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.