Dry Spells

More than two months have passed since my last blog entry. I have no real excuse for the lapse, other than the numerous postdoc applications that had my fingers typing overtime last month. Actually, the truth is, I haven't quite known what to write. It’s been a bit of a dry spell... one of those moments when life seems to ebb more than flow....

It’s during life’s little lulls that I start to descend into those dreaded Bridget Jonesian fantasies. When was the last time I went on a proper date? Why don’t I ever meet anyone? Will I be single forever, left to die alone, only to be discovered days later by the neighbors when they can no longer bear the stench of kitty litter emanating from my one bedroom flat?

Yes, it’s been a bit of a dry spell.

I turn to girlfriends for advice. Anat said she was nearing 30 when she made a personal pact to opt for artificial insemination unless prince charming spontaneously showed up and offered to procreate with her the old fashioned way. “And then I just started hitting on random men," she added. And how did that work out for her? “Not well. They basically all thought I was a slut.”

Very encouraging. Her desperation led her to unlikely places, from pickup bars to a weekly rollerblading club to Argentine tango lessons. And that's where luck struck …her now husband just happened to be an aspiring tanguero.

(The tango bug bit me, too, but somehow my three-minute romances take place primarily with short, 65 year old men.)

I turn to cab drivers for advice. No, they just volunteer it. I honestly think that the preparatory course for cab drivers in this country involves – in addition to incessant honking and how not to yield at a roundabout – how to lecture single women on the virtues of marriage and motherhood. Love advice from an Israeli cab driver can take one of two forms (the following examples are taken directly from my own experiences):

1) Fawning encouragement: “What, a beauty like you? Single? Impossible! It's because you live in Tel Aviv. Everyone here is gay. Come to Ashdod. You won’t be single long."

2) Cautionary critique: “You young people! You just 'hang out.' You don’t take responsibility! Get a move on! You’re not getting any younger!”

Needless to say, I’ve yet to meet a cab driver who deserves a regular column in Cosmo.

Last week I was sitting in a café munching on salad, engrossed in a book. I looked up and saw a cute guy working on his laptop. He was wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with artwork by the Haida, the local First Nations tribe from British Columbia. I asked him about it, and I suppose that broke the ice. His parents bought it for him during their trip to Canada. He was born in Israel and raised in Australia, and resettled here three years ago. We chatted for a few minutes and then I, out of the blue, said "Nice to meet you" (having neglected to ask for his name), and walked out the door.

What?!

I complain about dry spells and then a perfectly nice guy falls into my lap (pardon the expression), and I bolt? What’s that all about?!

"OK, that's it," I thought, as I neared the crosswalk. I mustered all the courage I had, turned around, marched back into the café, walked right up to the guy and asked him if he wanted to have coffee sometime. And guess what? He did.

Today it rained like mad. The first rain this thirsty land has experienced in several months. You know what else? The guy called. We have plans Tuesday night. Jaded spinster-in-the-making that I am, I’m keeping my expectations low. But so what? At least I've had an important reminder: sooner or later, every dry spell must come to an end.

And when it rains, it pours.

Home and Homelesness

"It’s because you’re finally feeling at home." Variations on this remark have been made by friends and relatives seeking to explain why my blogging has dwindled somewhat in recent months. Perhaps they’re right. The longer you spend in one place, the more its quirks and idiosyncrasies appear less, well, quirky and idiosyncratic. But “feeling at home” isn’t something to be taken lightly. Acclimation is not the same as assimilation. I have been in Israel for nearly a year now, and while I love my life here, anxiety over the question of “home” abides.

Yesterday I read a short yet powerful essay by Edward Said, entitled “Mind of Winter” (Harper's, Sept. 1987). I must admit, since my days as a Comparative Literature major on an often frustratingly politically correct, hyper-liberal Northern California college campus, I’ve shied away from reading Said because of his politics (and the politics in service of which his theory is often deployed). Plus, invoking reflections on exile by a self-proclaimed disenfranchised Palestinian seems ironic coming from a North American Jewish girl living in Israel, but, if you’ll excuse the pun, his words hit close to home.

Let’s be clear. This is no sob story. I am the farthest thing from a refugee, and I’ve hardly earned the requisite political or historical stripes to deserve the tragic-turned-glamorous title of “exile.” But living abroad this past year, living in another language and another climate (both social and environmental), has made me think more carefully about what home means, and more specifically, what home means to me.

I still bristle when people ask me when I "made aliyah," or, conversely, when I plan to “return to Canada” (which I left at the age of eighteen), or to Chicago (to which I have no plans to return). “Where’s home?” others have asked. I generally shrug, smile, and say something like, “for now I’m happy here.”

But do I really need an answer? That is, do I need one answer?

Said suggests that being homeless translates into the ability to be at home everywhere. Exile is as productive as it is painful. It both enervates and empowers. More importantly, exile carries with it moral promise, the capacity to cross borders to a broader worldview. It is not merely a privileged site for individual self-reflection but an alternative to the mass institutions that dominate modern life. For instance, exile may be understood as the opposite of nationalism. Nationalism, the assertion of belonging to a specific place, people, heritage, even destiny, “fends off the ravages of exile.” It is the antidote to estrangement, a kind of being in the plural. Exile, by contrast, is being in the singular. It means loneliness. But also independence.

Hugo of St. Victor, a twelfth-century Saxon monk, expressed the blessing and curse of exile with these hauntingly beautiful words:

“The man who finds his homeland sweet is still a tender beginner; he to whom every soil is as his native one is already strong; but he is perfect to whom the entire world is as a foreign land. The tender soul has fixed his love on one spot in the world; the strong man has extended his love to all places; the perfect man has extinguished his.”

The ability to see “the entire worlds as a foreign land” is the ability to see everything in a fresh light. Daily habits, expressions and activities in the new environment always take place against the memory of these same things in another environment. New and old are vivid, actual. I have experienced this time and again here in Israel. The most banal events -- taking the bus, filling a prescription, buying cheese (all cataloged in this blog..."catabloged"?) -- suddenly become more interesting… at times hilarious. The way "we" do things “at home” is no longer taken for granted. Said suggests, “There is a unique pleasure in this sort of apprehension…. There is also a particular sense of achievement in acting as if one were at home wherever one happens to be."

Of course, as much as this experience makes us stronger, it is also unsettling. Hugo of St. Victor suggests that “perfection” is a heavy cross to bear. In the end, exile is the opposite of being satisfied, placid, secure. On the one hand, by crossing borders into unfamiliar territory one begins to be at home everywhere. On the other hand, one will never be at home anywhere. When I’m here, I labeled Canadian (or American)…yet growing up in Canada I always felt that part of me was in Israel, where my relatives lived. Here in Israel, I find myself longing for the politeness and order of North America. When I’m there, I miss the directness and the warmth of Israel. A question mark looms over the word "home."

I agree with Said that this sense of simultaneous comfort and discomfort – home and homelessness – carries a moral imperative. Seeing the world as foreign involves the capacity to critique each and every space we inhabit. Theodor Adorno summed up this idea up with a lovely paradox: "It is part of morality not to be at home in one’s home."

I suppose this anxiety of home and homelessness is what drives my interest in Jewish literature, the quintessential literature of exile. After reading Said’s article, a poem came to mind by the wild child of Yiddish poetry, Peretz Markish:

I don’t know, if I’m at home

Or I’m away —

I’m running!...

My shirt is undone,

No bridle restrains me,

I’m nobody’s, I’m stray,

Without a beginning, without an end…

My body is foam,

It smells of wind;

My name is: “now”…

I throw up my arms,

They reach the world from end to end,

I leave my eyes alone,

They drink the world from bottom up!

With eyes open, with shirt undone,

With arms extended, —

I don’t know, if I have a home

Or have an away,

If I’m a beginning, or an end…

IKEA...just like everwhere else only more...um...Israeli

90118670. Karlstad two-seater sofa.
30118135. Sivik upholstery.
40063632. Docksta table.
70103085. Expedit shelving system.

The only excuse I can offer for having neglected my blog is that for this past month my sole means of communication has been the international language of IKEA. Believe me, I know that friggin' catalog off by heart! August was devoted first to apartment hunting, then to moving and finally to the joys and frustrations of furnishing a new home.

Apartment-hunting in Tel Aviv is indeed an all-consuming affair. It usually begins with www.yad2.co.il or www.homeless.co.il, two websites that resemble Craig's List. Last month I reached the conclusion that absolutely EVERYONE in Israel and beyond was scouring both sites EVERY minute of EVERY hour of EVERY day with the sole aim of SCREWING ME out of a good apartment. What, you think I'm paranoid? Virtually every apartment that I inquired about turned out to be (a) no longer available, (b) a short-term rental, or (c) available for viewing together with 35 other prospective tenants today between 3:15 an 3:45, and no, not a minute earlier nor later. One day I went to an Open House that was advertised for 7:30pm, arriving around 7:15 at the doorstep of a fairly shabby, rundown building, where I proceeded to count the throngs of people already waiting in line to view the same apartment. I promptly ran away and sought comfort in a plate of hummus.

But, as they say, it all works out in the end! I found a charming, nicely renovated apartment in the northern part of the city, steps from Hayarkon Park (translation: the view from my window is actually GREEN!!!), in a building with a cute little garden out front and one of the cutest cafes in town located just around the corner. I moved August 1, and am now a proud resident of Shlomtsiyon Hamalca Street, named for Queen Salome Alexandra, the only female ruler of Judea. The cross-street, Miriam Hachashmonait (Mariamne the Hasomnean), is named for the second wife of Herod the Great, whose great beauty, legend has it, was responsible for the downfall of the Hasmonean dynasty. We're talking about the Sporty Spice and Posh Spice of ancient Israel... go Judean Girl Power!

IKEA is also an all-consuming affair. Every time I have planned an IKEA outing I have tried my best to prevent distraction and confusion by preparing a shopping list in advance, complete with catalog numbers, only to discover that at least 50% of the items on my list are out of stock and that the remaining 50% are (a) smaller, (b) bigger, or (c) uglier than they appeared on the website. Without fail. After 45 minutes of pure vertigo in the kitchen accessories department I ran to the cafeteria to seek comfort in a plate of hummus.

The fact that the Israeli IKEA actually serves hummus (as opposed to the standard fare of Swedish meatballs with lingonberry sauce) is one of two features that distinguishes it from IKEA everywhere else in the world. The other is the fact that Customer Service should actually be renamed Customer Abuse. When my new sofa arrived not at all in the condition promised ("What are you talking about, it's easy," said the condescending salesman, "you just attach the legs and slip the fabric over the cushions.") but in pieces and WITHOUT the upholstery, I immediately called to complain. I ended up having a totally unhelpful conversation with a representative who tried to convince me that the mistake was in fact MINE, followed by an irritating conversation with another representative who assured me that the upholstery would be delivered but that I may need to wait another two weeks (!), followed by an aggravating conversation with yet another representative who refused to let me speak to the manager but told me I was "welcome to send a fax" (what the...?!?!?!), and finally, an absolutely infuriating conversation with a purely evil representative who cut me off mid-sentence to vituperate me, saying, "Obviously YOU don't understand how Ikea works. This is SELF-service." At this point I found myself, in the middle of a crowded street, literally SCREAMING into my cellphone: "I HOPE YOU REALIZE THAT I AM A POLITE CANADIAN AND HAVE NEVER IN MY LIFE SCREAMED LIKE THIS ON THE PHONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Yes, I'll admit it, for a brief moment my Canadian politeness went out the window.

But, again, it all worked out in the end, and I'm sitting on my perfectly comfy and fully assembled sofa as I type this.

Today is the second day of Rosh Hashanah and I am happy to say that my new apartment is not the only marker of a sweet start to the new year. After having for weeks dedicated the camera feature on my phone to photographing nothing but apartment interiors, furniture and home accessories, I was quite excited to add a human face to my photo selection. A brand new face, no less. My friend Anat gave birth to a gorgeous baby boy almost exactly a month ago. Today marked Baby Michael's (a.k.a. Pitsy...meaning "tiny") first major restaurant outing and Anat's glorious return to sushi. That's right, for about 36 whole minutes we scarfed down salmon avocado rolls and Agedashi tofu at one of my favorite new local spots while the baby slept peacefully. Amazing. Loving life's little luxuries.

Spectator Sports

As the quarter-final of the FIFA World Cup reached the height of tension, I was taking a leisurely stroll down Spinoza Street with frozen yogurt in hand, listening to the faint squeal of bats overhead, when suddenly the Netherlands scored a winning goal against Brazil and a collective roar erupted from every single building on the block. Israel, like most of the rest of the world, takes its soccer seriously. What I recently realized, though, is that soccer is not the only spectator sport to get this nation riled up. Allow me to introduce two more activities that involve audience participation and occasionally demand crowd control.

Spectator sport #1: public transportation. Israel boasts a fantastic mode of public transport, a cross between the regular bus and the private taxi, known here as a “special," pronounced “spayshel” (the same pronunciation applies to restaurants, incidentally, i.e. “what are the ‘spayshels’ of the day?). It’s called the monit sherut (service taxi), and it’s essentially a minivan that seats a driver and ten passengers.

The fare from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem is 22 shekels, which is a steal if you don’t factor in the cost of unspeakable fear that arises when the maniac driver takes a mere 43 minutes to get to the holy city, an experience so harrowing that it would make even the most secular of Jews drop to his knees upon arrival to kiss terra sancta. (It's a good thing a sign is posted reminding you to "pasten safety belts" ... yet another example of the confusion that arises from the letter peh, which makes either a "p" or an "f" sound.) Audience participation begins from the moment you pay your fare: bills and coins are passed from one passenger’s hand to the next, fingers fumbling with change, voices calling out, “two tickets!” and “driver, I need a receipt!” And then things calm down... until they’re interrupted again... usually by the passenger seated closest to the driver. “Ehh, driver,” began the forty-something woman seated across the aisle from me, “can you please unplug your cell phone.” The driver, a chubby Arab man, looked at her perplexedly, unsure whether he had actually understood the request properly. He paused and said, “What are you talking about?” “Could you please unplug your phone,” she repeated. “But I’m using it,” he said, annoyed. “That’s fine,” she responded, “just please disconnect it from the charger.” I too looked at her perplexedly, preparing for the explanation that was to come. “It’s very unhealthy, you know. It causes radiation.” The driver ignored her. It didn’t work. “There’s been loads of research on this, I’m telling you.” The driver kept ignoring her, until she became really aggravated. “I’m asking you to disconnect the phone! I can bring you the literature from the ministry of health. You’re endangering my health, I tell you!” I made the mistake of making eye contact with her. “Am I right?!” she asked me. “Isn’t it true?” I shyly looked away. But then the guy behind me chimed in: “Give it a rest, lady!” And then the woman behind him: “No, no, she’s absolutely right!” As the commentary accumulated and the complainant continued to harp on about the dangers of cell phone usage, the driver became so exasperated that he finally acquiesced and disconnected the phone. “Thank you,” she said quietly. There was a long, tense pause. And then… “Can you disconnect the other one too?” (Naturally, no cab driver can be satisfied with just one cell phone.) This was clearly the last straw. The driver violently ripped the cable from the second phone and swung it over his head like a lasso, yelling “There! Are you happy now?!” A longer, tenser silence ensued. And then, ever so slowly, the driver looked over his right shoulder, casting a piercing glance at his nemesis, and, mustering all the inner strength he possessed to keep himself from screaming, said calmly, yet ever so bitingly, “Lady, could you kindly fasten your seatbelt.”'

Spectator sport #2: filling a prescription at the pharmacy. Fortunately, I'm fit and healthy and have not had to make much use of the Israeli healthcare system. Recently, however, a persistent bout of leg pain and fear of tendinitis pushed me to see a doctor. Proud Canadian that I am, I have always been, at least in theory, a supporter of universal healthcare. In Israel, one's health insurance is administered by a health maintenance organization known as a kupat kholim (sick fund). It's a great system…until you actually use it. My appointment was quick and painless, and I walked out after a mere 15 minutes with a prescription for an anti-inflammatory drug in hand. I made my way to the pharmacy downstairs... and that’s when the fun began. I should have had a hunch that I was in for it when I asked an exhausted-looking man where to take a number and he simply gave me look of capitulation, handed me his number, and walked out the door. I looked up at the monitor and read 243, then at my slip of paper and read 271. Oy vavoy.

I would venture to say that in most countries patients exercise patience. Not in Israel. The middle-aged man with the frizzy hair and the tank top emblazoned with the Top Gun logo was already at his wits end. “Nu, change the number already!” he yelled. “There is no 243. NEXT!” An elderly woman carrying at least seven plastic bags shuffled up to the counter. “Giveret!" yelled the fellow with the 'fro, "Lady! What number do you have?!” She didn’t hear him. A toddler spat out his pacifier and let out a screech as his grandmother scurried over to pick him up.

“He needs to be fed. He’s obviously hungry,” said the stranger on the other end of the waiting room. The grandmother was annoyed. “He is MY grandson," she said sternly, "and I know what’s best for him." Then, looking directly at me, she added, “Such chutzpah. Have you ever?!”

Top Gun was losing it. “Lady! What number do you have?!” he yelled at his next victim, “Did you wait your turn?” The woman in the denim leisure suit turned to him: “I may be old but I can still remember how to read numbers.” A plump blonde was at the next counter over chatting and giggling with the pharmacist in Russian. At this point Top Gun’s aggravation had infected the old woman next to him. “What is she going on and on about in RUSSIAN?! What on EARTH could be so interesting?! Enough TALKING!”

Somehow, amidst all the talking and bickering and blithering and bossing around, I, ever the quiet Canadian, sat still and waited my turn. I'll stick to spectating, thank you, and leave the action to the true competitors.

Pastoral Birthday

My mother refers to any event that drags on over the course of several days as a Polish wedding. Well, my 29th was certainly the Polish wedding of birthday celebrations. It began on July 8, a solid 24 hours before my big day, with a long drive up north (made even longer by the fact that both driver and passenger lack all navigation skills). Anat and I were on our way to go (wait for it) lychee picking! The sign welcoming us to the farm, located outside Kibbutz Matsuba, a few km north of Nahariya, informed us that lychee picking is an excellent activity for kids ... we can add to the list single women nearing the end of the their 20s (me) and expectant mothers (Anat).

Now you may be wondering how one even comes up with the idea of lychee picking? The answer is obvious: one must have a friend who is 38 weeks pregnant and has intense craving-induced dreams that wake her up and propel her to the internet to google "where to pick lychees in Israel." And then one must simply go along unquestioningly with said friend's pregnancy-inspired whims. (Incidentally, this dream was fairly harmless compared to the one in which she gave birth to a doughy Yemmenite dish known as jachnun... wrapped in tinfoil, no less.) As we rolled into the farm, the view was well worth the three hour drive (it should have been two hours, by the way). Absolutely stunning. The weather was scorching hot, such that we couldn't last for much more than half an hour, but it was incredible. You've never seen a sight more wonderful than a woman who is nine months pregnant squatting to pick lychees. It's like a fully ripened fruit picking a fully ripened fruit!

The real festivities took place on Friday. Anat picked me up with a crown of flowers in hand, a birthday tradition in Israel...as you can see by the way in which it is precariously balanced on my evidently oversized head, the tradition is supposed to come to an end after the age of 6 or 7. Together with Anat, Reut, Efrat, Natalie and Noam, I ventured deep into the Judean hills to Rama's Kitchen for a fabulous meal in a place that transports you to ancient Israel. Rama, who herself looks wholesomely organic with her long, silvery braid and glowing skin, offers simple, fresh and delicious Mediterranean fare, most of which is prepared in the taboon, a kind of clay oven that dates back to biblical times.

The savory highlights were the baked quail eggs and the taboon bread with minced lamb, tomato, pine nuts and green tahini, but the desserts were also outstanding. Noam, the only male among us, fearing for his life when he saw five desserts appear before five excitable women, snagged one bite and then turned the plates over to his female companions (who collectively licked them clean, I might add).

That evening I rejoined Noam and Natalie at yet another pastoral spot: their house on Moshav Beit Yehoshua. Noam went straight outside to pick sabras off their tree. (In case you haven't heard the nickname, Israelis are known as sabras: prickly on the outside, sweet on the inside.) Having gorged myself on steak (a prelude of what was to come on Saturday), I headed out to dance some tango at the Milonga, where I was greeted cheerfully by my friend Pablo Finkelstein (hands down the best name ever), a 5'3'' 65 year old Argentinian who kindly invited me to dance (sweet), then to a glass of wine (charming), and finally to continue celebrating with him in Jerusalem the following evening (uh...creepy). Needless to say, I obliged him on the first two propositions and respectfully declined the third.

I also danced with my Russian friend Yakov, with whom I have such a strong tango connection that he has actually professed his love to me. Now if only I could find men who are not multiple decades older than me and with whom I share a language other than the international language of tango, I would feel much better about this whole turning 29 thing. But hey, at least the current men in my life know how to move!

As if the lychees, the taboon and the tango weren't enough, I continued to celebrate myself into a proper food coma on Saturday. Smadar, who was unable to attend on Friday, made up for her absence by treating me to an incredible dinner at a place called "Rak Basar" (it means Just Meat...yes, subtle). The concept is brilliant: you order your cut directly from the butcher and are charged by weight. My entrecote was tender, perfectly cooked, amazing.

On the way out we took a stroll down the new Jaffa boardwalk and explored all the new haunts that have recently popped up down there. As we turned around we realized the road had been blocked, which could only mean one thing: a suspicious object. Israelis don't let this sort of thing phase them. Being in no particular hurry, we sat down on the sidewalk and watched the sun set. As the red sun began to sink below the horizon, we heard the requisite "boom" indicating that the object had been destroyed. And we were on our way.

Having absorbed a weekend's worth of sunshine, stunning views and a solid 300 grams of steak, I went to bed that night a 29 year old woman ... and slept like a baby.

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.