying to survive who want to raise our families…like everyone else.”

Ultimately the young couple confirmed what I believed.  They want peace.  They are tired of the fighting.  They don’t believe the Palestinians are the sub-human vermin the settlers call them.  Also, their perception of what is happening on the other side of the wall confirms what most human rights groups and missionaries have stated: the Israeli people are largely ignorant of the reality and have bought a lot of the propaganda...though I could tell each was unable to reconcile what they were told with what they instinctively believed. Singularly disturbing to me is the young woman’s belief that Israelis and Palestinians can never live together.  In America we used to say that about blacks and whites. Time proved us wrong as well.  The Israelis are destine to discover the same.  As I watched the newlyweds alight in lower Manhattan, I smiled. There will be peace in the Middle East if this couple is an example of the quality of people in Israel.  Sincerely, I believe they are.

Good Morning New York

I began my first morning in New York foraging for a latte. Walking the streets early in the morning, I made eye contact with several people passing on their way to work. “Hello,” a man said as I smiled.  “Good Morning,” another greeted as he passed. Man or woman, if I made eye contact, each returned with a salutation and acknowledgement. Unfriendly New Yorkers…where?  That morning coffee sortie exposed me to more greetings and salutations than I experienced in three years working in Los Angeles and walking to work!  Unfriendly New Yorkers indeed.

Day II: A City of Immigrants

We stayed at the Midtown Hilton, (my sister is an executive with Hilton) and the following day my family and me walked through Central Park.

WOW!  I haven't seen such attention to detail agriculturally since the San Diego Zoo. The landscaping and attention to detail may only be appreciated walking through the park.  Pictures, whether in the movies or fixed fail to demonstrate the majesty of this giant sanctuary.  New Yorkers truly enjoy a gift.  Around us people bustled attending to their day-to-day.  Mothers and fathers walked their children, couples cuddled in the shade, (it was over ninety degrees and beautiful), joggers ran their dogs.

My first view each  morning as I took off to hunt for lattes from the roundabout at the Hilton Hotel.  The weather in late September was amazing, warm enough at night to go out without a jacket.

 I watched in amazement as a woman on inline skates kept up with traffic, using the left turn lane as if she were riding a bike or in a car. Entering one section a mime performed as people dropped dollars into her pail.  Further along musicians practiced their craft. Along the edges artisans sell their paintings, prints and sculptures.  Vendors offer ice cream, pretzels, hotdogs and cold drinks.  Soon we found ourselves at the Central Park Zoo, just in time to watch the mechanical clock do its half hour dance. (QuickTime Cell Phone Movie)

Mali Cizmic

My father and I are both artists…well, he’s an artist.  I am a work in progress. With our natural propensity for visual expression, logically we gravitated toward the street artist’s displays.  Upon perusing my mind recalled the scene in Titanic where Rose (Kate Winslet) enters her stateroom and begins unpacking the Picasso’s and Monet’s she’s purchased for a song.  Viewing the artwork by these hearty painters, I felt like Rose discovering my own unsung Picassos. Several artists possessed the gift and eye.  As a family we purchased four paintings from several artists. Next we lunched at a restaurant run by a Ukrainian immigrant family one block west of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  Our waitress was quite good and I felt like I was in a scene from Seinfeld with all of the mixtures of languages, noise and comical occurrences destine to happen in a crowded restaurant. I half expected the Soup Nazi to pop out from behind the counter.  Marveling at the use of space, I couldn't believe how many of us they packed into the tiny restaurant. Mom left a tip on the table and dad not realizing it, left another on the bill. Our waitress had a good day.

This three-dimensional stained glassed window in a Roman courtyard at the MET stands about 13 feet tall.  I'm 5'10" tall so you can see how amazing and big it is! At this point I left my family and toured the Metropolitan Museum of Art alone.  Better said, tried to tour it.  I got lost somewhere between Ancient Egypt of 300 BC and Frank Lloyd Wright of the 1920's. Exhausted upon finally locating the exit I sat down on the steps to people watch in the late afternoon sun.  The time was 4:45PM. By now, my legs were killing me, my hip felt like it would fall off and I was sure new blisters had grown. Unfortunately I noticed the line of cabs, plentiful upon my entry into the museum now seemed non-existent.

After watching a man about thirty in full Hasidic dress attempt to hail a cab for twenty-minutes with no luck, I realized I would need to walk back to my hotel...if I could remember which street it was on. There was something about sixth avenue maybe?  Was that midtown, uptown or downtown?  How do I know the difference?  Wracking my brain I began to walk south.  Soon I came upon one of the artists whose work I'd admired.  His charming demeanor beckoned.

My artist is Mali Cizmic, a fifty-two year old Catholic Croatian with a beautiful accent, handsome, witty and an ingratiating personality.  A man of the world, Cizmic graced through residency Italy, France and now America. His paintings can be found in many of America’s top companies and homes.  For my fiancé, who holds a special passion for Italy, Venice specifically, I purchased his painting of the Grand Canal and spent a good fifteen minutes discussing several issues.

The Grand Canal by Mali Cizmic

To my surprise I learned he spends significant time with several Christian charities and I look forward to speaking with him further about these.  Exchanging contact information, not only did I get a great painting for my fiancé, I made a new friend.  Got to love it when that happens.

Dorothy

A few feet down I stopped at a button vendor, a retired supporting various causes by selling buttons two for five dollars.  Two immediately caught my eye: “If the People Lead, the Leaders will Follow.”  Chuckling my irony I picked it up and commented, “This is exactly what I’ve been trying to tell people. Can I get this in a billboard instead?”

At this time a woman in her sixties came up and began looking at the buttons. “That should say, “If the People Lead the Leaders MUST Follow,” she corrected with a thick New York accent.  I readily agreed.

We began discussing the pending anti-war rally Cindy Sheehan and others were leaving for in DC, due to take place the following day. “I know many who are going,” she lamented.  “.  I really wish I could go. I am just too afraid they (the Bush Administration) will try to instigate something and people will get hurt.”  I realized her reference went back to the Democratic Convention in 1970 which resulted in a riot and several deaths.

“I don’t think they (government) will do that,” I commented. “With hurricane Rita hitting landfall, all the news coverage will be about that. There is no reason to deflect attention.  Mother Nature filled that bill.” 

(Consequently, my prediction became true.  Though tens of thousands of people showed up and protested in DC, none of the headline services I get on my cell mentioned it, nor CNN’s Headline News the few times I caught it that day.  Ironically, Sunday’s pro-war rally in DC attracted just 400 people yet received multiple headlines through these same services.  The anti-war rallies were finally mentioned from the previous day only then as a means to give reason for the pro-war rally).

Our discussion continued and the woman Dorothy and I walked together along the west side of Central Park, immersed in conversation. I glanced at my watch and realized I was late; I’d miss catching up with my family to head over to the Hilton Theater, yet I didn’t want to leave, enjoying this walk fully. My mother the following morning registered her displeasure with me in her classic passive-aggressive manner.  Fortunately at my age, I have no problem pointing the futility and immaturity of this behavior point blank to my mother. 

A lifelong resident of New York, Dorothy told me of her Jewish roots and her current love of the people at her church, specifically the diversity.  Unlike most churches in the United States, her's holds no favor to a specific ethnicity.  This cornucopia of humanity represented her passion for her congregation, something I easily related to.  Like Dorothy, I enjoy living and being around people of many cultures.  I find it challenges me, invigorates and teaches. Having recently listened to Dr. Philip Jenkins’ report on the state of Christianity in Africa, which is exploding and the decline of it in the US which to this day remains largely segregated, this detail of a church in Manhattan frequented by people of multiple ethnicities encouraged me. I wonder if Dorothy and her fellow parishioners know they represent a cresting wave in the revitalized direction of Christianity? Or how important their special congregation really is; perhaps now they shall.

As we walked, Dorothy spoke of her son, an entrepreneur like me and around my age.  She asked me if I had ever heard of The President’s Club, an informal but influential group he belonged to.  Being in the internet business in LA and a frequenter of Ivy League Alumni events, I had heard of it, but knew little. I found her knowledge of it fascinating.  In the proximate sentence, she stunned me.

“My son is working with American, Israeli and Palestinian businessmen currently residing in Jordan to fund businesses and create opportunities in Gaza and Palestine.”

For anyone who follows my political writings, you’ll know my passion for finding a peaceful end to the Israel/Palestine conflict, separating Israeli politics from US politics—a situation required for the health of both nations, and ending the apartheid conditions currently existing in Israel. As Dorothy stated this, I reached in my purse and showed her the second button I’d bought: an Israeli and Palestinian flag united with the words, “Friendship & Peace”.  

At that moment I knew why God made me late in meeting with my parents. I’d deal with the expected parental verbal flogging later.  My chance meeting with Dorothy held a greater purpose. Reflecting on this fact, I felt my eyes well.  Marveling at chance, I responded to her.

“I would really enjoy meeting your son,” I stated. Unknowingly she'd hit upon a soft spot with me.

Saving Israeli, Palestinian and American lives, losses caused by the policies, racism and twisted theology of both the United States and Israel hinges upon the corroboration and cooperation between faiths, nationalities and races. Bridges span this gap in business and in sports via Israel’s Soccer Team’s two Palestinian players. Remember it was Jesse Owens in 1936 who demonstrated to Americans, black is American.  Wilma Rudolph, Hank Aaron and New York’s own Harlem Globetrotters helped break down the prejudice defining America.  Business serves as the premier generator of equality. Palestinians, an extremely intelligent people, posses more doctorates per capita than any nationality on this planet. Israel has in its own backyard, the most valuable resource ever conceived: people of tremendous intelligence, will and ingenuity. This asset, the people, is worth more than buckets of oil, natural gas or gold. Many in Israel realize this.  Unfortunately, more do not. Eventually they will.

Thus ended my first thirty-six hours in New York City.  Friday and Saturday’s adventures would prove even more surprising, but for that you’ll need to wait until next week.  Man, do I love this city!

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