We've come to that point. Well, actually, I'VE come to that point. The point where yeshiva is over, my life as a student is on hiatus, and it's time for me to have a job here in Israel. I suppose if I were looking for more permanent work--not just work until I start my MA in the fall--then I would have a better chance of finding something decent. I suppose if I wanted to work in the hi-tech industry or perhaps guard a mall, bus, government office, restaurant, holy site, park, coffee shop, museum, school, supermarket, or dog on the side of the road then I would also have more job opportunties. But neither of these is the case, and so, I'm cleaning houses to earn money. We've all heard the old adage, "Cleanliness is next to godliness," and I am hoping by cleaning in a city that seems so focused on G-d already, I will be able to raise the spiritual level (or at least the dust) of someone's home to a point that is holy. So, that's the job, and to be honest it pays well, but I want to kick some crazy Zionist who back in the euphoric 1950's said, "Even the garbage collectors are Jewish in Israel," because let's be honest, they were as excited to collect garbage as I am to clean someone's ass-lah (yes, this is REALLY the word for toilet in Hebrew).
Believe me, though. It's not all as painful as I am making it sound. I interviewed for a job a few weeks ago, and after a few days of thinking that the interview went horribly, they called back to hire me (because, let's face it, I live a 12-minute walk away and they made it clear that was a big advantage). So now, I'm working for a Scottish electrical engineer doing . . . well . . . a lot of things. During the interview they asked me if I minded doing office work as well as "on-site" work. "Well, I helped my Dad a lot when he built our house," I answered, "So 'on-site' work sounds fine," I replied. Had I know what was to come, I may have reconsidered (ie, notice the " " in the previous sentence and anticipate what crazy story is coming up).
Among other tasks, "on-site" includes:
1) Installing hi-tech telecommunication systems--ie, taking really expensive phones out of their boxes and plugging them into walls
2) Nutritional education--ie, my boss acting like a Polish mother and telling me I don't eat enough because I'm not jumping on every chance there is to drink tea with milk (man, Brits are weird)
3) Language enhancement--speaking in 3 languages at once (one of which I don't speak) while I work with a Scot, a Russian, and myself (can you work with yourself?)
4) Changing light bulbs for people who have way too much money to do it themselves
And #4 is the task on which I would like to elaborate and which is the reason for the second part of the title of this exposition, "Cheerleading for Millionaires." Tell me, if you had five million extra dollars what would you do? Well, this guy decided to buy the nicest house I've ever seen. Not that my experience among millionaires is extensive, but I cannot imagine something nicer than this house. Along with housing one of the largest Jewish libraries in the world, he has chosen pieces of art so exquisite that I was afraid to breathe inside. After we parked the car, we entered the building, and I commented to Jonny, "It's really weird that people pay you to change light bulbs. I mean, what could be simpler?" I thought to myself. "These must be only people outside of my 90-year-old great Aunt Sally who asks me to change light bulbs for them." (Pause Pause, Wait Wait) Ask me now. Ask me, "Becky, where was the light bulb you were supposed to change?" Answer: Imagine the top of the Eiffel tower. Now imagine a trapeze artist who is accustomed to hanging on with her toenails while swinging hundreds of feet in the air. Now imagine this trapeze artist in her sparkly leotard on top of the Eiffel tower looking UP at the aforementioned light bulb, crinkling her brow, and saying, "You want me to do WHAT?!?"
Yes, that's where it was. I mean, why WOULDN'T you put a light there when you have all the money to in the world to pay people with expendable lives to change it? Top of a 25-foot marble staircase. Ladder? No chance. 12-foot-tall midget pyramid? A possibility . . . but we didn't have any midgets working "on-site" with us. So, we did what any 50-year-old religious male engineer and his 23-year-old female assistant could do--we did a shoulder-sit. A what? A shoulder-sit. Looks like my four years of cheerleading actually came in handy (I mean, besides making me despise teenage prima donnas with attitudes and ironing bows with hairspray). I prayed, climbed on his shoulders, and tried not to wee myself (Scottish-ism) as I shakily held the delicate light fixture and attempted to change the bulb. It wasn't easy. And by that, I mean, "It took us 5 mounts and dismounts, one broken halogen bulb, a few curse words, a lot of laughs from the Romanian and Philipina house servants as we swayed like a drunken totem pole at the top of the stairs, a couple more chocolate cookies stolen from the cupboard, a few more curse words, one almost failed attempt (ie, me almost falling head-first over the banister) . . . BUT we did it."
It was a job well done. And for 25 shekels an hour, really, what more could I ask for? Answer: That the light . . . will last longer than I do at this job.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Senses of Memory
Asaf kissed me yesterday evening. It must have been 7:58 pm. Because as he pulled away from me, the 8 o’clock siren—to signal that it was the beginning of Yom Ha-Zikaron—sounded. When it ended, he hugged me tightly, and I asked him, “Is there someone specific you think about when you hear it?” And after he told me, I thought to myself, “There is someone I think about, too.” He was never in the Israeli Defense Forces, and thank G-d, he wasn’t a victim of terror. He was a victim of cancer, and he died a year ago today.
The Day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror. It’s doubly heavy for me because last year my grandfather, Henry, died on this day. In fact, I found out . . . right . . . about . . . now. After a heart-wrenching memorial service, a discussion full of tears—however far-removed their owners had been before this trip to Israel—I came back to my room. That’s when my mom called. “Henry passed away,” she said quietly, and yet, matter-of-factly, somehow maintaining composure during a time which would indelibly change our family dynamic forever. I lost my breath. I felt the blood in my body drain into the floor beneath me. I had to sit down. I didn’t cry, not right at first. I remember thinking how . . . appropriate? timely? his passing was, on Yom HaZikaron, a day when we mourn loved ones—loved ones of our own, loved ones of others. In Hebrew,Yom HaZikaron means the Day of Memory. That’s what it will be for the rest of my life. I’ve given a yarhzeit date to someone who wasn’t Jewish. It was April 29, I think, on the Western calendar, but in the Jewish one, it falls somewhere during the counting of the Omer, the time between Pesach and Shavuot, a time during which we mark the days in anticipation of the revelation of the Torah on Mount Sinai. That’s the feeling I remember—the feeling of my connection to G-d—not the end of April one. I have this weird thought that maybe he did it on purpose. I know it sounds crazy, but maybe it would be difficult for me to relate to Yom HaZikaron since I don’t have anybody who’s fallen in war or was murdered in a terror attack.
From a religious perspective, Yom Kippur is the defining day of the year, the day on which Jews—secular Jews, religious Jews, BuJews, HinJews, hippie Jews, rich stockbroker Jews, everyone—know that they are Jews. From an Israeli perspective, a cultural, social point of view, Yom HaZikaron is the day on which you know you are an Israeli. The day on which when you hear the one-minute siren sound, you stop on the sidewalk, you get out of your car in the middle of the highway, you stand silent and still, saying to yourself, to everyone around you, to the world itself, I am part of Am Yisrael, the People Israel. And the tears that form in my eyes are for Henry, my grandfather, but also for all the people who’ve lost their lives here, for the sake of . . . I don’t know. At one point, I would have been able to finish that sentence, clearly, eloquently. “At one point” equals “before I moved to Israel.” I came here originally as a result of my Zionist ideology. At that point, I would have been able to say that they died for “the dream of Israel” or “the hope of the Jewish people.” Now, it’s harder to say because I’m confronted with the reality of a bad situation that everyday has aspects that become worse.
So, why am I here now? Because, shockingly, I love living here. As we approach the summer, the increasing heat of the day hints at what is to come with the disengagement from Gaza, a spark that is beginning to erupt into flames. Everyday more arrests are made. More protests are staged. More roads blocked and more signs put up. More “suspicious packages” found. And yet, it was with a “suspicious package” that I began to find my answer, my completion to the sentence above.
I walked by the bus stop. I heard one of the bus security guards (the men and women who get on and off buses all day in order to keep us safe, or at least, make us feel that we are safe) say to a girl, “Is that your cell phone?” as he pointed to an abandoned Nokia sitting on the fence. “No,” she answered, after which he called into his walkie-talkie, “Ok, we’ve got a suspicious package here. Everyone, please move away.” A confused old man, in what now seems like a parody, asked me, “Is there a bomb on the bus that’s coming?” “Um, no,” I answered. “There’s a suspicious package over there,” I explained to him. “Oh? I didn’t see it.” “Well, it’s a cell phone,” I said. “Oh, are they going to blow up the bus with the cell phone?” “Well, I hope not,” I said, now a little confused myself. “Is that even possible?” I thought to myself as I walked down the road to the next bus stop. And then I realized, after the whole incident, I wasn’t even phased. I wasn’t even phased to think, that on my way to the mall, I walked past something that could have blown up. And what jarred me even more about my lack of reaction was that it was the second time this week. So, what is the answer, the conclusion to the sentence above, “People who’ve lost their lives for . . .”? I’m not sure. I’m still working on it, but the following advertisement may shed some light on the topic.
There is an ad now in Jerusalem bus stops. Who knew a bus stop could profess wisdom? It’s a sign that simply says, “Students, July is not only the Disengagement, it’s also the Psychometry (SATs).” “Students,” it seems to remind in motherly and yet simultaneously satirical voice, “July is not only the month during which the country will be ripped into pieces by the government and those who oppose it, it is also your SATs.” It says to me, regular life goes on. Even though 5,000 teachers are going to be fired because of budget cuts. Even though a synagogue was burned down in Moscow yesterday and today a Jewish cemetery was vandalized in France. Even though. . . and the list goes on. And at the end of the list . . . there’s the kiss before the siren and the hug afterwards.
The Day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror. It’s doubly heavy for me because last year my grandfather, Henry, died on this day. In fact, I found out . . . right . . . about . . . now. After a heart-wrenching memorial service, a discussion full of tears—however far-removed their owners had been before this trip to Israel—I came back to my room. That’s when my mom called. “Henry passed away,” she said quietly, and yet, matter-of-factly, somehow maintaining composure during a time which would indelibly change our family dynamic forever. I lost my breath. I felt the blood in my body drain into the floor beneath me. I had to sit down. I didn’t cry, not right at first. I remember thinking how . . . appropriate? timely? his passing was, on Yom HaZikaron, a day when we mourn loved ones—loved ones of our own, loved ones of others. In Hebrew,Yom HaZikaron means the Day of Memory. That’s what it will be for the rest of my life. I’ve given a yarhzeit date to someone who wasn’t Jewish. It was April 29, I think, on the Western calendar, but in the Jewish one, it falls somewhere during the counting of the Omer, the time between Pesach and Shavuot, a time during which we mark the days in anticipation of the revelation of the Torah on Mount Sinai. That’s the feeling I remember—the feeling of my connection to G-d—not the end of April one. I have this weird thought that maybe he did it on purpose. I know it sounds crazy, but maybe it would be difficult for me to relate to Yom HaZikaron since I don’t have anybody who’s fallen in war or was murdered in a terror attack.
From a religious perspective, Yom Kippur is the defining day of the year, the day on which Jews—secular Jews, religious Jews, BuJews, HinJews, hippie Jews, rich stockbroker Jews, everyone—know that they are Jews. From an Israeli perspective, a cultural, social point of view, Yom HaZikaron is the day on which you know you are an Israeli. The day on which when you hear the one-minute siren sound, you stop on the sidewalk, you get out of your car in the middle of the highway, you stand silent and still, saying to yourself, to everyone around you, to the world itself, I am part of Am Yisrael, the People Israel. And the tears that form in my eyes are for Henry, my grandfather, but also for all the people who’ve lost their lives here, for the sake of . . . I don’t know. At one point, I would have been able to finish that sentence, clearly, eloquently. “At one point” equals “before I moved to Israel.” I came here originally as a result of my Zionist ideology. At that point, I would have been able to say that they died for “the dream of Israel” or “the hope of the Jewish people.” Now, it’s harder to say because I’m confronted with the reality of a bad situation that everyday has aspects that become worse.
So, why am I here now? Because, shockingly, I love living here. As we approach the summer, the increasing heat of the day hints at what is to come with the disengagement from Gaza, a spark that is beginning to erupt into flames. Everyday more arrests are made. More protests are staged. More roads blocked and more signs put up. More “suspicious packages” found. And yet, it was with a “suspicious package” that I began to find my answer, my completion to the sentence above.
I walked by the bus stop. I heard one of the bus security guards (the men and women who get on and off buses all day in order to keep us safe, or at least, make us feel that we are safe) say to a girl, “Is that your cell phone?” as he pointed to an abandoned Nokia sitting on the fence. “No,” she answered, after which he called into his walkie-talkie, “Ok, we’ve got a suspicious package here. Everyone, please move away.” A confused old man, in what now seems like a parody, asked me, “Is there a bomb on the bus that’s coming?” “Um, no,” I answered. “There’s a suspicious package over there,” I explained to him. “Oh? I didn’t see it.” “Well, it’s a cell phone,” I said. “Oh, are they going to blow up the bus with the cell phone?” “Well, I hope not,” I said, now a little confused myself. “Is that even possible?” I thought to myself as I walked down the road to the next bus stop. And then I realized, after the whole incident, I wasn’t even phased. I wasn’t even phased to think, that on my way to the mall, I walked past something that could have blown up. And what jarred me even more about my lack of reaction was that it was the second time this week. So, what is the answer, the conclusion to the sentence above, “People who’ve lost their lives for . . .”? I’m not sure. I’m still working on it, but the following advertisement may shed some light on the topic.
There is an ad now in Jerusalem bus stops. Who knew a bus stop could profess wisdom? It’s a sign that simply says, “Students, July is not only the Disengagement, it’s also the Psychometry (SATs).” “Students,” it seems to remind in motherly and yet simultaneously satirical voice, “July is not only the month during which the country will be ripped into pieces by the government and those who oppose it, it is also your SATs.” It says to me, regular life goes on. Even though 5,000 teachers are going to be fired because of budget cuts. Even though a synagogue was burned down in Moscow yesterday and today a Jewish cemetery was vandalized in France. Even though. . . and the list goes on. And at the end of the list . . . there’s the kiss before the siren and the hug afterwards.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
What Yoram Taught Me
Yoram. Who is Yoram (pronounced YO-ROM)? He's a moving guy. Yeah, not exactly the most glamorous title for someone who moves people's furniture and valuables, but well, I continue to learn everyday that all sorts of people can teach you lessons about yourself and life. Most of the time life here in Israel is no more exciting than an average day in the United States, but sometimes (yes, ahh, those beautiful "sometimes" days) it gets crazy. The following is my story of a "sometimes" day.
I found a closet (for those of you in America, this means a giant cabinet that holds all your clothes--hanging and folding; they don't know what a walk-in closet is in this country). Usually, to buy a closet like this costs around 800 shekels. I found one, used of course, for 100 shekels. I thought, "Hey, what a deal!" so I bought it. Here's the interesting part--the move. My boyfriend, Asaf (yes, he's Israeli and a handyman, so I put my trust in him concerning this issue), assured me, when I told him the measurements of the closet, that it would fit in his car. Now me, I have no mind for size/packing/fitting leftovers into tupperware sensibilities, so I trusted him. The big day arrived--time for us to pick up the closet. Turns out it is about 27 feet too big for the car (at least we figured it out BEFORE carrying it down 3 flights of stairs). "So, we'll take it apart to transport it," he said. Then we realized it is pressed wood, and old, and if we take it apart, we're pretty much doing it for the exercise and entertainment because there's no way in hell it will go back together. "So, you'll call a moving guy, chik-chock (which as best as I can translate it means "lickety-split!")." "Ok," I'm thinking. "This is still do-able. I'm still getting a great deal," I say to myself, as I contemplate the crazy amount it cost me to move from my last apartment.
The fun of calling "moving guys" began (in no way do I mean to be sexist, but I simply haven't run into any "moving girls/dudettes/women/etc." here in Israel; note: nor have I seen a female bus driver). It's 3 days before Pesach (Passover), everyone in Israel is remodeling/moving/hiring moving guys just so I can't, and it's tough, to say the least, to find someone with availability this week. The lady I bought it from is already starting to get antsy (she's awaiting a new closet of her own), and I have to move this thing pronto. Then, I speak with Yoram. From the telephone he struck me as your typical Israeli sabra (native-born Israeli) who has probably never worried a day in his life, except maybe a tiny bit when he was being shot at by Egyptian soldiers in the Six Day War.
(I've translated the conversation into English for your enjoyment).
Me: Hello, I want to move a closet and I'm just checking how much it will cost.
Yoram the Wise: I can do it tomorrow at 11 am.
Me: Ok, um, great. But how much did you say it will cost?
Yoram the Wise: Give me the address.
Me: It's ____. But again, can you tell me how much it will cost?
Yoram: What's your phone number?
Me: It's _____. How much, Yoram?
Yoram: 200 shekels.
Me: That's kind of a lot, and you don't even know how big it is. We already took everything except for the frame, and someone else told me 150?
Yoram (suspiciously): Who told you 150?
Me (not revealing that yes, someone else quoted me 150 but no, he didn't have time to do it this week): A guy named Isaiah, why do you KNOW him? (pause while Yoram thinks about my honesty/my poor bargaining skills) How about 180?
Yoram (not agreeing, but not disagreeing): Al tid-agi, motek (something like, Don't you worry, darlin')
The part I left out of this conversation is where I told him I wasn't sure and I'd have to call him in the morning, because not only did I want to move a closet from a house that is not mine (meaning I have to cooperate with the already antsy lady), but I was also supposed to do a cleaning job for people I didn't know, so I wouldn't be at my house. Anyways, we ended our conversation with him thinking I'm the typical American woman in Israel, complicating things and worrying about them needlessly.
After this, a lot of things happened in my favor:
1) My friend Joseph agreed to come to my house to be there when they delivered the closet.
2) Antsy lady would be waiting for her new closet at 11 am, too, so she'd be in the apartment.
3) At 7:30 am, the day of the big move, the people I was cleaning for cancelled on me.
4) A guy, also named Yoram, rode by my house on camel and said he could move the closet for me for 25 shekels.
5) Someone sold me a truck yesterday, and now I can move it myself.
(Note: #4 and #5 did not actually happen)
(Note: My dad did tell me when he died I would inherit the SmurfMobile, his 1984 bright blue Chevy truck. While I always shook my head in disdain at his offer, I am beginning to think it's a good idea)
So, everything's fine. And Yoram was right, I didn't need to worry.
But now, there's been a slight hitch in the plan:
1) Yoram can't come at 11.
2) Martians have invaded the holy city of Jerusalem.
3) I broke my leg.
(Note: #2 and #3 are false, but I wrote them to emphasize how much we worry about things and how we can blow the smallest thing out of proportion)
But I've made a conscious decision that I'm not going to worry. Why? Because Yoram told me not to, and well, he was right the last time.
I found a closet (for those of you in America, this means a giant cabinet that holds all your clothes--hanging and folding; they don't know what a walk-in closet is in this country). Usually, to buy a closet like this costs around 800 shekels. I found one, used of course, for 100 shekels. I thought, "Hey, what a deal!" so I bought it. Here's the interesting part--the move. My boyfriend, Asaf (yes, he's Israeli and a handyman, so I put my trust in him concerning this issue), assured me, when I told him the measurements of the closet, that it would fit in his car. Now me, I have no mind for size/packing/fitting leftovers into tupperware sensibilities, so I trusted him. The big day arrived--time for us to pick up the closet. Turns out it is about 27 feet too big for the car (at least we figured it out BEFORE carrying it down 3 flights of stairs). "So, we'll take it apart to transport it," he said. Then we realized it is pressed wood, and old, and if we take it apart, we're pretty much doing it for the exercise and entertainment because there's no way in hell it will go back together. "So, you'll call a moving guy, chik-chock (which as best as I can translate it means "lickety-split!")." "Ok," I'm thinking. "This is still do-able. I'm still getting a great deal," I say to myself, as I contemplate the crazy amount it cost me to move from my last apartment.
The fun of calling "moving guys" began (in no way do I mean to be sexist, but I simply haven't run into any "moving girls/dudettes/women/etc." here in Israel; note: nor have I seen a female bus driver). It's 3 days before Pesach (Passover), everyone in Israel is remodeling/moving/hiring moving guys just so I can't, and it's tough, to say the least, to find someone with availability this week. The lady I bought it from is already starting to get antsy (she's awaiting a new closet of her own), and I have to move this thing pronto. Then, I speak with Yoram. From the telephone he struck me as your typical Israeli sabra (native-born Israeli) who has probably never worried a day in his life, except maybe a tiny bit when he was being shot at by Egyptian soldiers in the Six Day War.
(I've translated the conversation into English for your enjoyment).
Me: Hello, I want to move a closet and I'm just checking how much it will cost.
Yoram the Wise: I can do it tomorrow at 11 am.
Me: Ok, um, great. But how much did you say it will cost?
Yoram the Wise: Give me the address.
Me: It's ____. But again, can you tell me how much it will cost?
Yoram: What's your phone number?
Me: It's _____. How much, Yoram?
Yoram: 200 shekels.
Me: That's kind of a lot, and you don't even know how big it is. We already took everything except for the frame, and someone else told me 150?
Yoram (suspiciously): Who told you 150?
Me (not revealing that yes, someone else quoted me 150 but no, he didn't have time to do it this week): A guy named Isaiah, why do you KNOW him? (pause while Yoram thinks about my honesty/my poor bargaining skills) How about 180?
Yoram (not agreeing, but not disagreeing): Al tid-agi, motek (something like, Don't you worry, darlin')
The part I left out of this conversation is where I told him I wasn't sure and I'd have to call him in the morning, because not only did I want to move a closet from a house that is not mine (meaning I have to cooperate with the already antsy lady), but I was also supposed to do a cleaning job for people I didn't know, so I wouldn't be at my house. Anyways, we ended our conversation with him thinking I'm the typical American woman in Israel, complicating things and worrying about them needlessly.
After this, a lot of things happened in my favor:
1) My friend Joseph agreed to come to my house to be there when they delivered the closet.
2) Antsy lady would be waiting for her new closet at 11 am, too, so she'd be in the apartment.
3) At 7:30 am, the day of the big move, the people I was cleaning for cancelled on me.
4) A guy, also named Yoram, rode by my house on camel and said he could move the closet for me for 25 shekels.
5) Someone sold me a truck yesterday, and now I can move it myself.
(Note: #4 and #5 did not actually happen)
(Note: My dad did tell me when he died I would inherit the SmurfMobile, his 1984 bright blue Chevy truck. While I always shook my head in disdain at his offer, I am beginning to think it's a good idea)
So, everything's fine. And Yoram was right, I didn't need to worry.
But now, there's been a slight hitch in the plan:
1) Yoram can't come at 11.
2) Martians have invaded the holy city of Jerusalem.
3) I broke my leg.
(Note: #2 and #3 are false, but I wrote them to emphasize how much we worry about things and how we can blow the smallest thing out of proportion)
But I've made a conscious decision that I'm not going to worry. Why? Because Yoram told me not to, and well, he was right the last time.
Monday, March 28, 2005
On the Bus: In the Family
The reason I've decided on a second part to this series of "On the Bus" is not because I particularly want to say more about my bus adventures here in Israel. In fact, I could write a book about them, but the reason I'm titling this "On the Bus: In the Family" is because of my brother. For those of you who don't know him, my brother is Michael. Ahh, but he is so much more than a 7-letter name could ever even hint at. My brother is a school bus driver. But again, so much more than that. For a while, Michael has tried to find his destiny in life. He's one of those amazing people whom you come across every once in a while whose sole purpose in life is to try to make others happy, to make their lives easier, even at the expense of inconveniencing himself. He's a procrastinator, for sure, and I seem to remember him flunking out of Algebra and Spanish in high school despite his high IQ and technical/computer capabilities, but I've always admired him for his ability to "go with the flow" of life. My mom says that my brother and I are the two people in her world that don't have clue where we will sleep next and yet we're the happiest people she knows. Well, now I'm living in Jerusalem (settled down in an apartment, who could have imagined), but my brother, well, that's the real subject of this post . . .
My brother lives on a bus. He's a school bus driver ("Mr. Michael" is his name, and yes, teaching kids about life while he drives is his game), and to be sure, he doesn't live on this bus, but right now, he's in the process of renovating an old school bus--to live in. I didn't take my mom seriously when she told me, but then I thought, "This is the same Michael who once told me I didn't need to change out of my pajamas--'We're just going to the 7-11'--and then we ended up all over town with me in my polka-dotted boxer shorts and a t-shirt. This is the same Michael who was a cross-country truck driver for a summer . . . for the hell of it. This is the same Michael who took apart a computer at the age of 11 . . . because he could." My brother's an amazing person who will probably worry my mother until her old age, but he'll also give her things to laugh about.
So, how does this subject concern Israel? I don't think it does, actually, so maybe I'll just have to change the title of my blog. As I approach my 23rd birthday, though, this Wednesday, I think about the people who have taught me lessons in life, and my big brother's one of those people. He's taught me that you have to do what feels right--even if it may seem crazy to other people--oh, I guess that's how this connects to my moving to Israel . . .
As spring begins to enter Jerusalem (Yes! My clothes are finally going to start drying on the rack outside!), I wish all of you a beautiful week, month, year, life!
My brother lives on a bus. He's a school bus driver ("Mr. Michael" is his name, and yes, teaching kids about life while he drives is his game), and to be sure, he doesn't live on this bus, but right now, he's in the process of renovating an old school bus--to live in. I didn't take my mom seriously when she told me, but then I thought, "This is the same Michael who once told me I didn't need to change out of my pajamas--'We're just going to the 7-11'--and then we ended up all over town with me in my polka-dotted boxer shorts and a t-shirt. This is the same Michael who was a cross-country truck driver for a summer . . . for the hell of it. This is the same Michael who took apart a computer at the age of 11 . . . because he could." My brother's an amazing person who will probably worry my mother until her old age, but he'll also give her things to laugh about.
So, how does this subject concern Israel? I don't think it does, actually, so maybe I'll just have to change the title of my blog. As I approach my 23rd birthday, though, this Wednesday, I think about the people who have taught me lessons in life, and my big brother's one of those people. He's taught me that you have to do what feels right--even if it may seem crazy to other people--oh, I guess that's how this connects to my moving to Israel . . .
As spring begins to enter Jerusalem (Yes! My clothes are finally going to start drying on the rack outside!), I wish all of you a beautiful week, month, year, life!
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
On the Bus
On the bus--this actually could be the title of my entire journey in Israel. It seems like ever since I arrived in Israel that's what I've been doing--spending time on buses. I'm sure all of you are thrilled to hear that. To be honest, though, I think this is one good way to get to know this country. No, I take that back--to get to know the people of this country. In recent conversations with friends who've decided to make their lives here in Israel on a more permanent basis, we've talked about how temporary residents in Israel, despite all of their claims to the contrary, enjoy the comforts of living in an English-speaking bubble (one that does not include riding buses!). In fact, it's very easy to do, especially in the holy city of Jerusalem. There are English-speaking neighborhoods, learning institutions, so so so many things to do without ever knowing Hebrew past "Shalom" and "Shabbat Shalom." But without attacking my wonderful "temporary" counterparts, I'll mention a few of the benefits of riding buses that I've discovered these last 5 months in Jerusalem.
My first great experience on a bus was the day I saw two little Haredi (ultra-religious) boys. What made these cute little guys different than the other little Haredi boys I see on the streets? First, they were identical twins, and second, the two were speaking sign language to one another. I was sitting in a seat facing the front, and they were facing the back, so it was easy for me to inconspicuously watch them interact. I only wish I knew sign language--Hebrew sign language : )
Today, as I sat on the number 31 bus in a traffic jam near the center of town, I looked out of the window. Actually, I first looked at the back of the head of the woman in front of me, who was looking out the window. She looked as if something shocked her, and so I then turned my head out of curiosity. There was a boy, about 8 or 9, sticking his tongue out at her, making a face. She quickly looked away, but I thought, "Well, I need something to entertain me while I just sit here," so I stuck MY tongue out at him. At first he was shocked--I guess he wasn't actually expecting someone to react. But then, he started to play along. We each made different faces until the bus finally pulled forward, and I saw his look of disappointment as we separated. It's too bad more people don't make faces like that and then burst out into laughter seconds later.
So, this wasn't on the bus but deserves mention. I was waiting for a sandwich in my favorite (French) bakery on King George Street, one of the main thoroughfares of downtown Jerusalem. I turned around and saw an old (almost ancient!) little couple sitting on the barstools enjoying some pastries. They were religious--the little, old lady had her hair covered and was wearing a skirt, and the little old man's frizzy gray hair was sticking out from under his thick-yarn crocheted kippah--and they were speaking French (just so you can picture the scene). From the pastry the little old lady was eating, more was ending up on her skirt than in her mouth, and I saw him gently reach over and brush the crumbs off of her lap without her even noticing. Love, tenderness--it almost broke my heart.
I have moments like this all the time. Of course, I also have the moments where I see a man give someone the finger for accidentally cutting him off in traffic. And there was that time on the bus where an old-lady starting screaming and hitting a man who called her a "Communist." (Here's a tip: Don't talk about Communists with people who've lived under the Communist regime!) But far more often than not, you see young people get up for old people, or old people get up for older people to give them seats on the bus. More often than not, you are able to laugh with someone about the ridiculousness of others. More often than not through the understanding of language and culture, you feel that a new place is home.
I watched the movie "The Terminal" yesterday, and while most of the movie stereotyped Americans and non-Americans (not something I particularly like, since I am now both of these things), I drew a bit of wisdom from it. In the movie, Tom Hanks plays Viktor, a man from a country in which the government has just been overthrown through a military coup. The dialogue between the airport head of operations and Viktor, in which the head of operations tries to convince Viktor to say he is afraid to return to his country (in order to obtain asylum in America), goes something like this:
Head of Operations: "There are men with guns in the streets, bombs, people are taken from their beds in the middle of the night. Aren't you afraid?"
Viktor: "No."
Head: "You're country is in the middle of a war, you have no idea what could happen to you if you go back. You're afraid right?"
Viktor: "No."
The Head of Operations continues to try to convince him of all the reasons he needs to be "afraid," when finally Viktor says, "I'm not afraid. It is my home, how could I be afraid of my home?"
And so, I'll end on that, for those of you who are worried about my safety here. I ride buses, and there is not a trip that goes by during which I don't ask G-d to keep me safe--but I am not afraid. I am home, how could I be afraid of my home?
My first great experience on a bus was the day I saw two little Haredi (ultra-religious) boys. What made these cute little guys different than the other little Haredi boys I see on the streets? First, they were identical twins, and second, the two were speaking sign language to one another. I was sitting in a seat facing the front, and they were facing the back, so it was easy for me to inconspicuously watch them interact. I only wish I knew sign language--Hebrew sign language : )
Today, as I sat on the number 31 bus in a traffic jam near the center of town, I looked out of the window. Actually, I first looked at the back of the head of the woman in front of me, who was looking out the window. She looked as if something shocked her, and so I then turned my head out of curiosity. There was a boy, about 8 or 9, sticking his tongue out at her, making a face. She quickly looked away, but I thought, "Well, I need something to entertain me while I just sit here," so I stuck MY tongue out at him. At first he was shocked--I guess he wasn't actually expecting someone to react. But then, he started to play along. We each made different faces until the bus finally pulled forward, and I saw his look of disappointment as we separated. It's too bad more people don't make faces like that and then burst out into laughter seconds later.
So, this wasn't on the bus but deserves mention. I was waiting for a sandwich in my favorite (French) bakery on King George Street, one of the main thoroughfares of downtown Jerusalem. I turned around and saw an old (almost ancient!) little couple sitting on the barstools enjoying some pastries. They were religious--the little, old lady had her hair covered and was wearing a skirt, and the little old man's frizzy gray hair was sticking out from under his thick-yarn crocheted kippah--and they were speaking French (just so you can picture the scene). From the pastry the little old lady was eating, more was ending up on her skirt than in her mouth, and I saw him gently reach over and brush the crumbs off of her lap without her even noticing. Love, tenderness--it almost broke my heart.
I have moments like this all the time. Of course, I also have the moments where I see a man give someone the finger for accidentally cutting him off in traffic. And there was that time on the bus where an old-lady starting screaming and hitting a man who called her a "Communist." (Here's a tip: Don't talk about Communists with people who've lived under the Communist regime!) But far more often than not, you see young people get up for old people, or old people get up for older people to give them seats on the bus. More often than not, you are able to laugh with someone about the ridiculousness of others. More often than not through the understanding of language and culture, you feel that a new place is home.
I watched the movie "The Terminal" yesterday, and while most of the movie stereotyped Americans and non-Americans (not something I particularly like, since I am now both of these things), I drew a bit of wisdom from it. In the movie, Tom Hanks plays Viktor, a man from a country in which the government has just been overthrown through a military coup. The dialogue between the airport head of operations and Viktor, in which the head of operations tries to convince Viktor to say he is afraid to return to his country (in order to obtain asylum in America), goes something like this:
Head of Operations: "There are men with guns in the streets, bombs, people are taken from their beds in the middle of the night. Aren't you afraid?"
Viktor: "No."
Head: "You're country is in the middle of a war, you have no idea what could happen to you if you go back. You're afraid right?"
Viktor: "No."
The Head of Operations continues to try to convince him of all the reasons he needs to be "afraid," when finally Viktor says, "I'm not afraid. It is my home, how could I be afraid of my home?"
And so, I'll end on that, for those of you who are worried about my safety here. I ride buses, and there is not a trip that goes by during which I don't ask G-d to keep me safe--but I am not afraid. I am home, how could I be afraid of my home?
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