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!
Monday, March 28, 2005
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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