Patch it up

Hebrew has an expression for shoddy work: "He works like a shoemaker." I think I found the origin of the expression: his name's Yossi and his shop's located at Dizengoff Square. A little background: in New York last month tango obsession met shoe fetish, resulting in a shiny new pair of hot pink stilettos. Realizing they pinched a little around the toe after my first spin with them on, I brought them to Yossi to stretch them out. When I returned to pick them up yesterday, I found them right in front of the shop strapped to the stretching device. Yossi was busy chatting with his friend, who was puffing away on a cigarette, carelessly infusing hundreds of shekels worth of shoe leather with smoke. (This didn't phase me, incidentally. Ever since I brought a new dress home that had to be aired out for two days because the sales clerk was essentially chain-smoking directly into my shopping bag at checkout, I know a little carbon monoxide never hurt the merchandise.) Yossi released the left shoe from a device that looked like it belonged in a 13th century dungeon and handed it to me to try on. The entire inside edge was stretched right out of shape. I told him he'd overdone it. As I've learned to expect from Israelis, he had an answer ready: "But it's hot out. Your feet will swell." I cast him a look of doubt. Now his friend chimed in: "Listen, it's like taking medicine." I didn't follow. "That's right, like medicine: there are always side effects." I told him I didn't appreciate the comparison.

The experience elicited a flood of memories of similar encounters. I have, on multiple occasions, been in a Tel Aviv shoe store and either (a) reported that the shoes don't fit well, only to be told, "no, no, it’s the style; it's more comfortable when the heel slips," or (b) been informed that the shoe I like is out of stock, but another model should interest me which is "exactly the same, except for the style and the color." Lest you get the impression that only people in the shoe industry are susceptible to, well, working like shoemakers, allow me to offer another example. When my parents wanted to mount a framed lithograph of my grandfather's outside their front door, the local framer said he could do it in a flash. He arrived with a drill in hand and, indeed, got the job done in a jiffy. The only downside was that he used an uneven number of screws, each placed at a different height. When my dad pointed this out to him, he offered a look of incredulity, and said, "I know it's not perfect, but it's stuck to the wall, right? Isn't that what you wanted?" Go argue with that!

My friend Natalie says it's the Israeli modus operandi. She even has a term for it: "patching." The idea being, if a tear can be fixed at home with a scrap of fabric, why send it to the tailor, who will just take longer and charge more? So the frame looks like shit. What's the difference if it keeps the picture in place? The shoes don't fit. But are they a good price? Not what you ordered? Nu, why be so fussy? The sweater has a flaw? That should be the biggest problem facing the State of Israel!

It's aggravating as hell. At the same time, though, there's something sort of inspiring about it. After all, it takes initiative to patch up a problem. It's the exact opposite of perfectionism, really: you may lack the experience or expertise needed to get the job done right, but at least you have the confidence to get it done. An old family friend, who has become something of a family legend, exemplifies the positive side of this attitude. When he came to Vancouver just before our departure for a ski vacation in Whistler, my mom invited him to come along. "Do you know how to ski?" she asked. "Ehhh... I don't know," he responded in a thick Israeli accent, "I neverrr trrry. Maybe I can!"

The other side of the Mediterranean

I was in the airport when the news broke. Awaiting my connecting flight from London to Tel Aviv, following three blissful weeks visiting friends and family all across North America from San Francisco to Toronto (and yes, I did feel like a rock star!), I caught a glimpse of the BBC. There it was: The Flotilla. To be honest with you, I didn't even know the word flotilla before the incident occurred (yet another sign that my Hebrew continues to improve as my English deteriorates... but I digress). Here we go, I thought. What'll the word have to say about Israel now? I held my breath....

The flight felt longer than usual. My neck felt stiffer, feet more swollen, lips more parched than usual. In the taxi on the way home there it was again, on the radio: The Flotilla loomed large in the news. The weather had become hotter since I had left, and much more humid. I got home and began to unload my bags feeling exhausted and oppressed by the bustling airport, the aggressive traffic, the sweltering heat, the media, the news, the politics....

Screw it. Unpacking can wait. I grabbed my swimsuit and headed straight for the beach.

As my swollen feet hit the warm, soft sand I breathed a sigh of relief. Aaaah, at last, the other side of the Mediterranean. Despite the political upheaval it's business as usual at Gordon Beach. It was 6:00pm, another hour or two of daylight remaining. The beach was packed with children holding dripping "kartivim" (popsicles), curvy women in skimpy bikinis and leathery pensioners playing soccer as though their lives depended on winning. And I mustn't forget: LOADS of "matkot" players. Matkot, which basically involves smacking a ball back and forth between two paddles slightly larger than the ping-pong variety, preferably while grunting, is the classic Israeli beach game. In fact, it's almost a metaphor for the Israeli character: no rules and very aggressive. I can't be entirely certain, but based on anecdotal evidence it appears that excessive chest hair, a banana hammock and a potbelly provide an advantage.

With the brilliant sunset before my eyes, I had forgotten politics entirely... and I felt I'd come home.

Putting the J back in J-Date...or taking it out?

One cannot claim complete integration into a new culture until one has learned the rules of dating in that culture. Apparently I cannot claim complete integration. I’m still learning. Specifically, I’m learning the art of declining respectfully, which here in Israel really means declining unequivocally. In other words, no beating around the bush! Having consulted with various Israeli girlfriends after various Israeli dates, I have learned that a North American style "no" just won't fly here. Saying no, Israeli-style, does not mean failing to return a phone call, vaguely suggesting "some other time," or claiming to be busy washing hair/walking dog/watering plants. It's just. plain. no.

Last week I went on a blind date. I assume the setter-upper’s thought process went something like this: he’s single, she’s single, he’s nice, she’s nice, ergo, match made in heaven! He was indeed nice. But not for me. The next day he called and asked for another date. Thinking I had conquered my Canadian politeness, I knew exactly what to say: "It was nice meeting you, but I don’t think we suit each other," I said bluntly. What I should have said was "No thank you" (no need to cast off the Canadian politeness altogether, right?).

His response was unexpected: "Okay," he began, as though he had understood, "But I had fun! So we can try again. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eight." "Uh, er…" I stuttered, confused by his confidence, "…I…uh…can’t…tomorrow." "You know what they say," he shot back cheerfully, "If not tomorrow then the next night!" When Anat called me the next day (by the way, you can expect many cameos from Anat in future posts because she admitted that she only really reads my blog when she makes an appearance!), I said, "I told him it wasn't going to work... (she seemed encouraged by my newfound courage)…and, um, we’re going to dinner and a movie on Tuesday." She didn’t say anything, but I’m pretty sure I could hear her head shaking.

Okay, so blind dates rarely work out. It’s a known fact. Maybe I should try the internet? I decided to bite the bullet a few weeks ago and put up a profile on J-Date. When I mentioned this to an American friend, she almost bust a gut laughing. Not because I had put up a profile, but because of the fact that Israel even has J-Date. "Couldn’t they leave off the ‘J’?" She exclaimed. Turns out that’s not the case….

Having grown delinquent about checking my mailbox, I decided to log in a few days ago. Message waiting. From…wait for it…ahmed345. Um, Ahmed? The message read as follows (and I promise, this is a word-for-word translation):

"Hi! I liked your profile. I think you are really pretty and I like what you wrote. You may be interested in my profile, which is a bit unusual and challenging… You mentioned that your political views are leftwing, and that’s a good start for me....."

(I am growing increasingly confused as I read. The letter continues...)

"I am a cute, intelligent (totally secular) Arab Bedouin man, masculine, tall, dark, built and athletic. Extremely good looking…definitely worth a try ;) So what do you think? I hope you say yes."

Who knew finding a Jewish partner on a Jewish dating site in a Jewish country would be difficult! When I told Anat, she didn’t laugh. "Get it?!" I said, "Turns out J-Date isn't so 'J' after all!" Silence. "Wait," she said hesitantly, "what’s the ‘J’ for?" When I told her the answer, her eyes widened: "NO WAY!!!"

Breakfast will be served at nine o'clock

In his speech at Yad Vashem yesterday, the eve of Yom Ha-Shoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, Benyamin Netanyahu recalled his visit to the infamous villa in Berlin's lakeside suburb of Wansee. During his tour, he came across the original invitation to the event that was to decide the fate of the world's Jews. It read: "You are invited to a conference to determine the final solution to the Jewish problem. Breakfast will be served at nine o'clock." The seemingly equivalent banality of these two statements was almost too much to bear. When asked to sign the museum guestbook, only three words came to Netanyahu's mind. He wrote the following: "Am Israel Hai" (the nation of Israel lives).

And how it lives! In contrast to my experiences of this holiday in North America, being in Israel on Holocaust Remembrance Day reminds me less of the death and destruction wrought in the past than of the life that remains today. I woke up this morning, as I do every morning, to the sound of hammers pounding away at the high-rise condominium project gradually ascending on the corner of Frishman and Dizengoff. I woke up grumpy. I hate construction, I grumbled. I put the kettle on, grasped for my headphones to block out the noise, and set to work.

At ten o'clock, as I cleared the dishes from my modest breakfast of coffee and toast with cottage cheese, the hammering was interrupted by a different noise. A siren. A cry of remembrance. It blared loudly for two full minutes as everything around it fell silent. When it finished, everything came back to life.

A truck rolled down my street and a familiar voice yelled out "Alte zakhen!" For many Israelis, these are the only two Yiddish words they will ever know. In the past Eastern European Jews would travel up and down the streets in their wagons buying and selling "old things." Today, they've been replaced by Arab merchants. But the Yiddish remains. How oddly and wonderfully life goes on.... The truck reached the end of the street and the hammering on the corner of Frishman and Dizengoff resumed. Keep building, I thought. I love construction.

An alte-kaker Seder

"How is this night different from all other nights?" It's the first of the famous Four Questions, the centerpiece of the Passover Seder traditionally recited by the youngest child present. Having received a permanent get-out-of-jail-free card when my oldest nephew, Shai, had matured enough to replace me in performing the task, I couldn't help but feel a little anxious about this year's invitation to a Seder with friends of my parents in Jerusalem, far away from my extended family, especially the youngest generation. "Just the alte-kakers this year," my mom repeatedly warned me. Please, please, I thought, don't make me perform. Imagine my delight when, upon entering Micky and Nili's Mevaseret home, we were greeted by their somewhat gangly sixteen-year-old son and thirteen-going-on-thirty daughter whose shimmery lipgloss framed a smile full of metal. Phew! Braces! A clear sign I'm off the hook!

After touring Micky and Nili's recent kitchen renovation, which included an incredible meat smoker and a taboon (a clay oven, used for baking Arab-style bread and other delicious things), I knew we were in for a treat... although I must admit I felt a pang of disappointment when it dawned on me that no fluffy pitas would be emerging from the taboon tonight!

Our friend Jonathan was the master of ceremonies and did an incredible job. I always thought what made the Seder enjoyable was all the munchkins singing songs and tearing the house apart in search of the coveted Afikoman. But the alte-kaker version turned out to be a lovely change. We discussed some of the theological and philosophical questions behind the story that we are compelled to recite year after year. For example, if Moses was the hero of the exodus tale, why does he escape mention in the Haggadah? One explanation, we learned from our guide, is that the book was compiled during the Mishnaic or Talmudic period (3rd-6th century CE), when Christianity was gaining in prominence and popularity, and the rabbinic authors feared that a great hero like Moses might be transformed into a Christ figure. Good luck getting a point like that across at a Seder packed with children spilling grape juice and dipping sticky fingers in the charoset!

Both Livny brothers, Jonathan and Micky, divorced and remarried a number of years ago, effectively trading in the original Polish wife for the younger Sephardic model. For the rest of us yekkes (German Jews), it was nice to hear explanations of Moroccan and Iraqi Passover traditions. More importantly, though, it also meant we got to supplement the standard gefilte fish with turmeric and paprika-spiced fish, and the bland Manishevitz-soaked charoset was replaced with a Yemmenite concoction redolent of ginger, cloves and cardamon.

Having cruised past midnight, the minimum hour marking the end of the Seder, we sang a verse or two of Chad Gadya, nibbled on chocolate and listened to Jonathan and Micky recount a few inappropriate tales about extramarital affairs ... in the presence of the protagonist, I might add. Good thing the protagonist happens to be their own mother, who, at 94, is sharp as a whip but can barely hear a word. Yet another reason to appreciate the alte-kaker Seder.

At one point, the attention turned to me. How am I liking living in Israel? What keeps me busy? What do I want to do next? And then, of course, How old are you? "Twenty-eight," I replied, now feeling content to be one of the few young people at the table, one of the few who can't claim multiple marriages, divorces or affairs. For some people, it turns out, twenty-eight is no spring chicken. Just imagine my surprise when the bubbly thirteen year old piped up: "Wow, but you look good!"

Tango lessons, life lessons

It's probably the most overused cliche, but I never thought about it carefully until it entered my life in a literal way: It takes two to tango.

People jest that it's classic misogyny. "El tango es macho." Just take a look at the proud, purposeful gait of the milonguero. He not only leads his partner, he controls her completely. She shifts her weight when he does, swivels when he lets her, steps when he gives her the chance. But in fact there's much more give-and-take. The tango could be a metaphor for any relationship. So often disagreements arise when we refuse to listen to one another, whether out of pride, stubbornness or simply the instinct of self-defense. I came to the tango stiff, exuding that false-pride that stems from insecurity, but soon discovered that the moment I stiffen, straighten up and pull away is the moment I have stopped "listening" to the person across from me. As one teacher put it, "It's as though you've plugged your ears."

So...

Let go, let go, let go. In Hebrew it all makes sense. Release = שחרור = liberation

I try. I lean forward slightly, finding that subtle angle of inclination that draws the ball of my foot into the floor and my upper body toward my partner. I am grounded, independent, but also aspiring toward the other person. I am embraced yet unrestrained. Now I can hear what he is telling me. And if I do all this and he still doesn't get the response he was looking for? Well, chances are he hasn't been clear enough in his message. He was too meek, or too aggressive. Or maybe he refused to give me the time and space I need to express myself? When he guides me confidently yet gently it all becomes clear ... and I will try to respond with equal clarity and grace. As on the dance floor, so in life: we can always work on communication.

Yoga teachers tell you to turn your gaze inward. "Don't look around you," they say. "It's not about anyone else! Focus on your own breath. Listen to your body." I used to relate to all of that ... but now, less so. Maybe it's because I spend so much of my time holed up researching and writing, maybe it's because there are days that I don't hear much more than the sound of my own breath. Whatever the reason, I'm starting to think that meditation doesn't need to be so inward, and that finding peace is not necessarily about retreating from the outside world into yourself. After all, don't we have to live in the world?

There's another reason that all of this speaks to me. One of my biggest fears about moving to Israel was that my personality would get lost in translation. Sure, most people speak English, so I've always got a fallback when I feel tongue-tied. Stubborn wench that I am, though, I never wanted to rely on the linguistic crutch. On the other hand, I was worried. I thought, How will I win over new friends? How will they discover my humor?! My knowledge?! How will I IMPRESS them?!?! In Hebrew, I'm a little quieter than I am in English. I have to focus a bit more to keep up. But I'm starting to realize that quiet carries a great advantage. When I feel strained or uncertain, I just lean in. I listen. Funnily enough, I get the feeling it actually makes me more easily heard.

Purim, 80s style

The last time I celebrated Purim in Israel I must have been four-years-old. I showed up to my nursery school in Jerusalem, "Gan Rachel" it was called, in all my regal majesty as a glittered-up Queen Esther. To tell you the truth, the costume wasn't much of a departure from my usual attire...let's just say I was a child with a penchant for accessories (my mother once quipped that I was the only toddler who insisted on going to to daycare dressed like a hooker!).

This Purim was a blast from the past for more than one reason. Not only did I indulge in the costume tradition but I also hit up a 1980s theme party. Being a true child of the 80s, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia when I heard those first few familiar beats of the theme song from Flashdance. I recall performing a poignant interpretation of the song, choreographed by Reisa Schwartzman, at the Vancouver Jewish Community Center Spring Dance Show in 1987. If only I had kept the costume!

Anat and I tried to stay focused during our costume hunt, but, as usual, ended up getting distracted by baked goods (chocolate hamentashen...to die for!). As a result, we wound up with the following: a poorly hand-sewn tutu (ultimately worn by my friend Maya), a sheath of poorly cut black lace precariously held up by a patent-leather belt, neon fishnet gloves, a plethora of plastic dollar-store jewelry, and, of course, the requisite side ponytail (this, too, was nostalgic; the one hairdo my mother knew how to achieve—which in turn ruined many a class-photo—was a little something known as "the pompom"). We started to get a little desperate when we realized that we had loads of accessories but not actual clothes, which is why I ultimately caved and dropped 50 shekels on a hot pink leotard with a picture of a lion on it. The fact that several people had purchased this leotard for Purim had the saleswoman dumbfounded: "I don't get it. It's so beautiful! You'll wear it later, right?" I nodded, not wanting to offend her or challenge her sense of style. I think we wound up looking fairly 80s in the end, but I can't say our costumes deserved to win any contests. Anat blames being pregnant. What's my excuse?

The true winner, in my book, was Yochai's incarnation of Krishna. Blue face paint, kathakali dance moves and all. It's well-known that Israelis have a special bond with India (the Hebrew mural I found in Varanasi is obvious proof), but Yochai really brought it home. After the 80s party, we piled into a taxi with the Hindu god (puh-lease, deities don't ride the bus!) and rolled down to Jaffa, which on Purim becomes a kind of miniaturized version of the Castro on Halloween. Maya and Jesse, my guests and former residents of San Francisco, must have felt right at home. The pubs overflowed into the streets, music was blaring, and firemen, flappers, matadors and men in unconvincing drag danced into the wee hours. That's right people, Purim's not just for kids.