In memory of the Holocaust :An Artist in Search of his Mentor: A story about roots and tolerance

An Artist in Search of his Mentor: A story about roots and tolerance


In Creative Painting for the Young Artist, a book I conceived about developing one’s artistic expression, one of the suggestions I give is to find a mentor to emulate. Unpredictably, my mentor became my artist grandfather, Jozef Alster. Jozef was liberated by the US army from the Buchenwald concentration camp, only to die a few days later from pneumonia, and right before my father had a chance to reunite with him. All through my childhood, I longed to know him, and one day I finally did.

A beautiful painting of a ruined medieval castle hung above my father's bed. The yellow stoned castle looked mystical and was perched high above a crest on a towering green mountain, easily a backdrop to some Dungeons and Dragons game. I wondered if the castle was real or from fantasy, like something out of a Brothers’ Grimm fairy tale. In the corner, it was signed “J. Alster.” I asked my father who “J. Alster” was, and he told me that it was his father, Jozef Alster, which happened to be where my Hebrew namesake came from. I questioned, who exactly is the fellow I have the honor to be named after and where was he hiding? I never met him. If he isn’t around then so- be -it I suppose. But how did the painting get here, above my father's bed? And come to think of it, if this painting was the work of one of my family, then why can’t I paint like this? I knew I had problems drawing a straight line properly. Why doesn't he come and offer to teach me how to draw and paint? All these questions were quite intriguing for a young lad just running out to play.

I asked my father where he was born, and he told me he came from the city of Wodavitza, Poland – the same city where the Polish Pope came from. I was amazed. I asked my father if he met the Pope as a boy, and he answered, "Yes, I must have. It was a small town. I must have bumped into him walking on the street or playing soccer in the park." The castle in the painting must be in Poland, I surmised. My father brought me along to visit his Aunt Sara in Crown Heights, New York. I was psyched to make this trip, thinking maybe my granddad would be there too. Sure enough, paintings from my grandfather adorned her walls, and a real large one hung behind the dining table, right behind me when I sat down to eat. Sadly, my grandfather was nowhere to be found. I asked my father how my aunt got the paintings from grandfather. The story began, Jozef Alster sold Aunt Sarah the paintings in Germany, and that's how they were saved. Aunt Sarah then gave a few of these precious paintings to my father when he arrived in the USA. Unfortunately, I was told, grandfather is no longer around, (but at that point in my life, my father did not reveal the exact reason why.)

This was confusing to me then, as I was just a young lad. Apparently now I have an aunt from Germany, a father from Poland, and a grandfather from both Germany and Poland. Before the war, as the stories would begin, all the others moved to Germany from Poland to have a better life, but were forced back to Poland when the Reich gained power. My aunt's family immigrated to the USA from Germany before the war, as Albert Einstein did, and brought the paintings they acquired from my grandfather. Thus his works of art were preserved. Yet, the mystery of the painting in my father’s room remained. Where then, was that castle my grandfather painted? Was it in Germany, Poland, or somewhere else entirely? Did it even exist? The rest of my family that I visited did not know for sure, but they did say he painted while vacationing somewhere in Germany. Germany then is the location.

Either way, I felt it was a real pity and a real loss that my grandfather was not around to teach me to paint and draw. I could not even draw a straight line if my life depended on it. Then one day, when I was 22 years old, I was required to enroll in an art appreciation class in college. Showing some photos of ancient Egyptian art and then comparing them to Renaissance art, the professor said something that changed my life. He declared that art progressed with time, and that anyone – yes, anyone – could be an artist. I almost fell off my chair. Anyone can be an artist? Anyone could be taught to paint? I was under the impression then that you have to have been born with artistic talent. After that breakthrough, I signed up for an art instruction class, put out my first painting in 1977, and from that day led a life embellished with art.

After twenty years of painting, visiting museums, and going to workshops, I have to say I produced and sold some quality artwork. I was so proud of what I was able to create and of my newfound confidence in this ability, I wanted to share it with anyone else who struggled as I did to make this possible, and thus Creative Painting for the Young Artist was born. In this book, I describe how to build one’s ability to express oneself creatively through art amongst examples of my art throughout the years, mostly consisting of pastel paintings of various scenes in Israel. As I mentioned earlier in this chapter, one of the main highlights in my book is to encourage new artists to find a mentor. I wanted my grandfather to be my mentor somehow, so as a memorial to him, I featured one of his paintings in the book. Seeking to determine if the painting was from a professional or a layman I gave the painting my personal critique. My grandfather’s work was a shining example how a true artist would use composition, perspective, focal and vanishing points, visual movement, and how to detail the area of interest. It was through this book that I at last met my mentor, my dear grandfather, and brought him back to life.

After publishing this tribute, I still could not help but wonder if I will ever discover where the castle painting was from. The Internet was now available to use as a resource. As far as I could tell, there were no paintings from Jozef Alster for sale or display on the net. Through Internet sites on the castles of Germany, I scoured for the skyline of that castle. Eventually I discovered, with stunning irony, a building called Alster Tower. According to the reference I found, this tower served as a playhouse but did not look like the castle Jozef painted. Its design resembled that of a defense tower similar to those on the Alster River in Germany near Hamburg, yet despite this military overtone, Alster Tower reportedly was intended for the entertainment of guests. Did my grandfather paint a tower after one of the towers on the Alster River in Hamburg? Or, better yet, knowing that he came originally from Poland, did my grandfather actually assume the German name "Alster" and signed his paintings so? If this was true somehow, could it be that he used this tactic to avoid expulsion from Germany as a Polish Jewish migrant?

I later found out that Alster is indeed a German name, but it was also used in Austria where my grandfather served during the First World War. “Alster” signified the magpie bird, a symbol of Austria. According to my research, Austria ruled parts of Poland before the Polish declared independence. Henceforth, Polish Jews like my grandfather really could have had a German name as Alster, and did.

Living in Israel in 2005, I planned to take a vacation with a Russian lady friend. She wanted to see the snow like in Russia, and I wanted a cool vacation from hot Israel. She wanted to have a companion who spoke English, feeling as though she could not navigate well in Germany with solely her native Russian or Hebrew. Since I had been to Switzerland and Frankfurt, Germany already, I suggested beautiful Bavaria, Germany. Close to the border with Switzerland and the Alps, Bavaria was teeming with castles there like the Neuschwanstein of Sleeping Beauty Disneyland fame. I was comfortable with visiting Germany by this point – the war was certainly over by now – and I thought that maybe, just maybe, I will see the castle my granddad painted there.

As I had predicted, Bavaria was just beautiful. The hills covered in snow, lakes, streams, and woodlands reminded me of wintry Vermont or New Hampshire. Maybe that is why my dad settled in New England – it reminded him of home somehow. We had a grand time touring the old Bavarian towns on the so-called "Romance Trail.” There were castles there all right, but not that ruined castle my grandfather depicted. We stayed at a hotel just under the Neuschwanstein, and I sat out on the porch at night. The sky was clear and the castle was all lit up with flickering stars in the distance.

The next day, we awoke to a Bavarian breakfast. We made plans to head back north and make some stops at the different towns along the way to Munich. I peered out the window and saw some snow flurries dusting over the blizzard that crept up overnight. We checked out and headed to clean off the car, which was parked out in the open. I had not driven in winter weather in quite some time, and after seeing all this, I wondered if we would even be able to make it out of the parking lot. Sure enough, our massive rented German Mercedes could not make it up the incline from the parking lot to the road. It was unbelievable. Again and again, our German juggernaut kept sliding back down the driveway. It was no match for the snow and ice without snow tires or proper chains. Being stuck in Bavaria was not too awful, but we did want to press on. I never imagined that I would be stranded in the Bavarian snow with a German car.

It was under these circumstances that I would meet with my second genuine German. Hans was a handsome young man whose parents owned the hotel. When I met him, I couldn’t help but think to myself, Hans is such a stereotypical German name. I was surprised it was still being used. With blond hair, blue eyes, and a quiet demeanor, he seemed like the poster child for the Hitler youth. He knew I was from Israel too, since we had registered our home addresses at the hotel and showed them our passports too. Hans’s mom had been out shoveling snow, and seeing that we were stranded, called Hans and told him to please help us. He tried for about a full 30 minutes to put on the snow chains on the tires for us. We did receive snow chains for the rental car at the airport in Munich, but as Murphy’s Law would have it, they turned out to be the wrong size. Hans told us he would have to drive us into town and get a new pair from the dealer, so we traveled five miles into town, got the right chains, and he spent another half hour in the snow strapping them on. With the new chains, we were able to make it up the incline to the road and the main roads were cleared. I wanted to give Hans special thanks. I gave him a copy of my art book with the photo of the German castle in it. A little melodramatically, I looked him in the eyes and just came out and told him, "My last name is Alster. Alster is a German name." Without giving it a second thought, I opened up to the page with my grandfather’s mysterious castle and showed it to him. "The castle in the book, my grandfather painted it. This is a German castle. Enjoy.” Thinking about the significance of what I was telling him, that I have German roots and heritage too, even if I am Jewish. I felt like I was trying to explain to him that Germany too was a homeland, and the relationship between Jews and Germans under even the simplest conditions will always be weighted by history. That it is alright for Jews now to visit Germany – the war is finally over. If other Jews visit Bavaria, I would hope that they will stay at his family’s wonderful hotel and be more than welcomed. Hans’ act of helping me was one of the kindest things anyone has done for me. We got into the car and drove off. A few miles down the road the chains fell right off again.



I left Germany without knowing where the castle was. In 2006, back in Zichron Yacov, Yom Ha’zikaron (Remembrance Day) had arrived and I was with my youngest daughter Limor. Reflecting on the Holocaust, "Dad,” she asked me, “what's the story again of the painting that survived the Holocaust? How did it get to Israel?” I told her that I have tried researching the castle’s origins in any way that I could think of, and that the best results turned up from a topographical map search of Germany focused in the Rhine area, far from Bavaria. Intrigued, Limor suggested I use Google images, which was brand new at the time. We searched for the words castle, Germany, and Rhine together, and voila! The very first photo that shows up is Drachensfels castle. Eureka! 10-4, BINGO, Kunta Kinte, that’s it! The ruined walls, the colors of the scenery, the windows in the towers, the adjacent hill – it was a perfect match, conjured with my daughter’s idea right before my eyes; "Limor, you did it.”

But, there are only two walls in the castle photo and three walls in the painting. Could it have been ruined during the war? That made no sense. If one wall was knocked off by a powerful blast, the chances are that the other walls would be damaged too. How come this ruined castle is in worse shape than the other castles in Germany, and still standing intact? Either the Allies saved the castles from destruction during the war, or someone bothered to renovate them quite well. If so, what happened to the third wall? If this was the same castle, had my grandfather merely taken some artistic license? We searched further and found “Drachensfels” meant “fallen dragon.” Dragons brought to mind dinosaurs, which brought to mind the premise of Jurassic Park, and I wondered if dinosaurs really could be resurrected through experiments with their DNA, perhaps I could somehow bring my granddad back to life as well so he could explain this great mystery. After all, why paint this castle out of all the castles in Germany? If I found its location, could I discover the position in which my grandfather created this painting? Above all, is there anything so special about it that the painting alone could not reveal? The painting itself was beginning to reveal her secrets.

I pushed onward, looking up Drachensfels Castle and Google yielded me more clues: “Drachensfels Castle is the remnant of a proud castle of which today only the high tower is still seen. The hill and the castle enjoy tremendous popularity and is a popular tourist destination. The view from the 1050-ft.-high summit is considered one of the most famous on the Rhine. The former masters of the castle, the Counts of Drachensfels had a winged, fire-spitting dragon in their coat of arms. In the last century, the stone quarries jeopardized the hilltop and the tower. These had been continually extended until the Government stepped in, taking over the peak and safeguarding the ruins from any further danger. “

Is my grandfather's painting, like a time machine, witness to the damage from the quarry? The third castle wall is now gone. Out of all the things a caption might say, here under the image of the castle, "In the last century, the hilltop and the tower were jeopardized by the stone quarries.” Yet, here, it fits in like another piece to the puzzle. Interestingly, one of the reasons artists paint nature scenes is to capture beautiful scenery for remembrance before it is swept away by modernity. Was Jozef an artist like that?

So, at last, I can make an educated guess as to why my grandfather painted this particular castle. It is popular in Germany as a tourist attraction and has a natural aura full of adventure stories and fantasy. Perhaps he might have thought he could sell it to one of the tourists just as I would with my own paintings of Israel. Whatever the truth, for me he survived the Holocaust through his art, and that he was certainly someone worthy of looking up to as a mentor.

 

New book decodes Israeli culture to Americans

New book decodes Israeli culture to Americans


The Jewish Ledger

By Cindy Mindell

Published: Wednesday, April 7, 2010 1:05 PM EDT















WEST HARTFORD - Jason Alster was in an Israeli movie theater when he decided to write a book. He was watching "Under the Tuscan Sun," a film version of the memoir by American writer Frances Mayes, who moves to Tuscany in search of a new life.



Alster, a Hartford native, made aliyah in 1984. "During the movie I realized that I had had similar experiences while moving to and living in a Mediterranean country," he says. "I too started anew, acclimated with the locals, and had funny and enlightening encounters with the characters I met. I became conscious that I was now really a part of this corner of the world. Couldn't I write a book about it?"



Alster moved back to the U.S. in 2007 and published "Leaving Home, Going Home, Returning Home: A Hebrew American's Sojourn in the Land of Israel" in 2009. It's a guidebook of sorts, he says, not just for Jewish readers, "but for anybody interested in learning about Israeli culture."



After earning degrees from Yeshiva University and the College of Medicine and Dentistry of New Jersey (now the University of Medicine and Dentistry of New Jersey), Alster worked in neuro-electrodiagnostics in the college's neurology department and researched sleep disorders at the New York University Medical Center.



In 1984, at age 28, he moved to Israel, where he continued his work on sleep research and eventually became an expert in biofeedback, using the technique to treat sleep disorders, psychiatric disorders, ADD/ADHD, and learning disabilities.



After 23 years in Israel - where he served in the military, married and divorced, raised two daughters, and published two books - Alster started thinking about returning to the U.S. He had a life-threatening medical issue that defied treatment in Israel. He had several creative projects that he couldn't complete there. He decided to move back to his home town. "Leaving Home, Going Home, Returning Home" traces that journey, and offers a unique perspective on what is quirky, endearing, baffling, and infuriating about Israeli culture. Alster also looks at changes in American and Israeli cultures over the last two decades. For one, he says, Israel is becoming like any other modern nation in terms of its attitude toward immigration. Natan Sharansky, director of the Jewish Agency for Israel, recently announced that the agency is changing its focus from promoting aliyah to strengthening Jewish identity. "Most people say, 'That's nice,' but they don't understand how groundbreaking that is for Israel," Alster says. "Historically and religiously, a Jew should make aliyah - the Right of Return is a very basic tenet of Israel, and in the past, Israeli officials visiting the U.S., would encourage aliyah. A couple of million Russian Jews immigrated and there is no longer room."



"When I first moved to Israel, Israelis would say, 'You're joining the cause, we're surrounded by Arabs, we need every single person,' and I felt that I was part of the spirit," Alster says. "When the Jewish Agency changed its focus, and aliyah was taken over by organizations like Nefesh b'Nefesh and Birthright, Israelis said, 'We don't want more people coming and taking our jobs. We'll give you identity but you don't have to stay.' In my last year in Israel, you could cut the feeling with a knife."



Upon his return to the U.S., what most struck Alster was the change in race relations, one factor that had led to his decision to leave in the '80s. "In the '60s and '70s when I grew up in West Hartford, there were riots and incidents and the war in Vietnam," he says. "America is quieter today and the race relations are way better, even for a Jewish person. No one mentions the difference between being Jewish or not. Growing up, friends would ask, 'Didn't the Jews kill Jesus?' and I don't hear that at all today. That's partly because Israel has more of a presence: many people have visited or worked there or know someone who has, and they admire the country. The news from Israel is not all bad and many know what's going on. When you meet an Israeli on the street here, it's like meeting a person from any other foreign country."



Another notable change is the Israeli attitude toward those who choose to leave the country, once referred to in Hebrew as "yordim," or "those who descend," equivalent to treason. The stigma has disappeared, Alster says. As for his advice to those moving to either country, or back and forth, as he has, "You have to make home and self-actualize no matter where you are," he says. "If you can do those two things, you can acclimate anywhere."

Interview with Harry Rinker's Meet The Author Show

Connecticut author Jason Alster will interview  live on WXCI's "Meet the Author" Sunday , March 28th 2010 , 9:30 to 10 AM, EST . about his book / memoir on life in Israel." Leaving Home Going Home Returning Home: A Hebrew American's Sojourn In The Land Of Israel." Hosted by Harry L. Rinker from the radio station of Western Connecticut State University in Danbury.The program steams live on the Web at wxci.com. http://clubs.wcsu.edu/wxci/sched.html
 
See More WXCI - On-Air Schedule clubs.wcsu.edu

Connecticut author Jason Alster will be interviewed live on WXCI's "Meet the Author" Thursday , March 25th 2010

 about his book / memoir on life in Israel." Leaving Home Going Home Returning Home: A Hebrew American's Sojourn In The Land Of Israel." Israel , Aliya , Zionism , an American's perspective




The program hosted by Harry L. Rinker airs Thursday mornings from 9:30 to 10 from the student-run radio station of Western Connecticut State University in Danbury.



The program steams live on the Web at wxci.com. http://clubs.wcsu.edu/wxci/sched.html

Interview with the Authors Show March 18 2010

http://www.theauthorsshow.com/

Prologue

While sitting in a movie theatre in Israel it came to me like a spark. Intuition, a bout of creativity, a decision to take action, doesn’t always hit you light a bolt of lightning, but can be more subtle. In my case, the idea jelled while I was watching the movie Under the Tuscan Sun. The movie initially caught my attention because a neighbor of mine took his wife to Tuscany, Italy for a wedding anniversary and enjoyed it there. I was now wondering if I should vacation there too. In the movie, an American woman named Francis decides to purchase a home in the Tuscan countryside and begin her life anew. Keeping a positive attitude, she was determined to acclimate with the locals, overcome the hurdles associated with moving, find the fulfillment she was seeking, and even meet the man of her dreams. During the movie I realized that I have had similar experiences while moving and living in a Mediterranean country. I too started anew, acclimated with the locals, and had funny and enlightening encounters with the characters I met. I became conscious that I am now really a part of this corner of the world. Couldn’t I write a book about it?

Chasing The Ark of the Convenant
I am wondering where to begin this book. Should I start from the beginning of the adventure and make it chronological, or should I start from the more pertinent? While having my daily look at the news from my other home, Israel, a country frequently compared to the state of New Jersey because of her shape and size, an article stood out. For once, what I read wasn’t about politics and conflict. With all of those horrible news stories, beautiful little Israel had come to symbolize a place of strife and intifada instead of “a land of milk and honey.”
The news I found was of an archaeologist named Tudor Partiff, a British Professor of Modern Jewish Studies. A real-life Indiana Jones, Partiff is chasing after the biblical Ark of the Covenant – in Africa. Whatever happened to the ark after the Romans captured it in 70 AD is one of the world’s greatest unsolved mysteries. In the article, Partiff claims to have found a remnant of the ark in a museum in Harare, Zimbabwe, hiding in plain sight on a dusty shelf. Partiff feels the ark was simpler than what we were led to imagine. He argues that Moses and his people were just recently freed slaves and could not have had the ability to mold an ark like the ones recreated in books of the Bible. Instead, the ark was more humble, small like a drum and made of wood, possibly once covered in gold. I hope I understood that one correctly. I later saw a television documentary on Partiff.
Partiff’s story sparked a light bulb in my head, for I had some questions of my own about the Exodus story. If the Israelites built the cities in Egypt and were thus witnesses to Egyptian art, why did they not copy Egyptian art in the land of Israel or even build pyramids of their own? All in all, Partiff’s story is what finally got me inspired enough to put pen to hand. After all, some people who made aliyah to Israel joined archaeological digs in search of lost treasure and biblical "facts on the ground.” I had that spirit too – to uncover my roots in the Holy Land and make an adventure out of it.
Within my first months in Israel, I volunteered to join an archaeological dig on the Gamla Mountain atop the Golan Heights. Gamla, which is “camel” in Hebrew, resembles the humps on a camel’s back. The Gamla overlooks the Sea of Galilee, has its own waterfall, and is surrounded by two rivers: the Nahal Gamla and the Nahal Dalyot. On Gamla, there is a walled Jewish city with a synagogue etched sideways on a high, rocky, mountain cliff. Josephus Flavius was the Jewish Commander of Galilee and in 66 CE fortified Gamla as his main stronghold on the Golan Heights. The Israelites of Gamla revolted against Roman rule in 67 AD as part of the Jewish Wars against Rome. For that, Gamla was set to siege and destroyed by the Roman legion general Vespasian who later became a Roman emperor.
At Gamla, reminders of the revolt and destruction were all around. I saw stone cannonballs, ballista, and bronze or copper Roman arrowheads – a rare find in the Middle East indicating a ferocious battle took place. There was a tower with a breach in it and a large spearhead sticking out at the base. On my trip, I also uncovered Jewish coins, clay lanterns, and Roman glass. Reminiscent of the history of Masada, legend tells that the Jews from Gamla committed suicide rather than be captured by the dreaded Romans. According to this tale, the Jews from Gamla jumped off the cliff into the ravine, yet one of the great Israeli archaeological mysteries is that no human bones have ever been found at the bottom of the cliff anywhere on Gamla. It is thought that wild boars dragged them away for a meal, but no one knows for sure. Shemarya Gutman, a famous Israeli archaeologist who was one of the first people to discover Gamla after the Six Day War, was there on the dig that I had joined. He looked like Ben Gurion and was from that generation too – same hairdo. He told me and the rest of the volunteers on the dig that day that any coins found buried on Gamla are historically valuable. Since no other city is known to have been built atop Gamla and since no bones have been found in the area, the coins are the best clues to find to prove the legend of Gamla is true.
I brought my first Israeli girlfriend with me to Gamla to join me for the week at the dig. I met her at an aliyah absorption center where I was staying at in Herzliya by the coast. She made aliyah from the south of France, and like me, made aliyah on her own with her parents were still living in France. One of her parents was French and the other Tunisian. At the time I met her, Bridget was serving in the Israel army and going to the dig with me would be her vacation. She spoke English with a British accent and sounded allot like Kyle Minogue. Bridget smoked European cigarettes, looking like someone out of a foreign film. Her hair was long, wavy, and light golden brown. What the Israelis call “gingi.” But most of all, she was French and knew more about the affairs of men and women more than me. I enjoyed meeting a European woman. The word was that European women were not in a gender war with their men like American girls and were supposed to be better at supporting relaxed relationships. That part was debatable.
At Gamla, we dug early in the morning before the hot sun came out. I found Roman glass, pottery, a few encrusted coins, and half a signet ring. The coins are probably sitting in a museum somewhere. Every now and then, an Israeli Cobra helicopter would patrol the narrow and steep ravine below us. They flew so close and below us, that if I threw a stone I would have hit the top rotor blades. In the afternoon, after digging, we hiked down to the stream Nahal Dalyot - and dunked ourselves in the water. There were fish in there that looked like trout, but when I threw a piece of bread on the water, they grouped and devoured it like piranhas. When we returned to the camp, we sat for dinner on picnic tables under tents provided by the dig organizers. There was that cowboy atmosphere. The food came by jeep from a local kibbutz a few miles away. It was hot dogs, baked beans, bread and famous Israeli chocolate spread with plenty of apples and oranges. The Israeli hot dogs were skinnier but spicier than the American version. One of the kibbutz members who supplied us walked barefoot all the way over from the kibbutz. Wearing only khaki shorts, he was tall, blonde, toned with striking good looks; undeniably a natural poster child for a kibbutz advertisement. One of the young girls on the dig, a tourist, tried to start a conversation with him and asked if his feet hurt. He said he had strong soles and had been walking barefoot since he was a child. This reminded me of barefoot Greek marathon runners. I let them be. There was so much food brought in the boxes that they must have been expecting an army of volunteers. Alternatively, the antiquities authority had to buy a minimum amount from the kibbutz to get supplied. That night, the leftover food was thrown down the same cliff the early defenders jumped off. Suddenly, pairs of small bright red lights shined out of the dark from the distance. It was the eyes of wild boars making their appearance for the feast. Could the theory of the wild boars stealing the ancient skeletons be true? Were the early settlers really carried away by the ancestors of these boars? It remains an open mystery.
On my last day of the dig, after lunch, I bit into an apple and left it on the table, enjoying the beautiful scenery. The workday was already over. There was no afternoon digging because of the heat. Quietly, a green chameleon crawls up onto the wood table. Its eyes, each one a cone shape, are looking in different directions. One eye looking at me and the other eyes my apple. Is the chameleon going to eat my apple? A fly then lands on the apple oblivious to the chameleon which now had the color of the table, grey.
Zooop!
A long and fast sticky tongue darts out from the chameleon's mouth. The fly is lunch. Soon, another unsuspecting fly lands on the lonely apple, and disappears without leaving any evidence at the crime scene.
Zooop!
The chameleon, whose tongue hits its prey in about 30 thousandths of a second, made a meal of at least five or six flies. I picked up the chameleon and it hung to my finger with its curled tail. I never saw a chameleon in action before, actually I never even saw a chameleon and now we were friends. There I was, young, in Israel with a lady friend on an archeology dig enjoying sunshine, beautiful scenery, good food, exotic animals, and adventure. All of this in one package, I could hardly ask for more. Till that moment, it was the best day of my life.