Wildlife in the giftshop. Ben Gurion Airport, 11/5/09.

When people talk about San Francisco’s Richmond District, they generally don’t talk about Jews. It’s far more likely that the area’s excellent selection of Asian restaurants and Russian groceries will come first. As they should. The food is tremendous, amongst the best the city has to offer.

Nevertheless, there are four synagogues in the greater neighborhood, and it’s easier than anywhere else I’ve lived on the West Coast to pick up a package of Elite Turkish coffee or a bag of Bamba. The customers for these products are primarily Russians who relocated to the United States from Israel.

The one thing you don’t see are Magen Davids like this, which Jennifer noticed as we walked down 24th avenue last week, towards the apartment we’ll be subletting here until September. If you look closely, there’s a menorah to the right. It makes you think you’re in New York, not San Francisco.

I can’t tell you how many first class exhibitions were held in London during the half year that we lived there. Each week, it seemed, there was always something good, and most importantly of interest, that we could have gone to. Sometimes I wondered if the city’s cultural events weren’t programmed specifically for us, as though they were consolation for Jennifer’s dreadful work situation.

One such event was Unveiled: New Art From the Middle East, which opened on January 30th at the new Saatchi Gallery on Kings Road. One of the most comprehensive exhibits of its kind (in the US, such shows are usually nation as opposed to region-specific) I took the opportunity to write about one of it’s featured photographers, Shadi Ghadirian, (see above) in today’s edition of Zeek.

Shot in Tehran, Ghadirian’s work is emblemmatic of the unrest currently engulfing the Islamic republic. Contending with the intersection of religion and women’s rights in the Mideast, her staged photographs nevertheless indulge a universal vernacular easily transportable to any number of foreign contexts. The ghetto blaster atop this lady’s shoulder is the tip of the iceberg. Check it out.

Zurich was full of surprises. We’d just watched Accatone, too.

Read the fine print. Anti-fascist flyer, Bologna, one week later.

Milan in Arabic. Via Padova, 15/4/09.

Originally posted via Twitter.

Elections for Europe’s parliament are now officially over. As predicted, throughout the continent right-wing parties coasted to victory in nearly every single contest. Aided by a combination of failing economies, the scapegoating of immigrants, and low voter turnout, the stunning victory of avowedly racist parties such as the United Kingdom’s BNP (British National Party) inspired newspapers such as The Guardian to run front page features today asking whether fascism was resurgent in Europe, for the first time since 1945.

Italy’s version of this trend is of course parties like the Northern League. Champions of clear and arresting posters like these, the message being promoted - hatred of Muslims, in particular - places the organization in the vanguard of European parties currently emphasizing anti-immigration as a significant part of their platforms. Located two blocks from our apartment, on a street heavily frequented by Arabs and south Asians, I can only imagine what this design may have made passers by feel. Some welcome card, indeed.

And a gay pony shall lead them. Netanya, 5/3/09.

His English isn’t very good, but the guy sure knows how to communicate with dogs. Whenever he sees me taking Pixel out for a walk, Antonello turns into a magnet. Within seconds, Pixel is at his feet, wagging his tail, as though he and our doorman have known each other for years.

However, get on the subject of politics, and Antonello is a completely different beast. Spying my camera the other day, he asked if he could take a look. Not realizing it was still on, I handed it to him, displaying this campaign poster. “I am Lega Nord,” he said rather nervously.

One of Italy’s biggest rightist parties, and a member of the present governing coalition, the Northern League, as it is called in English, is well-known for its anti-immigrant platform. “What interests you about this poster?” Not knowing how to put it, I replied “I’m Jewish. The refugee ship evokes memories.”

Antonello cleared his throat. Then, after a moment’s silence, he began to speak again. “You Jews are alright,” he stated, looking me right in the eye. “You people work hard, you study, you obviously have money. But these Africans and Muslims, they’re lazy and they’re poor. The come to Italy and cause lots of problems.”

I don’t know why I expected otherwise. By the time I figured out how to formulate a proper response in Italian, Antonello was gone, headed down the hallway towards Viale Andrea Dorea. If only I’d worked a little faster, to remind him that in Italy Jews aren’t foreigners, that we’ve been here for well over 2000 years.

Whether its the US or Italy, the gender-specific presentation of Israel in tabloid media is always the same. Take, for example, the cover of the current Italian edition of GQ, featuring Israeli supermodel Bar Refaeli.

Acknowledging from the outset the model’s nationality, with the headline “make love not war,” Refaeli’s origins, however inferred, is part of what determines her overall appeal. She is not only sexy, but Israeli.

Whether the story was planted or not (witness the 2007 Maxim spread, Women of the IDF), the creative headline writing displays an obvious awareness of how Israel is considered synonymous with violence.

Needless to say, its the first time since our arrival in Milan that I’ve encountered messaging about Israel that might be read as positive. That is, if you see the use of womens’ bodies for said purposes in such a light.

PAM supermarket magazine rack, central Milan. 3/6/09.

On the way back from Milan’s Triennale museum, Jennifer and I ran into an info booth for the Refounded Communist Party. Sickle and hammer-themed flags were flying everywhere, it seemed.

Pulling out my camera, I was immediately accosted by a woman who said that she wanted to talk to me about the upcoming EU elections. Hoping she’d leave me alone, I replied that I didn’t speak Italian.

“Where are you from?” the lady responded in perfect, American-accented English. Knowing I’d send her running, I said “Israel.” Within seconds, she’d turned around and began walking away.