Sunday, February 26, 2006
Wrestling with Tigers
Israel. It means “wrestling with G-d,” something I anticipated doing when I made aliyah. After all, I live in the holy city of Jerusalem. I didn’t, however, anticipate wrestling with tigers, another experience afforded to me here in my humble abode.
Yesterday was my one-month anniversary of freedom. One month ago, I was released from the Bikur Holim hospital** in Jerusalem, Israel. One month ago, I walked home from the hospital, hunched over in pain and ready to lie down from my long journey—the one block home from the hospital.
Being in the hospital can work wonders on your life (and your appendix). My hospital story goes like this . . .
December 29th, 2005, I flew to the United States for my brother’s wedding.
January 20th, 2006, I set foot in Israel again.
The Sunday after my arrival, January 23rd, I woke up in the middle of the night in more pain than I’ve ever felt.
The scene: 1am, Becky’s Bedroom, where sugar plum fairies dance to the bass rhythm of Nadav’s snoring and Becky rolls over once again, holding her stomach, and promising G-d that if it the pain stops, she’ll never again eat tomato-cream sauce and chocolate cake in the same meal, for real this time.
“Nadav . . .”
“Mrrmpght . . .”
“Nadav?”
“Yeah?” (sleepily)
“I’m really hurting . . .”
“Mrrpghth”
“Nadav?”
“Yeah, can I do something? Do you think you should go to the hospital?”
“Maybe . . . I’ve never had pain this horrible from eating a bad food.”
“Ok, (mmrthphopth) I’ll call my mom (she’s a nurse).”
After describing my symptoms in several languages, it was decided that I should go to the hospital, with a likely case of either food poisoning (my bet) or appendicitis (Nadav’s mother’s idea). After succeeding in waking my soundly sleeping roommate, we asked which hospital to go to. “Anywhere but Bikur Holim,” she replied. (See starred name of hospital above for comic relief and the set-up of the continuation of this story)
So, we walked the 300 yards to . . . Bikur Holim. We didn’t know where the ER was, so while Nadav ran to find it, he asked some guys walking down the street at 2am to “watch me.”
“Becky, these guys are going to watch you?”
(Note: I forgot my glasses at home)
“What, you’ve asked random guys walking the streets at 2 am to ‘watch me’?!? Have you lost your mind?”
As they got closer, I saw heard American English and saw they were 19-year-old yeshiva kids, coming home from a night at the bar. “Ok, fine, just hurry,” I replied and tried not to look like I was dying.
We made it to the ER and what Nadav anticipated being a “walk-in-walk-out” visit (his later justification for taking me to the only place UN-recommended by my roommate) became a hospitalization, a surgery, and a scar the size of the Eiffel Tower.
My hospital room, which was a steamy 102 degrees Farenheit, housed, not native plants of the tropical rainforest, but rather an old religious woman, a survivor of Auschwitz, whose first language was Yiddish and who snored like a lumberjack. She was in need of a pacemaker and heart medication, and before she would agree to either (in the end, she agreed to neither), she needed to check with her rabbi. The third occupant was a religious woman who—like me—was also having stomach pains and who—like me—waited an inordinate amount of time for an ultrasound. My final roommate was a Muslim young woman with a broken nose, who, so sweet and quiet, cried in pain until a nurse found her and chastised her in Arabic, “Why didn’t you tell me you were in pain?!?”
To enrich your vision of the scene, remember, I was in the “Surgery Ward,” which means, “Everyone is fasting in preparation for surgery (and so therefore weak and falling over) or everyone has already had surgery (and so therefore drugged up on painkillers and falling over). Please note that all over the world the usage of hospital gowns that bare your ass to the world when you are least prepared to handle the situation is encouraged.
To further enrich your image, let me just tell you right now, that there are lots of things in Israel that on the cutting edge of technology. Bikur Holim hospital . . . not one of them.
Enter . . . . my doctors (not one of which was born in Israel, America, England, Western Europe, oh forget it, anywhere but Russia)
I guess my real question about my doctor is . . . why did he seem so professional when explaining to me the necessity of an appendectomy and having me sign the documents, and as soon as I agreed, he turned into Binky the Clown?
“Did you make pee pee?” he asked me, after my first round of injections of anesthesia pre-operation.
“No, I forgot.”
“Ooops, you’re going to have to use a bed pan.”
“Urgh.”
(Becky using bed pan to the background music of “The Pee-Pee Song” performed by Surgeon Binky)
“Oh, G-d, this is the guy doing the surgery . . . . this cannot be gooooo . . . wow, that feels good . . . why is this mask over me . . . woooooo”
Awake.
Hell.
Pain.
Cold, freezing, shaking visibly off the bed, PAIN.
Rambling in Hebrew, English, Jibberish.
Throat burning from breathing tube being ripped out while conscious.
Lips burning from tape being ripped off while conscious.
Tears streaming, body convulsing, lungs bursting, flashes of roommates, friends, my love, touching my hair, my legs, lights dimmed, beeping, beeping, beeping, sticky, everywhere. Sleep.
Morning. I’m alive. I feel like I’ve been run over by a bulldozer, but I’m alive. Nadav slumped over on a cot the length that he was when he was 4 years old. Can’t move without his help. They’re telling me I have to urinate. But I haven’t drunk anything in 36 hours, eaten anything in more. “Well, you really need to. Let us know when you have.” “Okkkkkkk . . . ”
And that, as far as I can tell, is what being in the hospital is about. Everyone caring about your bodily fluids, etc. They wouldn’t let me eat for two more days, but they somehow expected me to do, well, the impossible. I wanted to explain that theory of matter we learned in sixth grade, something about matter not being created from nothing. But, I was on painkillers, which means I basically just sat around reading, sleeping, getting my cell phone stolen, and walking to the bathroom propped up by an IV stand while trying not to let people see my ass.
And then the day I was able to do number #2 (you know what I mean), they let me go. I got out alive. I felt better. I feel better. I do wonder why in a city that has wireless internet in its entire downtown and each person owns two cell phones they didn’t use micro-surgery, why I’m left with a two-inch gash for which the only response I have is, “Well, you should see the tiger I wrestled with—now he looks bad.” But, I’m ok. I made it out. I saw the concern in my friends’ eyes. They saw the appreciation in mine. And I came to realize what most people who make it out of the “darkness” of anesthesia and surgery realize—that wrestling with tigers is like wrestling with G-d. You come out knowing what’s important in life, even if they did forget to give you your appendix in a jar.
Yesterday was my one-month anniversary of freedom. One month ago, I was released from the Bikur Holim hospital** in Jerusalem, Israel. One month ago, I walked home from the hospital, hunched over in pain and ready to lie down from my long journey—the one block home from the hospital.
Being in the hospital can work wonders on your life (and your appendix). My hospital story goes like this . . .
December 29th, 2005, I flew to the United States for my brother’s wedding.
January 20th, 2006, I set foot in Israel again.
The Sunday after my arrival, January 23rd, I woke up in the middle of the night in more pain than I’ve ever felt.
The scene: 1am, Becky’s Bedroom, where sugar plum fairies dance to the bass rhythm of Nadav’s snoring and Becky rolls over once again, holding her stomach, and promising G-d that if it the pain stops, she’ll never again eat tomato-cream sauce and chocolate cake in the same meal, for real this time.
“Nadav . . .”
“Mrrmpght . . .”
“Nadav?”
“Yeah?” (sleepily)
“I’m really hurting . . .”
“Mrrpghth”
“Nadav?”
“Yeah, can I do something? Do you think you should go to the hospital?”
“Maybe . . . I’ve never had pain this horrible from eating a bad food.”
“Ok, (mmrthphopth) I’ll call my mom (she’s a nurse).”
After describing my symptoms in several languages, it was decided that I should go to the hospital, with a likely case of either food poisoning (my bet) or appendicitis (Nadav’s mother’s idea). After succeeding in waking my soundly sleeping roommate, we asked which hospital to go to. “Anywhere but Bikur Holim,” she replied. (See starred name of hospital above for comic relief and the set-up of the continuation of this story)
So, we walked the 300 yards to . . . Bikur Holim. We didn’t know where the ER was, so while Nadav ran to find it, he asked some guys walking down the street at 2am to “watch me.”
“Becky, these guys are going to watch you?”
(Note: I forgot my glasses at home)
“What, you’ve asked random guys walking the streets at 2 am to ‘watch me’?!? Have you lost your mind?”
As they got closer, I saw heard American English and saw they were 19-year-old yeshiva kids, coming home from a night at the bar. “Ok, fine, just hurry,” I replied and tried not to look like I was dying.
We made it to the ER and what Nadav anticipated being a “walk-in-walk-out” visit (his later justification for taking me to the only place UN-recommended by my roommate) became a hospitalization, a surgery, and a scar the size of the Eiffel Tower.
My hospital room, which was a steamy 102 degrees Farenheit, housed, not native plants of the tropical rainforest, but rather an old religious woman, a survivor of Auschwitz, whose first language was Yiddish and who snored like a lumberjack. She was in need of a pacemaker and heart medication, and before she would agree to either (in the end, she agreed to neither), she needed to check with her rabbi. The third occupant was a religious woman who—like me—was also having stomach pains and who—like me—waited an inordinate amount of time for an ultrasound. My final roommate was a Muslim young woman with a broken nose, who, so sweet and quiet, cried in pain until a nurse found her and chastised her in Arabic, “Why didn’t you tell me you were in pain?!?”
To enrich your vision of the scene, remember, I was in the “Surgery Ward,” which means, “Everyone is fasting in preparation for surgery (and so therefore weak and falling over) or everyone has already had surgery (and so therefore drugged up on painkillers and falling over). Please note that all over the world the usage of hospital gowns that bare your ass to the world when you are least prepared to handle the situation is encouraged.
To further enrich your image, let me just tell you right now, that there are lots of things in Israel that on the cutting edge of technology. Bikur Holim hospital . . . not one of them.
Enter . . . . my doctors (not one of which was born in Israel, America, England, Western Europe, oh forget it, anywhere but Russia)
I guess my real question about my doctor is . . . why did he seem so professional when explaining to me the necessity of an appendectomy and having me sign the documents, and as soon as I agreed, he turned into Binky the Clown?
“Did you make pee pee?” he asked me, after my first round of injections of anesthesia pre-operation.
“No, I forgot.”
“Ooops, you’re going to have to use a bed pan.”
“Urgh.”
(Becky using bed pan to the background music of “The Pee-Pee Song” performed by Surgeon Binky)
“Oh, G-d, this is the guy doing the surgery . . . . this cannot be gooooo . . . wow, that feels good . . . why is this mask over me . . . woooooo”
Awake.
Hell.
Pain.
Cold, freezing, shaking visibly off the bed, PAIN.
Rambling in Hebrew, English, Jibberish.
Throat burning from breathing tube being ripped out while conscious.
Lips burning from tape being ripped off while conscious.
Tears streaming, body convulsing, lungs bursting, flashes of roommates, friends, my love, touching my hair, my legs, lights dimmed, beeping, beeping, beeping, sticky, everywhere. Sleep.
Morning. I’m alive. I feel like I’ve been run over by a bulldozer, but I’m alive. Nadav slumped over on a cot the length that he was when he was 4 years old. Can’t move without his help. They’re telling me I have to urinate. But I haven’t drunk anything in 36 hours, eaten anything in more. “Well, you really need to. Let us know when you have.” “Okkkkkkk . . . ”
And that, as far as I can tell, is what being in the hospital is about. Everyone caring about your bodily fluids, etc. They wouldn’t let me eat for two more days, but they somehow expected me to do, well, the impossible. I wanted to explain that theory of matter we learned in sixth grade, something about matter not being created from nothing. But, I was on painkillers, which means I basically just sat around reading, sleeping, getting my cell phone stolen, and walking to the bathroom propped up by an IV stand while trying not to let people see my ass.
And then the day I was able to do number #2 (you know what I mean), they let me go. I got out alive. I felt better. I feel better. I do wonder why in a city that has wireless internet in its entire downtown and each person owns two cell phones they didn’t use micro-surgery, why I’m left with a two-inch gash for which the only response I have is, “Well, you should see the tiger I wrestled with—now he looks bad.” But, I’m ok. I made it out. I saw the concern in my friends’ eyes. They saw the appreciation in mine. And I came to realize what most people who make it out of the “darkness” of anesthesia and surgery realize—that wrestling with tigers is like wrestling with G-d. You come out knowing what’s important in life, even if they did forget to give you your appendix in a jar.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
I'll Be a Millionaire in No Time
I guess I just didn't think I was worth that much. I'm not referring here to my self-esteem. I'm talking about my "marketability" in the job-world. Perhaps, because it was my first "real job," I was willing to settle for less. 23.75 per hour sounded good. For all you Americans reading this, remember, I'm talking shekels here, not dollars. I won't outline the exchange rate for you here, because, well, then you'd get just as depressed as me about how little I was earning. One of the common things you hear when you move to Israel and start working is, "You can't compare your Israeli salary to what you were earning in your cushy American job." Let me just be honest, though. I was never in what one would call a "cushy American job." Most of my amazing career opportunities in America were in what we in the food service industry like to call "The Culinary Arts World." My venture into this career arena first began at the tender age of sixteen. I had my whole life ahead of me. I had a new (and by new, I mean, 1988) Chevy Cavalier. It was the summer of 1998, or as I like to refer to it, "The Summer of Dreams," and--as I found out soon enough--Big Macs. I landed myself a prime position in a world-famous gourmet restaurant. I haven't been all over the world, but I've done enough traveling to know that this fine establishment is indeed world-famous. Where there is human being with a craving for french fries (or "chips" as some of the world calls them) there will be the illustrious golden symbol of capitalism and globalization. Yes, McDonald's.
At McDonald's, I learned a lot. First, when a supervisor asks you what your availability is, do not ever say, "Whenever," because "Whenever" could--and did--mean 5:45 in the morning . . . every day of the week. Second, there are a lot of mean people in the world who are just looking for some sweet high school girl on whom to take out their anger. Third, there are a lot of high-school girls in the world who are much smarter than most of the customers who frequent McDonald's. And fourth, earning minimum wage sucks.
I've been in the work force now for over eight years (ten, if you count my foray in the world of landscaping--a very dangerous profession I might add*). Eight years, and I am now earning per hour . . . what I earned as a sixteen-year old working at McDonald's. It's thrilling. I love to speak on the phone to my American friends and hear them complain about their entry-level salaries. I usually just smile, grit my teeth, and commiserate with them, "Yeah, it does suck," while continuing the thought in my head, "That you are earning twice as much as me."
The saying is true; you cannot compare Israeli salaries to those in America. However, the ideas that "The exchange rate compensates for the lower salaries because of . . . " and "The prices on everyday commodoties is lower because of . . ." are simply not true. Yes, I pay very little for rent. But I also have two windows in my lovely room--one at the top of my 15 foot ceiling and one--yes, I'm being honest--that opens to the kitchen. Yes, I pay $160 rent for my bedroom, but I have a washing machine in it. Yes, I pay comparatively little rent . . for my cozy (read: small) room in an apartment with 3 other girls. But, on the up side, the real estate market is looking up in my downtown Jerusalem apartment. I have a room that constantly grows because the paint chips and the sand walls fall down daily. And if you're a polar bear, it's a prime location (no heating in the winter!).
It may sound from all of this that I'm having a hard time--in work, in my living situation, in life in general. But it's actually quite the opposite. In work, as you may have gathered from the title of this essay, I just received a raise. It was an exercise in evaluating and valuing my self-worth and, additionally, in becoming an adult. Asking for a raise is no easy task, but my discussion with my boss was less painful than I anticipated, and she was happy to offer me five more shekels an hour.
My living situation, although the description I just gave sounds less than pleasant, is actually great. I love my roommates, and they love me (and the washing machine I brought with me when I moved in). My apartment is conveniently located to everything, and I have a variety of bakeries within close (perhaps too close) walking distance. Additionally, I roll out of bed in the morning (roll, rather than get up, you just read the part about the bakeries), walk 100 yards, and I'm at the bus I need to go to work every morning.
In addition to that, I guess it's time now to reveal the big secret: I'm . . . ha ha . . .just kidding. I'm not getting married. I'm not pregnant. I'm not moving to China. But I am dating an amazing guy named Nadav. We've been friends for quite a while, and about two months ago, each of us decided that the other is pretty cool and perhaps worth a shot. (By the way, I'm cooler than he is!)
In any case, life is good. And with my new five shekel per hour raise, I'll be a millionaire in no time. In fact, because of the exchange rate (4.5 shekels to the dollar), I'll even get there 4.5 times as fast. And don't worry, when I move in to my mansion, you'll be the first to know.
*About landscaping being a dangerous profession (for those of you who don't know the story), I'll post an educational essay soon about lawnmowers, engine belts, and how NOT to stick in your hand in them.
At McDonald's, I learned a lot. First, when a supervisor asks you what your availability is, do not ever say, "Whenever," because "Whenever" could--and did--mean 5:45 in the morning . . . every day of the week. Second, there are a lot of mean people in the world who are just looking for some sweet high school girl on whom to take out their anger. Third, there are a lot of high-school girls in the world who are much smarter than most of the customers who frequent McDonald's. And fourth, earning minimum wage sucks.
I've been in the work force now for over eight years (ten, if you count my foray in the world of landscaping--a very dangerous profession I might add*). Eight years, and I am now earning per hour . . . what I earned as a sixteen-year old working at McDonald's. It's thrilling. I love to speak on the phone to my American friends and hear them complain about their entry-level salaries. I usually just smile, grit my teeth, and commiserate with them, "Yeah, it does suck," while continuing the thought in my head, "That you are earning twice as much as me."
The saying is true; you cannot compare Israeli salaries to those in America. However, the ideas that "The exchange rate compensates for the lower salaries because of . . . " and "The prices on everyday commodoties is lower because of . . ." are simply not true. Yes, I pay very little for rent. But I also have two windows in my lovely room--one at the top of my 15 foot ceiling and one--yes, I'm being honest--that opens to the kitchen. Yes, I pay $160 rent for my bedroom, but I have a washing machine in it. Yes, I pay comparatively little rent . . for my cozy (read: small) room in an apartment with 3 other girls. But, on the up side, the real estate market is looking up in my downtown Jerusalem apartment. I have a room that constantly grows because the paint chips and the sand walls fall down daily. And if you're a polar bear, it's a prime location (no heating in the winter!).
It may sound from all of this that I'm having a hard time--in work, in my living situation, in life in general. But it's actually quite the opposite. In work, as you may have gathered from the title of this essay, I just received a raise. It was an exercise in evaluating and valuing my self-worth and, additionally, in becoming an adult. Asking for a raise is no easy task, but my discussion with my boss was less painful than I anticipated, and she was happy to offer me five more shekels an hour.
My living situation, although the description I just gave sounds less than pleasant, is actually great. I love my roommates, and they love me (and the washing machine I brought with me when I moved in). My apartment is conveniently located to everything, and I have a variety of bakeries within close (perhaps too close) walking distance. Additionally, I roll out of bed in the morning (roll, rather than get up, you just read the part about the bakeries), walk 100 yards, and I'm at the bus I need to go to work every morning.
In addition to that, I guess it's time now to reveal the big secret: I'm . . . ha ha . . .just kidding. I'm not getting married. I'm not pregnant. I'm not moving to China. But I am dating an amazing guy named Nadav. We've been friends for quite a while, and about two months ago, each of us decided that the other is pretty cool and perhaps worth a shot. (By the way, I'm cooler than he is!)
In any case, life is good. And with my new five shekel per hour raise, I'll be a millionaire in no time. In fact, because of the exchange rate (4.5 shekels to the dollar), I'll even get there 4.5 times as fast. And don't worry, when I move in to my mansion, you'll be the first to know.
*About landscaping being a dangerous profession (for those of you who don't know the story), I'll post an educational essay soon about lawnmowers, engine belts, and how NOT to stick in your hand in them.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
I'll see you tomorrow . . .
I am constantly amazed at the scenarios and the people that I encounter on the bus here in Israel. It seems like every essay I write is somehow influenced by my bus travels. I think it’s because on a bus, you simply have time to think. And watch. And hear. And see the same things over and over again. And realize that sometimes the things that you think are distanced from you are in fact the every-day, well-known, well-loved bits of your life.
My morning starts with the smell of ______. I would like to fill this blank with a variety of nice-smelling things--coffee, doughnuts, flowers, vanilla--but in fact the answer is . . . old urine. While my house is situated on a beautiful side-street with flowers, grapevines, and enough cats to film another segment of “Planet of the Apes” (except with cats, of course), my bus stop leaves a bit to be desired. It’s next to a parking lot that people seem to have mistaken for a public restroom. What I realize each morning as I stand in the place as far away as possible from the smell (Note: This location changes each morning depending on wind speed and direction) is that my life is filled with people whose names I don’t know.
The first two people I encounter each morning after leaving my little street are a Philipino man and a cranky teenage girl.
The Philipino man wears a baseball-cap and he’s a caretaker for an elderly religious man. He hasn’t told me, but I’m sure that’s what he does. Here in Jerusalem, that’s what you do if you are Philipino. You care for elderly religious Jews with money. You spend your days speaking English and your nights off speaking Tagalag.
The teenage girl, well, she’s a bit more of a character. She--in all her I’m-too-cool-for-this-place glory--has the ability to gross me out anew each morning. You see, she likes to wear her pants too big--hanging down over her shoes--and think she’s somehow original for a high-schooler. The part that grosses me out is the bubble gum that she chews. I think she first sees the scared look on my face. Then, and only then, does she pull the saliva-covered hot-pink gum from her mouth and begin to twirl it around her fingers, swinging it around and around and around. With each revolution, the look on my face exhibits more disgust. Eventually, I turn away and see the bus (Wait! My bus!) pass me without stopping.
The next person I meet, or in this case fail to meet, is the bus driver who passes me by without stopping if I’m not standing exactly next to the urine-smell bus stop. He’s--how should I say this?--not exactly my friend.
In the next 14 minutes, while I wait for the number 7 bus to pass again, I do one of two things:
1) Respond, “Fine” to the obligatory, “How are you?” asked by the male twenty-something bus security guards who speak only to men with dark skin or girls between the age of 20-27.
OR
2) Say, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Russian” in both Hebrew and English to the Russian-speaking individuals who stop to ask me directions and because of my complexion and appearance assume that I too am from the far reaches of Moscow.
I board the number 7 bus eventually and see my favorite driver. At the next stop, the two blonde supermodel types (Are they Swedish?) get off at the stop near the shuk (open fruit and vegetable market). There’s a chance they are doing a photo shoot at the market, but unless raw fish and falafel stands are the up-and-coming place for photo shoots in the modeling world, my guess is that they are the common German-tourist volunteers and they are working in the soup kitchen there.
As we stop near the market, a black-clad religious man and his school-uniformed daughter board the bus. They are loaded down with plastic bags full of fruits and vegetables. As we pull up to the central bus station, one of the stops on the route, an onion rolls past me and a woman in seat facing the back positions her feet and blocks it with the ease of a seasoned soccer player. I see she’s played “Shuk Onion” before.
The next person of interest is the religious man with Down’s syndrome I see waiting at the stop at the beginning of the ultra-religious neighborhood we drive through on my way to work. I don’t speak to him. We don’t even ride the same bus, but I can’t help but wonder where he’s going every morning.
Suddenly, a grapefruit hits my foot, and I look up just in time to see my favorite person on the bus--a little baby being swung around by his loving father as if he’s a tennis racquet. He’s by far my favorite because, well, he wears the best kind of pajamas invented (the kind with the little footies), and he sleeps through everything as we make our way through speed bumps, construction, school children, and more.
By now we’ve reached the next to last stop of the route, and everyone but me and the guy who’s fallen asleep gets off. The driver talks to himself, now that there is a bit of quiet. Once, he looked up in surprise when he saw me sitting in the back. By now, he knows I’m still there, but I guess he trusts me enough to reveal his secrets.
As I get off the bus, making sure not to forget my packed lunch in the seat next to me, I think to myself, “Am I ready for today?” I think, “Where did all those people go? What are they doing?” And then I think, “How would they describe me--the girl whose name they don’t know?”
She’s the girl who wears the silly glasses, who sits listening to her MP3 player. The girl who smiles when she receives a text message from her new boyfriend, the girl who is making her way to work in an English-speaking microcosm in this crazy little country. She wore an orange backpack until the zipper broke, and now, she’s changed for something a little more toned-down. She’s nice enough. She’s calm enough. She’s pretty enough. She’s . . . well . . . we don’t know her name, but that’s ok. We’ll see her tomorrow.
My morning starts with the smell of ______. I would like to fill this blank with a variety of nice-smelling things--coffee, doughnuts, flowers, vanilla--but in fact the answer is . . . old urine. While my house is situated on a beautiful side-street with flowers, grapevines, and enough cats to film another segment of “Planet of the Apes” (except with cats, of course), my bus stop leaves a bit to be desired. It’s next to a parking lot that people seem to have mistaken for a public restroom. What I realize each morning as I stand in the place as far away as possible from the smell (Note: This location changes each morning depending on wind speed and direction) is that my life is filled with people whose names I don’t know.
The first two people I encounter each morning after leaving my little street are a Philipino man and a cranky teenage girl.
The Philipino man wears a baseball-cap and he’s a caretaker for an elderly religious man. He hasn’t told me, but I’m sure that’s what he does. Here in Jerusalem, that’s what you do if you are Philipino. You care for elderly religious Jews with money. You spend your days speaking English and your nights off speaking Tagalag.
The teenage girl, well, she’s a bit more of a character. She--in all her I’m-too-cool-for-this-place glory--has the ability to gross me out anew each morning. You see, she likes to wear her pants too big--hanging down over her shoes--and think she’s somehow original for a high-schooler. The part that grosses me out is the bubble gum that she chews. I think she first sees the scared look on my face. Then, and only then, does she pull the saliva-covered hot-pink gum from her mouth and begin to twirl it around her fingers, swinging it around and around and around. With each revolution, the look on my face exhibits more disgust. Eventually, I turn away and see the bus (Wait! My bus!) pass me without stopping.
The next person I meet, or in this case fail to meet, is the bus driver who passes me by without stopping if I’m not standing exactly next to the urine-smell bus stop. He’s--how should I say this?--not exactly my friend.
In the next 14 minutes, while I wait for the number 7 bus to pass again, I do one of two things:
1) Respond, “Fine” to the obligatory, “How are you?” asked by the male twenty-something bus security guards who speak only to men with dark skin or girls between the age of 20-27.
OR
2) Say, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Russian” in both Hebrew and English to the Russian-speaking individuals who stop to ask me directions and because of my complexion and appearance assume that I too am from the far reaches of Moscow.
I board the number 7 bus eventually and see my favorite driver. At the next stop, the two blonde supermodel types (Are they Swedish?) get off at the stop near the shuk (open fruit and vegetable market). There’s a chance they are doing a photo shoot at the market, but unless raw fish and falafel stands are the up-and-coming place for photo shoots in the modeling world, my guess is that they are the common German-tourist volunteers and they are working in the soup kitchen there.
As we stop near the market, a black-clad religious man and his school-uniformed daughter board the bus. They are loaded down with plastic bags full of fruits and vegetables. As we pull up to the central bus station, one of the stops on the route, an onion rolls past me and a woman in seat facing the back positions her feet and blocks it with the ease of a seasoned soccer player. I see she’s played “Shuk Onion” before.
The next person of interest is the religious man with Down’s syndrome I see waiting at the stop at the beginning of the ultra-religious neighborhood we drive through on my way to work. I don’t speak to him. We don’t even ride the same bus, but I can’t help but wonder where he’s going every morning.
Suddenly, a grapefruit hits my foot, and I look up just in time to see my favorite person on the bus--a little baby being swung around by his loving father as if he’s a tennis racquet. He’s by far my favorite because, well, he wears the best kind of pajamas invented (the kind with the little footies), and he sleeps through everything as we make our way through speed bumps, construction, school children, and more.
By now we’ve reached the next to last stop of the route, and everyone but me and the guy who’s fallen asleep gets off. The driver talks to himself, now that there is a bit of quiet. Once, he looked up in surprise when he saw me sitting in the back. By now, he knows I’m still there, but I guess he trusts me enough to reveal his secrets.
As I get off the bus, making sure not to forget my packed lunch in the seat next to me, I think to myself, “Am I ready for today?” I think, “Where did all those people go? What are they doing?” And then I think, “How would they describe me--the girl whose name they don’t know?”
She’s the girl who wears the silly glasses, who sits listening to her MP3 player. The girl who smiles when she receives a text message from her new boyfriend, the girl who is making her way to work in an English-speaking microcosm in this crazy little country. She wore an orange backpack until the zipper broke, and now, she’s changed for something a little more toned-down. She’s nice enough. She’s calm enough. She’s pretty enough. She’s . . . well . . . we don’t know her name, but that’s ok. We’ll see her tomorrow.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Finding the Peas in the Pea Soup
I once read a bumper sticker that said, "World Peas." Get it? World Peas=World Peace. I think it was meant to be joke. It's not that I've lost my sense of humor here in Israel, but sometimes I feel like it's easier to find "peas" here than "peace."
My sweet Israeli boyfriend told me that I need to calm down. It's kind of funny actually that an Israeli--someone from a country where old ladies beat you up in supermarket lines--would tell me--calm, little, American me--to calm down. I was moving to a new apartment, and the moving guy (ie Lucifer) was giving me an extremely hard time because, well, if you haven't noticed:
1) I'm a girl
2) I'm not Israeli
3) I'm someone who hired an Israeli moving guy and therefore agreed to an unspoken contract that I was looking for someone to verbally, mentally, and financially abuse me.
So, I basically told him to quit being such an ass. Turns out that was NOT a good idea and he threatened to quit on me in the middle of the move. I had to backtrack, and I learned a serious lesson: You can THINK someone is an ass, you can even whisper to your dog, "Hey, this guy's an ass!", but if someone has your bed, closet, and underwear in the back of his truck, you shouldn't tell him outright.
Anyways, the move went fine. MY move went fine. But this past week, if you haven't heard the news . . . for the last 16 months . . . there are a lot of other moves happening here in Israel. The disengagement started last week. Jews living in Aza (Ie The Gaza Strip) and the Northern Shomron (Ie The West Bank) received their eviction notices, and were moved--some more willingly than others--to new places (places, because they may not necessarily be homes) inside the Green Line. For the last 6 months we've been bombarded with posters, ribbons, bumper stickers, even buses that say: Jews do not expel Jews, Sharon is a Nazi, The Disengagement is another Holocaust, The Disengagement is worse than Pea Soup, etc.
I've seen them all. And I think I've found my favorite. First you need to understand that "Yehudi Lo Mi-garesh Yehudi"= "Jews do not expel Jews."
Now you can understand my favorite poster (reminiscent of "World Peas"):
"Yehudi Mi-karev Yehudi"="Jews bring other Jews closer"
It's a play on the popular statement in rhyme and meter.
It doesn't really translate well, but let me take on an imaginary tour of Jerusalem. There are parts of the city where if you show your shoulders and knees, you may get a rock--or at least a dirty look--thrown at you. There are parts of the city where you can buy pork. There are parts of the city where everyone on the bus is muttering prayers and Bible verses beneath his breath. There are parts of the city where you'll only hear Russian/Arabic/Hebrew curses being muttered beneath someone's breath. There are parts of the city where no head is covered by a kippah, a wig, or a black hat. There are parts of the city where when you get on the bus, the combined worth of the wigs you see women wearing is larger than the national debt.
So the idea of a Jew bringing another Jew closer--and let's be honest--in a place where sometimes the only reason you want to do that is to strangle the other Jew is a great idea. The poster shows two men:
1) facing away from the camera
2) with their arms around each other.
Both of these things speak truth. First, that we're really not all that different from each other. Religious Jews and non-religious Jews. Russian Jews and Middle Eastern Jews. Jews and non-Jews. Dare I take the leap and say even Jews and Arabs?
But the second part also makes a statement. Perhaps the intent of the the anonymity of the pictured men is meant to convey, "This could be anyone, even you." However, with the current situation always in mind, the idea I take from it is more along the lines of, "You can cross the line, but only so far. You wouldn't want to actually be labeled as someone who does ____, would you?"
And THAT is the crux of the problem. It's not necessarily exactly what someone thinks, but rather how he acts. I'm a firm believer in the idea, "Good intentions pave the road to hell." One can do his best. And it IS important. But how someone acts--how far he goes to prove his conviction--is more important. Let's take parenting as an example. If a parent wants to teach a child the lesson that stealing is wrong, he must first, not steal himself and second, punish the child if he steals. If a parent wants to teach a child not to be racist, he must first, not use racial slurs, and second, discipline the child if he does.
And if a state wants to prove that it is indeed a democracy and cares about equal rights and the rule of law, it must . . .(and here we arrive, finally, to my opinion on the disengagement from Aza):
1) make painful concessions even in the face of a nationalist/religious ideology that argues against them
2) show the world, but more importantly the unfortunate and perhaps even unintended victims of its policies, that it is willing to "put its money where its mouth is"
3) take a step to change the status quo.
Stagnance is perhaps one of the worst problems facing social, political, and economic systems in the world today. One would not argue that a fascist party staging a revolution to overthrow a democratic regime is a good idea simply because it is change, but let's revert for one moment back to the World Peas idea.
My question (perhaps a silly one) to all of you is: Do we actually see the peas in pea soup? That is to say, do we see the parts that make up the whole? If we begin to, and I have, it then becomes impossible to say, "But what about the terror that will inevitably come after the disengagement," because you know that one of the "peas" is a little kid who would much, much rather play soccer than learn how to throw a molotov cocktail. It becomes impossible to say, "But it is Jewish land," because you see each one of the 1.8 million "peas" that lives in one of the most crowded areas in the world, and then you see their Jewish counterparts' villas. I wouldn't say I'm a leftist. I'm simply say I'm for World Peas and all the other vegetables out there.
My sweet Israeli boyfriend told me that I need to calm down. It's kind of funny actually that an Israeli--someone from a country where old ladies beat you up in supermarket lines--would tell me--calm, little, American me--to calm down. I was moving to a new apartment, and the moving guy (ie Lucifer) was giving me an extremely hard time because, well, if you haven't noticed:
1) I'm a girl
2) I'm not Israeli
3) I'm someone who hired an Israeli moving guy and therefore agreed to an unspoken contract that I was looking for someone to verbally, mentally, and financially abuse me.
So, I basically told him to quit being such an ass. Turns out that was NOT a good idea and he threatened to quit on me in the middle of the move. I had to backtrack, and I learned a serious lesson: You can THINK someone is an ass, you can even whisper to your dog, "Hey, this guy's an ass!", but if someone has your bed, closet, and underwear in the back of his truck, you shouldn't tell him outright.
Anyways, the move went fine. MY move went fine. But this past week, if you haven't heard the news . . . for the last 16 months . . . there are a lot of other moves happening here in Israel. The disengagement started last week. Jews living in Aza (Ie The Gaza Strip) and the Northern Shomron (Ie The West Bank) received their eviction notices, and were moved--some more willingly than others--to new places (places, because they may not necessarily be homes) inside the Green Line. For the last 6 months we've been bombarded with posters, ribbons, bumper stickers, even buses that say: Jews do not expel Jews, Sharon is a Nazi, The Disengagement is another Holocaust, The Disengagement is worse than Pea Soup, etc.
I've seen them all. And I think I've found my favorite. First you need to understand that "Yehudi Lo Mi-garesh Yehudi"= "Jews do not expel Jews."
Now you can understand my favorite poster (reminiscent of "World Peas"):
"Yehudi Mi-karev Yehudi"="Jews bring other Jews closer"
It's a play on the popular statement in rhyme and meter.
It doesn't really translate well, but let me take on an imaginary tour of Jerusalem. There are parts of the city where if you show your shoulders and knees, you may get a rock--or at least a dirty look--thrown at you. There are parts of the city where you can buy pork. There are parts of the city where everyone on the bus is muttering prayers and Bible verses beneath his breath. There are parts of the city where you'll only hear Russian/Arabic/Hebrew curses being muttered beneath someone's breath. There are parts of the city where no head is covered by a kippah, a wig, or a black hat. There are parts of the city where when you get on the bus, the combined worth of the wigs you see women wearing is larger than the national debt.
So the idea of a Jew bringing another Jew closer--and let's be honest--in a place where sometimes the only reason you want to do that is to strangle the other Jew is a great idea. The poster shows two men:
1) facing away from the camera
2) with their arms around each other.
Both of these things speak truth. First, that we're really not all that different from each other. Religious Jews and non-religious Jews. Russian Jews and Middle Eastern Jews. Jews and non-Jews. Dare I take the leap and say even Jews and Arabs?
But the second part also makes a statement. Perhaps the intent of the the anonymity of the pictured men is meant to convey, "This could be anyone, even you." However, with the current situation always in mind, the idea I take from it is more along the lines of, "You can cross the line, but only so far. You wouldn't want to actually be labeled as someone who does ____, would you?"
And THAT is the crux of the problem. It's not necessarily exactly what someone thinks, but rather how he acts. I'm a firm believer in the idea, "Good intentions pave the road to hell." One can do his best. And it IS important. But how someone acts--how far he goes to prove his conviction--is more important. Let's take parenting as an example. If a parent wants to teach a child the lesson that stealing is wrong, he must first, not steal himself and second, punish the child if he steals. If a parent wants to teach a child not to be racist, he must first, not use racial slurs, and second, discipline the child if he does.
And if a state wants to prove that it is indeed a democracy and cares about equal rights and the rule of law, it must . . .(and here we arrive, finally, to my opinion on the disengagement from Aza):
1) make painful concessions even in the face of a nationalist/religious ideology that argues against them
2) show the world, but more importantly the unfortunate and perhaps even unintended victims of its policies, that it is willing to "put its money where its mouth is"
3) take a step to change the status quo.
Stagnance is perhaps one of the worst problems facing social, political, and economic systems in the world today. One would not argue that a fascist party staging a revolution to overthrow a democratic regime is a good idea simply because it is change, but let's revert for one moment back to the World Peas idea.
My question (perhaps a silly one) to all of you is: Do we actually see the peas in pea soup? That is to say, do we see the parts that make up the whole? If we begin to, and I have, it then becomes impossible to say, "But what about the terror that will inevitably come after the disengagement," because you know that one of the "peas" is a little kid who would much, much rather play soccer than learn how to throw a molotov cocktail. It becomes impossible to say, "But it is Jewish land," because you see each one of the 1.8 million "peas" that lives in one of the most crowded areas in the world, and then you see their Jewish counterparts' villas. I wouldn't say I'm a leftist. I'm simply say I'm for World Peas and all the other vegetables out there.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Random Babies, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
I cracked the other night, and by "cracking" I mean I burst out in laughter. It had been a tense week, during which I constantly thought about the following topics:
1) Find a new apartment
2) Find a replacement for old apartment
3) Arrange discount for city taxes
4) Visit advisor at university
5) Think about the fact that in less than 3 months I will be starting my master's degree in a foreign language
6) Work
7) Find apartment for my friend
8) The disengagement from Gaza and how I feel about it
and
9) Deal with the fact that there are not 1, not even 2, but no less than 4 guys who are interested in me right now
That, number 9, is what made me break and let out the laugh that brought me back to the ridiculousness of reality.
I titled this blog after the movie "Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb" because I realized two things today. First, I considered the possibility that perhaps I am NOT, by nature, a relaxed person. Second, the "bomb" that is life in Israel can make you a little stressed, and you're entitled to be that way. In the past, some of you may have gotten the impression of me that I am in fact a relaxed person. Well, it turns out that is one side of my personality. Luckily that side is usually in control. But, for instance, this morning when I woke up at 6: 30 am to arrive at the City Municipality to arrange for a discount in taxes (a feat more difficult than climbing Mt.Everest), arrived and found out that, for some reason, TODAY (of all days) they were not accepting applications for this, I muttered a few expletives and the other side came out.
I think you can give into this other side sometimes--it's healthy. But you can't let it control your life, your actions, your ideals. The thing that comes to mind right now is the disengagement, of course, because this is the only thing you seem to hear or read about these days. I think about how Israeli culture is one that flows, has an undercurrent of "It'll be ok." However, it is not this attitude that is shaping the country right now. It is the other more tense "We'll fight for our ideals even if it means dividing the Jewish people" attitude that is controlling our political ideologies, our outward political statements, even our attire.
Living in Jerusalem, one is bombarded (I suppose this is a very left-wing stance to take, for if I were more right-wing I could say "encouraged") by the color orange. Orange, for those of you don't know, is the color of the "revolution" (after Ukraine's recent political upheaval)--the fight against what seems to be the inevitible evacuation of Jewish communities in the Gaza strip. But it is exactly this doubt, or perhaps a proven certainty, of inevitability that encourages those who are anti-disengagement to move onward with their demonstrations (sometimes non-violent, sometimes not).
Something important to remember is that nothing in this region is inevitable. One need only look to the "inevitable defeat of the Jews" that five Arab countries claimed during the 1948 Israeli War of Independence to the "inevitable existence of a Palestinian state" to grasp that things change here overnight and what is signed, sealed, and delivered one day can be overturned the next.
The other color you see--as if we are all attending a Gator football game all the time--is blue. Orange and blue. Blue is the color being promoted by "Shalom Achshav" (Peace Now), a group founded in 1978 during the Egypt-Israel peace talks--it's the color that says, "I support what the government is doing pulling out of Gaza." To put it bluntly, you don't see much blue in Jerusalem, but when you do, it's like a ray of hope, even if it is coupled with an orange ribbon. What this combination means, I am unsure. Perhaps it signifies that we should all just get along? Perhaps it signifies that the wearer sympathizes with the Jewish settlers who are losing their homes but still thinks the disengagement is a good idea? Or, perhaps he is a gator?
I have chosen not to display my political beliefs in the form of a ribbon. Unfortunately, my favorite 2 bags are orange, and while I've thought about adding a sign that says, "My bag is not a political statement," I realize that as soon as I did, it would become one.
How is all of this connected to the title? The following anecdotes will shed some light:
Last week, I was standing at a bus stop (don't all of my epiphanies come while I am standing there?), when a bus from Beitar (ultra-religious Jewish settlement outside of Jerusalem) pulled up. A woman, hair covered and dressed in a long skirt, got off with her baby in her arms. With her free hand, she opened the baggage compartment under the bus only to find that her stroller (there were 5 others!) was out of reach. So, I asked her if she needed help, anticipating that she would point out her stroller and I could crawl under the bus to retrieve it. Instead, she handed me her baby. A woman I don't know handed me her baby while she crawled under the bus to get the stroller. As she opened up the stroller and I held the baby, two buses arrived, one of which I needed to take. The first passed by, but the second bus driver, realizing what was happening (ie I am holding some lady's baby and therefore cannot get on the bus!) waited and let me on.
This morning, we arrived to the municipality very early to get in line in order to receive our city tax discount for being new immigrants. The plan worked perfectly. We woke up early, we took the bus, we arrived, and we were even not so far back in line. The other people in line turned out to be computer technicians who were working in the department we needed to visit, and thus, our attempts were foiled. How can you just shut down a government office with no notice to the public? How can you expect people to just take off of work/school/life to arrange their stupid city taxes? How can every employee have a different story as to what the procedure was/is/will be? These are the questions I asked myself in the few seconds I stormed out of the place. Then I looked outside, and saw some people sitting on some shady steps. "Who are they?" I asked a clerk. "Oh, those are the people who give discounts on city taxes--I guess they didn't know we were closed today either." That's when it hit me--relax, or well, have a heart attack. Because I'm not here to change a society, a way of life. I'm not here to battle against the forces of slovenly government workers, the rudeness of people who think they are more important than you, or the inefficiency of seemingly every "professional" establishment one visits.
I'm here . . . to hold random people's babies. I'm here to buy a fan and have the 75-year-old salesman ask me when he can call me (number 5 on the boy list!). I'm here to wake up early in the morning to do something "important" (like city taxes) and end up sitting in a coffee shop--out of frustration or relaxation depending on the spin--just reading a Hebrew newspaper. And all the while, the orange and blue ribbons float by and make me realize that if I have to be surrounded by people in orange and blue--in colors that promote some sort of ideal--I'd rather those ideals be the future of my people than a football game. Because we all love the Gators, but changing the world is slightly more important.
1) Find a new apartment
2) Find a replacement for old apartment
3) Arrange discount for city taxes
4) Visit advisor at university
5) Think about the fact that in less than 3 months I will be starting my master's degree in a foreign language
6) Work
7) Find apartment for my friend
8) The disengagement from Gaza and how I feel about it
and
9) Deal with the fact that there are not 1, not even 2, but no less than 4 guys who are interested in me right now
That, number 9, is what made me break and let out the laugh that brought me back to the ridiculousness of reality.
I titled this blog after the movie "Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb" because I realized two things today. First, I considered the possibility that perhaps I am NOT, by nature, a relaxed person. Second, the "bomb" that is life in Israel can make you a little stressed, and you're entitled to be that way. In the past, some of you may have gotten the impression of me that I am in fact a relaxed person. Well, it turns out that is one side of my personality. Luckily that side is usually in control. But, for instance, this morning when I woke up at 6: 30 am to arrive at the City Municipality to arrange for a discount in taxes (a feat more difficult than climbing Mt.Everest), arrived and found out that, for some reason, TODAY (of all days) they were not accepting applications for this, I muttered a few expletives and the other side came out.
I think you can give into this other side sometimes--it's healthy. But you can't let it control your life, your actions, your ideals. The thing that comes to mind right now is the disengagement, of course, because this is the only thing you seem to hear or read about these days. I think about how Israeli culture is one that flows, has an undercurrent of "It'll be ok." However, it is not this attitude that is shaping the country right now. It is the other more tense "We'll fight for our ideals even if it means dividing the Jewish people" attitude that is controlling our political ideologies, our outward political statements, even our attire.
Living in Jerusalem, one is bombarded (I suppose this is a very left-wing stance to take, for if I were more right-wing I could say "encouraged") by the color orange. Orange, for those of you don't know, is the color of the "revolution" (after Ukraine's recent political upheaval)--the fight against what seems to be the inevitible evacuation of Jewish communities in the Gaza strip. But it is exactly this doubt, or perhaps a proven certainty, of inevitability that encourages those who are anti-disengagement to move onward with their demonstrations (sometimes non-violent, sometimes not).
Something important to remember is that nothing in this region is inevitable. One need only look to the "inevitable defeat of the Jews" that five Arab countries claimed during the 1948 Israeli War of Independence to the "inevitable existence of a Palestinian state" to grasp that things change here overnight and what is signed, sealed, and delivered one day can be overturned the next.
The other color you see--as if we are all attending a Gator football game all the time--is blue. Orange and blue. Blue is the color being promoted by "Shalom Achshav" (Peace Now), a group founded in 1978 during the Egypt-Israel peace talks--it's the color that says, "I support what the government is doing pulling out of Gaza." To put it bluntly, you don't see much blue in Jerusalem, but when you do, it's like a ray of hope, even if it is coupled with an orange ribbon. What this combination means, I am unsure. Perhaps it signifies that we should all just get along? Perhaps it signifies that the wearer sympathizes with the Jewish settlers who are losing their homes but still thinks the disengagement is a good idea? Or, perhaps he is a gator?
I have chosen not to display my political beliefs in the form of a ribbon. Unfortunately, my favorite 2 bags are orange, and while I've thought about adding a sign that says, "My bag is not a political statement," I realize that as soon as I did, it would become one.
How is all of this connected to the title? The following anecdotes will shed some light:
Last week, I was standing at a bus stop (don't all of my epiphanies come while I am standing there?), when a bus from Beitar (ultra-religious Jewish settlement outside of Jerusalem) pulled up. A woman, hair covered and dressed in a long skirt, got off with her baby in her arms. With her free hand, she opened the baggage compartment under the bus only to find that her stroller (there were 5 others!) was out of reach. So, I asked her if she needed help, anticipating that she would point out her stroller and I could crawl under the bus to retrieve it. Instead, she handed me her baby. A woman I don't know handed me her baby while she crawled under the bus to get the stroller. As she opened up the stroller and I held the baby, two buses arrived, one of which I needed to take. The first passed by, but the second bus driver, realizing what was happening (ie I am holding some lady's baby and therefore cannot get on the bus!) waited and let me on.
This morning, we arrived to the municipality very early to get in line in order to receive our city tax discount for being new immigrants. The plan worked perfectly. We woke up early, we took the bus, we arrived, and we were even not so far back in line. The other people in line turned out to be computer technicians who were working in the department we needed to visit, and thus, our attempts were foiled. How can you just shut down a government office with no notice to the public? How can you expect people to just take off of work/school/life to arrange their stupid city taxes? How can every employee have a different story as to what the procedure was/is/will be? These are the questions I asked myself in the few seconds I stormed out of the place. Then I looked outside, and saw some people sitting on some shady steps. "Who are they?" I asked a clerk. "Oh, those are the people who give discounts on city taxes--I guess they didn't know we were closed today either." That's when it hit me--relax, or well, have a heart attack. Because I'm not here to change a society, a way of life. I'm not here to battle against the forces of slovenly government workers, the rudeness of people who think they are more important than you, or the inefficiency of seemingly every "professional" establishment one visits.
I'm here . . . to hold random people's babies. I'm here to buy a fan and have the 75-year-old salesman ask me when he can call me (number 5 on the boy list!). I'm here to wake up early in the morning to do something "important" (like city taxes) and end up sitting in a coffee shop--out of frustration or relaxation depending on the spin--just reading a Hebrew newspaper. And all the while, the orange and blue ribbons float by and make me realize that if I have to be surrounded by people in orange and blue--in colors that promote some sort of ideal--I'd rather those ideals be the future of my people than a football game. Because we all love the Gators, but changing the world is slightly more important.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Cleanliness is Next to Godliness and Cheerleading for Millionaires
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.
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 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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