Nerot and Sufganiyot December 24, 2008

I ate my first sufganiyah ever today- that being the traditional doughnut type pastry eaten in what should be illegal quantities here in the days leading up to and during Chanukah. I’ve been saving myself for a while now. I’ve seen them everywhere, in stores and in random greasy cardboard boxes left in classrooms and offices. Some looked much tastier than others, but I knew that if I were to consume 5000 calories, I’d better damn pick the best one I could find. Basically, I wanted to see one come straight out of the fryer and into my mouth so I could be assured it’s as fresh as could be, and I also wanted one that wasn’t covered with a thick layer of powdered sugar. I hate powdered sugar. Whenever I see it on something, it seems to be there in order to make up for lack of flavor of whatever it is covering. When I think of powdered sugar, I think of it on a stale cake in a diner, or a bland tiramisu in Little Italy or something. Then there’s the fact that it adds little flavor, but leaves a big mess.

 

So I had my criteria set up for my very first sufganiyah.  I almost succumbed to a free one that was offered by a sherut driver on my way to Tel Aviv last Friday, thinking, “Well, maybe a free sufganiyah is the best one there is!” I stopped myself after imagining being jerked around on the sherut while managing the powdered sugar, only to arrive in Tel Aviv looking like I’ve been sprayed by a fire extinguisher. When no one took up the offer for the free sufganiyah (using the caloric content as an excuse), the driver took the cardboard box with the remaning sufganiyah and tried to give it away to people on the streets. He stood on one side of the sidewalk yelling, “Sufganiyot!” while his partner on the other side advertised the sherut by yelling “Tel Aviv, USA!,” which cracked up everyone on the sherut, including myself, I have to admit.

 

Much like when I get hungry while travelling but try to save myself for an authentic local meal only to end up so hungry that I eat at the closest tourist hole I can find, today I succumbed to the closest sufganiyah I came across. You see, Chanukah is already half over, I saw an open box of them on the teacher’s table in my ulpan class, there was almost no powdered sugar on it, and I had a fresh cappuccino in my hand. Perfect, I thought.

 

Not really, though. It was pretty stale, and about a teaspoon of jelly was injected into a corner of it. All that waiting, and I chose the one that was probaby sitting out for hours. Well, now I got my first one out of the way, I can eat as many as I want, although now I don’t really want to. I’ll stick to my ongoing sugared pecan obsession. I’ve stopped buying them because I can finish 200 grams in 2 days, but I’m still buying cereal with the pecans in it. Unfortunately, I’ve been eventually finding myself digging into each box, sticking my hand all the way in order to bring the cereal that sunk to the bottom back to the top- the best way to strike gold- until I get my fill, which usually happens when I can find no more nuts in the box. I have issues.

 

Instead of ulpan in the classroom today, my class was led into an auditorium to sing some Chanukah songs. Leave it to Israel to make my class, half of whom are Christian, sing Chanukah songs on Christmas Eve, of all the days of Chanukah. We learned songs such as ”Ner Li,” “Mi Yamalel,” “Hanerot halalu,” “Chanukah, Chanukah,” and “Or.” We also learned one song about a dreidel, and at one point at Chinese guy in level Aleph sang a confused solo version of it, and it was really endearing, but hilarious.

 

So Happy Chanukah and Merry Christmas! It may not be snowing here for the holidays, but you sure can find some powdered sugar covered spots!

Neighbors and classmates December 21, 2008

I faced my enemy last night. The Russian across the hall. It wasn’t my first encounter with her this past weekend. She had a party in her room on Thursday night that carried over into Friday morning, when I woke up at 6:45 am to her yelling at her drug dealer, trying to convince him to give her more drugs. She kept saying he could trust her and her friends because they have been in the country long enough, whatever that means. Beside that, it wasn’t so much the awful techno tapping out of her lousy computer speakers, but the fact that all her male friends were congregating in front of my door and “blayt”ing and “yop tvoi myat”ing again. When I realized they were not outside because they were leaving, I opened my door, and in Russian, I said, “Excuse me, I think it’s a bit too early for all of this.” The guys, probably about 20-22, apologized profusely and said they would get their friends to quiet down. One of them I recognized from the Rothberg building. He looks like a Jonas Brother, with blue eyes he’s taught himself to use well. I closed my door, only to reopen it after the noise continued. I knocked on the girl’s door, and someone opened the door to reveal a dark room filled with guys, one of whom was sucking the life out of a bong. He looked at me in surprise as I stared him down. The two guys walked out again. “We’re sorry!”

“I don’t think you are.”

“No really, what can we do to make this better?” They gave me sly smiles.

“You can go home.”

“Oh, come on. Do you want vodka?” said the non-Jonas brother, who held up a plastic cup filled with what looked like piss. I looked down and saw he was holding a nearly empty bottle of cheap vodka.

“I want you to go home.”

Eventually, they did, but the girl remained, and I ran into her as I was getting ready to leave for a day in Tel Aviv. She was walking out of her room with a guy who looks like he wants to be DJ, and was clutching herself like a, well, junkie.

The rest of the weekend was ok. When I was around, I overheard bits of conversation she had with her mom. “What should you bring when you come here? I don’t know.. just bring lipstick… no, not pink! … no, pink doesn’t look good on me, just get me red… no, not bright red, a more subtle red…”

However last night, she kept her door opened and kept the music blasting until 1:30 am. I opened my door and stood in front of her room. She turned around and looked startled. She wasn’t as pretty as I thought she was. She appeared run down, her dyed red hair was faded and matted, and her teeth were stained, maybe from red wine. I started to ask her to turn down the music, when she said, “Oh, you speak Russian? Hold on, let me introduce myself.” She wiped her wet hand, shook my hand limply, told me her name, which I can’t remember, and told me she came from St. Petersburg two years ago. When I told her I’m from New York, she said, “Wow, how cool! New York! Then why are you here?!” “Good question,” I responded. I told her about school. “Well, there must be good schools in New York too.” “Yes, there are.”

“Oh, we must really have bothered you the other night.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Sorry about that. I didn’t know you were Russian. I thought there were only Arabs here. Now I’ll be more cautious.”

 

I’m not sure what she meant about the Arabs. Does she make more noise because the Arabs girls don’t complain, or does she make more noise to spite them? Well, either way, I don’t care much about the logic behind her noisemaking. I just hope it will get better, thanks to my Russian cred, but I have many doubts.

 

I have begun looking into apartment options around Jerusalem, but so far everything is still too expensive for my part time earnings. I’d pay a bit more, but I worry that after all the hassle of moving and paying extra, I’ll still encounter the same issues as in the dorms - loud neighbors, smoking, and added to that- street noise, baby noise, which I don’t have here, thankfully. I’m still keeping my eyes open but I have a feeling it will take a while.

——————–

 

There was a girl in one of my classes who was very pregnant at the beginning of the semester. Then she disappeared, and I wondered why she began her semester when she knew she was going to have the baby and then take the rest off. Well, she didn’t take it off! Last week, she came in to class with a newborn strapped to her torso. She sat down in front of me, diagonally, and began to wipe his butt (yes, she definitely had a boy) while a group of girls circled around her. The professor walked in and tried to coo and smile and be polite, but there was an obvious strain in her attempts. The professor started class and not long into it the woman took a blanket, lifted up one side of her shirt, put the baby to the area, and the covered its head with the blanket. Does this happen in American schools? I can’t imagine how this woman can manage a newborn and schoolwork, and how she can take the baby out with her so freely so early on. In the US, there would certainly be some protest against that, no? I swear he can’t be more than 3 weeks old.

 

I think this woman, who has continued to bring in her baby since then, tops another girl in my class who knits yarmulkes constantly in the “only in Jerusalem” category.

 

Let’s not even get into the story of the girl in my ulpan who has begun to bring in a dog to class, as part of some seeing-eye dog training program. She’s not blind, so I’m not really sure what was going on because I was late to class the day she was explaining the dog’s presence. He is ridiculously cute, but he was snoring so loudly while I was taking my midterm that I could barely concentrate.

 

You just never know what to expect around here!

Fattening up Arnak December 17, 2008

Good week!

 

I got the job that I’ve been wanting even before I got to Israel, and after months of waiting, I got my student ID card. It was supposed to come in the mail, but two months have passed and nothing came. The mailboxes in these dorms are unlocked and broken, so I’ve been pretty sure someone got to them, despite the “But why do you need a lock? It’s just bills!” outlook of the administration here. Turns out that the newer dorms on campus have locks on them. I guess those students receive more than just bills.

 

I went to the student office, and there was no line, which is a small miracle in itself. I told the clerk my story, and he said it has been too long, so he pressed 4 buttons and printed me a card on the spot. All that waiting, all those discount opportunities passed up, all resolved in moments. I was so elated about getting the card that even the clerk perked up knowing he significantly impacted my life. However, he asked me about four times if I wanted to take my picture again- he could do it on premises- but I said no, it’s ok, and now I wonder if he was trying to hint at something. I would have taken the photo had I not felt so disheveled today, and had I not felt that something would go wrong with the equipment and that card would slip away from me yet again. But it didn’t, the card is mine, and that is my daily victory.

 

But it’s all in the past! I’ve got my card, and soon I will have a work card. When I was little, I associated being older with having lots of cards in your wallet. I had my hand-me-down wallet, but could only find a couple of cards to put in there- maybe my library card and a Shoprite Club card. I even put in business cards to try to fatten up the wallet and feel important. Then at some point in my early twenties, my wallet nearly exploded with cards, and now, I have so many, I have to keep a few of my more “US life” related cards in my desk. I still carry around my Metrocard, though, because it’s flimsy enough not to make much of a difference, and it makes me happy… which is never something I thought I’d say back in New York.

 

That being said, I need a new wallet badly. Mine is so old, the lining ripped, and I’ve been using the new section as as an additional compartment. Now that I’ll be making the big shekels, I think I need to splurge on a new wallet (arnak in Hebrew!) to contain my riches- wallet to be bought when I visit New York, of course. Shit here’s expensive!

 

Photo time!

 

I took this photo during my free tour of the Old City a couple of weeks back. This is an area is where you can walk along the roofs of the houses of the quarters.

 

Everyone here listens to techno, even these guys on  Ben Yehuda Street. They, or guys that look like them, are always there at night (no, I can’t tell the difference!), dancing badly but very joyously. Other than trying to show that you can be hip, wildly happy and Jewish, I’m not sure what their deal is. Eli, input please.

 

This is part of the endlessly ongoing construction along Jaffa.

 

I wasn’t going to post this photo because I can’t remember the name of the street, but I like it, so it’s going up. The street leads down to Jaffa and has a few bars and cafes on it, is all I can remember.

 

I was doodling again the other day, and I decided to try to draw people from memory. I have never been able to do it in the past, but I thought of a rather unique looking older women in one of my classes and thought it would at least be fun to try. I’m not sure what her deal is, but she is a British woman, probably in her 60s, taking intro level linguistics classes for reasons unknown. She usually sits in the back corner of the classroom, but makes her presence well known.  In my class, we focus on American English, which bothers her immsensely. She is admittedly “particular about dialects” in a (stereo?)typicially British way, but she has these (stereotypically?) bad teeth- buckteeth- that affect her speech so much, I find it laughable that she doesn’t think about how that affects her pronunciation of her dialect of choice. Ok fine, she just annoys because she asks stupid questions and talks over the teacher.  Still, her face came to mind, and I drew it very quickly, and it looks just like her!

Yes, it really does, ok?!

New York Dreaming December 13, 2008

The cloudy and windy weather outside right now is great for helping me study for an exam tomorrow. What isn’t helping right now is the Arabic music blasting from a nearby room. The girls in this hallway clean their rooms what feels like every other day. And every time, the same ritual. They open their door, turn on the loud music, take out half of the furniture in their rooms, sweep and then mop their floors. The loud music is then followed by an even noisier sound of a spill because they dump the dirty water onto the recessed common area floor instead of walking 10 feet farther to pour it down a sink or toilet. Why? Good question. I’m glad they like to keep their rooms clean, but I wish this cleanliness extended to areas shared with others. Taking out a tampon and flinging it into an open trash can in the shower room- not cool!

 

I also have to contend with the girl in the room next door to me who is usually laughing and crying on the phone, or singing “Linger” by The Cranberries for the third month in a row now. Maybe she is rehearsing it for next season of “Khokav Nolad,” Israel’s version of American Idol.

 

But who’s complaining!

 

Things have been going pretty well over here. I’ve met a couple of people and have been checking out the Jerusalem nightlife more. One guy I’ve been hanging out with is most likely one of three or so American black guys residing in Jerusalem. One night, his skills on the dancefloor brought on an unexpected dance-off with an Israeli DJ, who did give him some competition. During the cab ride home that night, the driver told him he looks like Barack Obama, which could be interpreted as racist, but well, he really does look like Obama. Even he thinks so.

 

I had fun dancing in these bars, but I’m not sure if I can make them part of any regular rotation. Too much techno, too many clusters of young girls self-consciously looking around for potential spouse meat, and in one particular instance, arsim doing the horah to bad (redudant adjective, yes) Israeli pop.

 

So far the best music I have heard in this city is at Putin, the Russian bar here. I am very impressed with their selection- I have never heard Russian music, especially rock, that sounds quite so good- well, ever!

 

My Israeli friend called me last night asking if I wanted to come out to Tel Aviv, but I already had plans here. I think I’ll take him up on the offer next time!

 

I booked tickets to visit New York this February. This is a listing of foods I will be eating: Lime Tostitos chips with melted cheese, my homemade salsa, and full-fat sour cream; Sesame chicken and shrimp combo and eggplant in garlic sauce from my favorite Chinese takeout in Astoria; brie and pate plate with curry fries at Puck Fair; Cajun brunch at Acme (extra corn bread), chicken/lamb in mystery white sauce from a street vendor; Jade dumplings and green curry from the Thai place Eat on the Upper East Side; two eggs, ham and cheese on a roll from any deli; any burrito from San Loco; sag paneer in Jackson Heights; plain and mushroom slices at Don Philipo (sp?) on 78th and Lex.; Belgian fries with spiced mayo from Pommes Frites; Vietnamese sandwich from somewhere, anywhere.. and the list will continue as February nears.

 

What I will not be eating: halvah, cous cous, and chickpea based products.

 

What else am I going to do in New York? Hm, haven’t really thought about that.

Russians. December 1, 2008

The girl who lives across the hall from me speaks the ugliest Russian I have ever heard. She sounds like belongs in a gang of hooligan Russian frogs. She doesn’t look like a tomboy, but she acts like one, and all her friends are Russian guys. They come over, she slams the door closed as loudly as she can, and then in a deep, but loud voice proceeds to haw-haw, guffaw, snort, squeal, and make whatever noise is necessary to ensure everyone around that she is having fun, that she is just one of the guys. I’m pretty sure she’s sober, but she slurs and whines her words as if she’s just slept on the bench of the playground of a Soviet era project. It’s still pretty easy to understand her because her word bank consists of “blyat,” “nu, yop tvoi myat,” and variations thereof, usually followed by more laughter better suited for Shane McGowan. Sometimes I hear her on her the phone with her mother, and I shudder at the mental image of this woman. A shorter, much fatter version with a bright shade of _fill in the blank_ hair and a penchant for wearing animal print tops with sequined English lettering (mostly likely misspelled or nonsensical) glittering across her bountiful bosom, the middle syllable lost in the valley between her breasts. I bet this girl is just like her mom.

In Israel, there are many such Russians who make me shudder, which is probably why I’ve been finding myself uncomfortable with the fact that practically everyone in this country thinks I’m Russian, and Russians almost always speak to me in Russian. And, even more frighteningly, I can see where these people are coming from. Ever since I got here, I feel I look more Russian. It has gotten to the point that when I get ready in the morning, I have had to change an outfit or a hairstyle because I don’t want to look too fresh-of-the-boat Russian. I even long to look more American, something I never did before.

Last night, I encountered an anomoly: a pleasant, cheerful Russian cashier at the campus convenience store. She finished up with the customer before me, wished him a good night in Hebrew, and then looked at me and greeted me in Russian. When I asked her for change for my 20 shekel bill, she asked me where I’m from. Maybe she meant which Russian city, but I told her the story: my parents are Russian but my Russian isn’t so great, and I was born in Israel but moved to New York when I was 5. She smiled. “I think your Russian is excellent! I know how you feel, no matter how many years I live here, I will always have the Russian face.”

I don’t mind the Russian face. Many a porn site and escort service has been dedicated to Russian beauties, and I think Russian women are generally good looking (when they’re not scowling), but it’s the attitude of so many Russians that I don’t want to be associated with. And also, being Russian is just not me, maybe a part of me because of my upbringing, but I have nothing in common with most of them. I look at my neighbor and I want to scream, “I’m from New York! My guy friends don’t wear pseudo-mullets! I don’t listen to bad techno! I’m not hanging on the exoticized glory of being from the Soviet Union, especially when I’ve never been back there and probably never will!”

I know there are intelligent Russians who aren’t embarrassing somewhere in this country.