This convenience store is located across the street from Tel Aviv’s central bus station. The parenthetical “balagan” in Hebrew means “mess,” which pretty much sums everything up here.  I can’t tell what the intended meaning of “balagan” here is- maybe it’s supposed to indicate a variety of eastern and western products, or maybe the owner has an awesome sense of humor, but that I doubt. This place makes me smile every time my sherut rolls into Tel Aviv. I should stop in one day.

I worked a half day on Tuesday and had off from school on Wednesday, so I headed over to my family friends’ place, but this time I was with the lawyer daughter and her family, and I was to go to the parents’ place the next day. They have a tradition in which they sit around and watch the Memorial Day ceremony on TV live from Har Hertzl in Jerusalem, and the moment the ceremony is over, the barbequing (mangal) begins. I made my usual rushed stop at a bakery at the central bus station in Jerusalem and picked up a cheesecake for the occasion.  The station was packed with people going home for the holiday, but I was lucky enough to stand directly in front of the spot where the bus driver opened the door, and was the first on the bus. Proud of myself, I chose a good window seat without any draft from air conditioning vents. The crowd flooded down the aisle, and a large, jolly woman sat down next to me. I didn’t realize how large the woman was until 10 minutes into the ride when I realized that I had naturally compressed myself to take up half the seat as the woman beside me expanded to take up the rest of the available space. I found myself breathing shallowly because I brought my shoulders in, squeezing my lungs together. I looked over and saw the woman was fast asleep. I nudged her but it had no effect on her mass. And so the descent down and around the hills of Jerusalem began. As the bus swayed left, so did the woman, and soon her head was almost on my shoulder. I nudged her again, but nothing registered. Thankfully, a phone ringing in her purse saved me. She awoke quickly, as if she had been waiting for the call, and talked away loudly, as Israelis often do, for most of the rest of the ride. I stayed sane by using the opportunity to practice Hebrew comprehension.

When it was my turn to get off the bus, the driver nearly drove away before the woman steadily lifted herself out the seat- a seemingly 20-step process- and let me out. I was about to take a local bus to get to my final destination of Nes Tziona, but I remembered my lawyer friend’s advice- take a sherut, it’s faster. I saw one parked, asked if he was going my way, and he nodded yes. He was a young guy. My guess would be that he was Arab, but there were hanging photos of rabbis beside the rearview mirror. It is possible they were not his. He idled at the bus stop and I watched other sheruts go by. He sensed my impatience and told me not to worry, he would leave soon. He eventually did, letting on a young girl and a Russian couple at subsequent stops. At a traffic light, he stopped beside another sherut, and from what I could understand, he was lecturing him on what routes to take to avoid roads that were closed for the holidays. The driver seemed like a real arrogant jerk. We approached a wide busy road with a ramp leading onto a highway, and I didn’t see this, but I think he saw a girl waving him down near the ramp. Breaking traffic laws, he stopped and let her on and she went flying into her seat. At the same moment, he saw a cop, tried to pick up speed and get away from the scene, but the cop was on to him, and the from a speaker, the cop shouted at him to pull over. This was my first encounter with Israeli police. I see them in cars and on streets, but I’ve never seen them in any direct confrontation with anyone.

A young police officer approached the window and very briskly asked the driver for his IDs.  The driver, calmly, but challengingly, asked him what he did wrong, and in a flood of Hebrew I couldn’t grasp, the cop eventually told him he had a lot of “chutzpah” and the driver eventually produced some sort of card and then followed the cop out to their car, which was parked behind the sherut. I was furious. Of all the sheruts to pick, it had to be this one. All I wanted was to finally get to that damned Nes Tziona.

The girl who got him in trouble didn’t seem to feel so bad. I would feel horrible and being the type that lets large bus passengers nearly give her lung damage, I probably would have offered some money. She didn’t do anything of course, nor did she apologize for holding up the rest of us. Instead, she called her friends to tell them what happened. The driver came back to the bus ten minutes later, and offering no details as to how long this would take, told us all that the fine was 500 shekels and some points on his license. The girl mustered some pity and offered to help talk to the cop for him. Great, more Israeli shuk-style haggling. This would be never-ending.

A few minutes later, she came back and said she couldn’t do anything. No one else seemed annoyed. The bus driver made his way back to the sherut again, and he was all smiles in a bizarre way, like the calm before an explosion, and said he got the fine down to 250 shekels, which I did not think was possible. Then he went back to the cops’ car, and came back and said it was 500 again. This time the cop came back to the window of the sherut and told the bus driver to get out. The driver refused. The cop opened the door. I looked out the window and saw a tow truck had arrived and the driver of the tow truck, a roughly tanned guy with messy hair that looked like it had sand permanently embedded in it, waited around. But the driver would not move. He thought he could still get out of this. I looked at the Russians, said, “We aren’t moving, are we?” And they answered no, and we all got out. Not a word from the driver nor the police as we made our way out. No one got their money back. I walked to the nearest bus stop and waited for another sherut.

One stopped a few minutes later and I asked the driver if he was going to Nes Tziona. He nodded yes dully. I got on and the driver asked if I was on the sherut that was pulled over.  I said yes, tried to explain what happened in Hebrew, and then he gave me the usual where are you from shpiel and told me about his daughter in Arizona. He motioned to the other side of the road and, “Here we are, Rehovot.” “I need Nes Tziona.” “We passed it, why didn’t you say something?” “I don’t know where Nes Tziona is. I thought you were supposed to know!” He pulled over, handed me most of my fare back, and told me to catch another sherut back to my elusive destination.  While contemplating current job prospects in New York, I called the lawyer friend, who laughed at my situation for a good two minutes and told me to stay where I was and her husband would pick me up from there.
I arrived at their house, hungry, but there would be no food until Yom HaZikaron was over. I grabbed a beer in order to erase the ride over, but it didn’t work because I don’t like beer, and I forget that sometimes. In the meantime, I sat and watched the ceremony, a sometimes visually pleasing but mostly bizarre display of dancing and lights and soldiers and readings and more soldiers. The last dance freaked me out.  A group of children and soldiers, with a 1:1 ratio, lined up side by side. The children and soldiers marched side by side, split up and did numbers separately, and then synchronized to make up symbols of Israel that were only visible overhead. What bothered me was how ingrained into Israeli life the military is. It’s no news to me, of course, but seeing this clap-worthy side-by-side dance of soldiers and the next generation of soldiers, and the dutiful acceptance and embracement of the only possible future, made me uncomfortable.

As the ceremony ended in a fireworks display, the steaks and kebabs were laid out on the grill and we set the table. The food was delicious and I was in a happy food coma until talk went around the table about babysitting their kids and going out to Tel Aviv for a street party in Neve Tzedek. I had a feeling it wouldn’t happen because everyone was lethargic and finding a babysitter would be tricky, but one guy offered to stay behind, and everyone found the energy to change and get ready.

The outdoor party turned out to be fun, although I wished I were there with a group of closer friends who know how to drink. It was a largely gay party, it seemed, that spilled out into three blocks. Lots of dancing to bad Anglophone music- Informer by Snow was a crowd pleaser, but there were some catchy tunes too. Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” came on and you know that kind of crowd nearly rioted. Between DJ sets, a traditional Israeli song was played and the crowd went nuts, but I still have no idea what it was. I felt left out. The next DJ was knob-turning happy, except she didn’t know how to do it right, and on top of it, the techno she played was awful and we eventually left. Oh, the fun I would have had if I had some gal pals with me.

The outdoor party scene in Neve Tzedek.

A typical Neve Tzedek street just beside the action.

The next day they dropped me off at the parents’ house. As usual, the mom looked at me up and down and said, “Good, you haven’t gained weight.” She excused not getting me a gift from her trip to Brazil, but said she still had something for me. She produced a dark chocolate Toblerone bar so big, you could hack through a wild jungle with it. It still smelled of a Duty Free shop, if Duty Free has a smell. I’ll assume it does.
For lunch, we drank wine and we ate leftover BBQ I brought with me. I also watched lots of Israeli TV. Because I don’t own a TV, whenever I am in front of one, I find myself much like a little kid glued to cartoons. Maybe it’s the simultaneous listening to Hebrew and reading the subtitles that puts me in a trance, but I can find myself watching TV for hours easily. I make myself feel better by saying it’s an important part of my Hebrew learnin’. There were also special shows on in celebration of Independence Day- a collection of old footage of famous comedians as well as skits from new shows, so it was this eclectic mix of the better stuff Israel has to offer and I was enjoying it. Better than the awful shows I’ve been streaming off my laptop.

I stayed until the buses started running again at sundown, and I walked over to the stop. I had my camera on me and while waiting, I snapped a few photos of the convenience store across the street from me. This out of the ordinary sight was too much for some locals. I heard some laughter and looked up to find a few guys waving at me from a window, asking what I was taking photos of, and pretending to moon me. Annoyed, I waved my hand at them, trying to egg them and daring them to give me a real show. They yelled some things I couldn’t decipher, and then behind me I heard, “Hey, take a photo of me too!” and I snapped a photo of a guy behind a produce truck.

This was the photo I took that brought me all that attention.

Two of the guys waving at me from their window.

The other guy who asked me to take his photo.

A few more minutes passed and my bus wasn’t coming. I saw a group of young guys cross the street and approach me. Yes, it was the group from the window. They asked me why I was taking photos. I said it was because I like to. They asked if I was from Russia. I said no, New York. Then two out of four of them tried to get my number, which baffled me briefly, but I didn’t want to give them too much thought. They said they were all around 25. I said I’m 27. They seemed to like this. I’m not sure why guys here seem to like my being older than them- maybe they think it makes me more mature, more sexually available, or more ready for marriage. Any of those options do not please me. I told them I was not interested. They asked me if I wanted to come up to their apartment, as if that is the logical follow-up question. I said no. One said, “Hazak,” literally “strong,” but here more like “tough,” as in “this is tough,” as if they were surprised I was resistant to their best courtship methods. They wished me a good time in Israel and walked away.

The guys making their way over to me.

My bus came late, but the ride was peaceful, and I was back in Jerusalem quickly and without complaints, for once.

Right now, the Shabbat siren is going off at the same time as gunshots. I still don’t know the source of these sounds, but people have been telling me it may the result of a traditional gun firing during an Arab wedding coming over from East Jerusalem.

I like how I’ve been doing relatively interesting things here in Israel, including some travels around the eretz, but I always choose to dissect a relatively boring day or two when I write in this blog. I swear I don’t only hang out with my family friends and go to the gym, but for some reason, those events inspire blog posts. Or maybe I’m just too exhausted to post after those more eventful days and nights out. Yes, I can write much longer posts than this. Even this post is shortened big time. If I didn’t worry about having a life or Carpel Tunnel syndrome, I’d write a whole lot more here.

I woke up Friday morning with the intention of getting to the Israeli Cartoon Museum in Holon (which is open only 3 hours on Friday and Saturday), but I woke up at 8.30 am drained and it took me so long to get ready, and I waited so long for the damned sherut to leave, that I got to Tel Aviv much later than I was supposed to. I ended up walking around and got myself a big bureka stuffe with eggplant and cheese with sides of tehina, grated tomatoes, pickles, and spicy stuff. I was disappointed in this one since all I could taste was the flaky dough, and the insides were mysteriously missing. It was a beautiful day and the streets were so packed I could barely walk, so I bought a chocolate and halva “pereg,” hopped on a bus and got to Rishon earlier than expected.

When I got to the family friends’ apartment, the wife and husband greeted me and wife announced, “I bought burekas! We will make some for dinner.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was burekas’ed out already becauseI knew she bought it because I love them, so I said nothing. She asked me if was hungry. I wasn’t, but I said yes because she is a really good cook! I was so full afterwards all I could do was sit in front of the TV, which is fine by me, because that’s Hebrew practice time. I don’t have a TV in my room at school so whenever I get a chance to watch some, I find myself so transfixed by the Hebrew speech and subtitles, that I feel like the grandkids of these family friends, who watch cartoons open-mouthed and expressionless for hours.

In the midst of conversation, they threw in a Yiddish word, and it reminded me of how I wanted to ask him about how they know Yiddish- oh, this led to long, long stories, and it didn’t help that the husband drank half a glass of vodka with lunch. The wife told me about how her parents spoke it, and her grandparents, and she had some family members who could barely speak Russian because Yiddish was what was spoken in their Ukrainian Jewish neighborhood. She then proceeded to give me a history of the Ukraine while the husband repeatedly interjected talking about how beautiful the city of Chernovtsy was, how their was nothing like it, how it has Viennese style architecture as a result of the country’s time under the Austrian Hungarian empire, and how under the Soviet rule, they closed all the places of worship save one synagogue and one church. He said Jews would sometimes go to the church for food, when things were really rough.

They were openly excited to talk about their past. They often spoke at the same time, over one another, and the wife would get mad and yell at him to stop interrupting her (and go drink more vodka), but the husband ignored her and kept going. At one point, he stood up and went to the bedroom and the wife, looking up towards the ceiling, summoning all her strength to stay calm said, “Great, finally, he’s going to bed.” But no such luck, he walked back out the bedroom and futzed around in the kitchen, “Oh, of course, he’s going to eat more.”

He eventually sat back down in the living room, but soon stood up and did indeed take a nap. You’d think the wife would take the opportunity to say what she had wanted to say, but instead she took out an album she made for him for his 75th birthday and walked me through page by page, detailing which of his friends were still alive and which were not.

The wife is a big lover of movies. Unfortunately, most of the movies she watches are Lifetime type dramas (she spent dinner time today detailing scene-by-scene a movie she saw about a prostitute with children), but this time she had better offering for me- The Pianist. I saw the movie long ago but I couldn’t remember much, so I watched it with her again. During the movie, my Israeli friend called and we made plans to go out for dinner. She told me I could take their spare keys in case I come home late. By this time, the husband woke up and would periodically wander into the room to see what we were doing. The wife asked him to find the spare set of keys for me. At the time time, the movie was reaching a climactic scene, when the pianist is found by German soldier who demands he play the piano for him. He walks the pianist into a room with a piano, and as this played on the screen, the husband walked over to the TV set. As the pianist sat and down and his fingers fell upon the piano after years of pent up frustration and despair, the husband opened a drawer directly below the TV and futzed around looking for the keys, to the point that we couldn’t even see the TV because of his bobbing head. I cracked up. The wife gave me a “You see what I have to deal with look?” and said, “Do you think you could possibly move your head to the side!” and he either didn’t hear or pretended not to, because he continued to look until his found the keys, and by then the scene was nearing its end.

Side note: Holocaust movies are not good before going out for a fun night out.

My friend came by to pick me up and we went to a bar in Florentine, and then to dinner at a place called Coffee Bar, which is really a full fledged restaurant. He knew a guy who worked there and he gave us some free food in addition to the the full three course meals we consumed. I was so full. I asked my friend what else is in the area. He said this was not an area we would want to hang out in. The cops close the streets off and arsim (Israeli guidos) fill them. “It’s so bad they have to close things off?” “Yes, you’ll see.” By the time we finished our meal, the streets outside the window were filled with arsim of varying levels of spiky hair and shiny fitted sweatshirts and freyot (girl arsim) with a stratum of bleached heads and fat, ornate (in the Bedazzler sense)  waist belts. Suddenly the streets looked hazier, smokier, with bunches of stiletto and love handle silhouettes. We walked into a convenience store to buy cigarettes, and the place was packed with people who didn’t even make it the surrounding clubs. They sat in the flourescent lit store with beer, smoking and eyeing one another. We continued down the street to the area with more clubs and it was a scene. “Who are these people?” I couldn’t believe my eyes. It felt like I was somewhere in between midtown Manhattan at night and Steinway St. in Astoria, but everyone was 19 and made up to look like Las Vegas soccer mom by day, prostitute by night (where is this Lifetime movie? Or at least Oxygen!). We walked by a club and and my friend asked the bouncer what was going on there tonight. He said it was a soldiers-only night and we were too old. The surrounding area was blockaded by military police. I asked my friend, “So you mean part of the duty of these soldiers is to keep the peace between the arsim?” He said yeah. We quickly caught a cab and got back to the Florentine. By then I understood.

The next day, I ate cheese burekas for breakfast and potato ones for dinner. Both times the burekas were the oven, the husband hovered in front of the oven as soon as he smelled them from the living room. During the morning round, the wife took them out, and placed a few on plate for the husband. “Are they hot?” he asked. “What do you think? I just took them out of 200c degree oven. Of course they’re hot!” and during dinner, he asked her the same thing. “Again, the same question! Of course they are hot!” yelled the wife. “Ah, then I will wait until they cool down,” said the husband, despite having spent the last 15 minutes staring at the oven, and the last 2 minutes telling the wife he thought the knob was broken because it showed 0 minutes left but the oven was still working. He waited about 1 1/2 minutes before he walked back into the kitchen and ate with me.

Afterwards, they drove me to the Rehovot train station, where I boarded the bus for Jerusalem, and then shared a cab ride to campus.

I want to write about my trip to the Israeli Cartoon Museum that day, but I may save it for another time.

Tonight was the second night in my new ulpan. I like it, as in I like the the teacher, the pace, and the students are quick, but as usual, some of them are just too loud, while the rest can’t get a word in. There is one girl in particular who reminds me of an Arab version of Peg Bundy. Her face, makeup, big hair (although not red), tight clothes and bountiful bosom.. and I don’t know, something, else. She seems nice, but wow, the mouth on this girl, both literally and figuratively. When the teacher asks a question, and not necessarily one tough enough to impress her with a good answer, she screams out her answer above the others. One time she even caught herself and covered her mouth and looked around, giggling. Really people, it’s not all that impressive that you know that tricky “smihut.” There are other loud people too, but they aren’t as consistent as her. As for the others.. There is one Russian girl who talks only to other Russians. The students are pretty average- young, for the most part. One girl took a bus back to campus here, so she may live in the dorms. One normally quiet guy talked about going to the West Bank tomorrow to work with the Red Crescent. Another rather Jappy girl interjects “like” into her Hebrew regularly. The rest are nice.

The main issue with my ulpan is that the two days I attend, I am completely exhausted by 5.30pm, and the class goes on until 8.30. I have no break during the day whatsoever. The second session is on Thursdays, the end of my week, and I am wiped out. Maybe it will take a bit of time to work myself into my new schedule. Either that, or I’ll quit everything and dance all day on Ben Yehuda with those crazy religious people.

I know the US recently had its Daylight Savings Time. I remembered it happened at a different time here back in September, and when I asked my Orthodox boss when it will here this spring, she said she wasn’t sure, but added, “Did you know that because of the religious lobby, we have DST right before Yom Kippur so there is one less daylight hour for fasting?” She gave this “Can you believe it!” look, but she’s religious, so I wasn’t sure how to react. A usual response would have been an eyeroll, or a sarcastic “What a surprise,” but instead I just raised my eyebrows and said, “Well, huh, can you believe that!” “I know, right?!” she said, or insinuated by body language, I can’t remember. Very strange. Anyway, I looked up a bit of information on DST in Israel, and can you believe it, there is controversy- enough that Israel has its own time (IST).

According to the Wikipedia, until the 2005 rule stipulating when DST begins and ends, “the minister of the interior had the authority to decide on the start and end dates of Israel Summer Time. The length of summer time depended largely on the political affiliation of the minister in charge. Religious ministers often opted for an earlier switch back to standard time in autumn, claiming that summer time causes hardship for religious observers at this time of year.”

Another entry says, “Until 2005, the start and end of DST each year was established in an ad hoc fashion as the result of haggling between political parties representing various sectors of Israeli society. Parties representing religious groups wanted the start delayed till after Passover and the end to precede Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, while the secular parties would argue for starting it earlier and ending it later.”

Ah, “ad hoc fashion,” “haggling” – these descriptions of how things are done here can’t even stay out of Wikipedia entries! Not surprisingly, the religious groups won, and my DST will be on March 27.

And to end this topic, “At present, as a sign of independence from Israeli rule, the Palestinian National Authority uses a different schedule for Daylight Saving Time than Israel.”

And speaking of the insanity of the region where I live, my good friend from New York, whom I saw the night before I left, posted on Facebook that an American activist friend of hers was hit in the face with a new, high speed tear gas projectile by the IDF while protesting the wall the the West Bank. He’s currently in the hospital, unconscious, with severe brain and eye damage. Protests (by other activists, of course) have been held for him in a few cities. He seems he is pulling through, but this is insane.

Life has been peacefully quiet since the Russian left. Maybe too quiet. Don’t get me wrong, I love hearing crickets instead of Armin Van Buren when I go to bed, but still, I’ve been getting antsy about moving out of the dorms. Real life feels on pause when I am here, everything about campus life is so artificial.  Plus the bathrooms and kitchen are nasty. I walked by the kitchen this past Shabbat and two campus cats were lying stretched out on the heaps of garbage that appear during the weekends. It’s as if the girls on this floor collect all their garbage in a corner of their rooms until the one day the cleaning lady doesn’t come.

But that will soon be history. I took a walk with a co-worker and he showed me some neighborhoods near my job. It reminded me of what it’s like to live around people outside the ages of 18-30. It would be kinda nice not being the senior citizen of my vicinity.  I have recruited some people at work to ask around, and I’m meeting with an Israeli friend later this week so we can help me figure out what neighborhoods fit my budget and locations needs. I’ve been eyeing some sites but I want the low-down on what to expect or avoid before I embark on anything. It may be tough to find something right now, in the middle of a semester, but I have some have time.

Today I had my first morphology class, but we discussed phonetics. The professor is a goofy, but sweet Star Trek loving guy of a religious level I cannot decipher, with a face barely visible behind two poofs of hair- one at his chin and the other on his scalp- and a crumpled yarmulke on top of his head, covering his balding crown. I have always thought balding guys in yarmulkes are lucky – they are required by their communities to don holy toupees! Anyway, his descriptions of place and manner of articulation in speech left me bursting out laughing. He was discussing the difference between the hard and soft palates in our mouths. “Now if you take your finger and stick it inside your mouth, and move it upwards along the hard palate, and just keep moving it back, you will feel it go soft” – soft, scattered chuckles from students – “You may find it difficult to move your finger further back. You may start to get a vomit feeling” – ok, by now my face is down to hide my laughter – “I wouldn’t recommend trying that, but well, maybe if you go to a party and things get boring, you can try it then.” Ok, I flat out burst laughing. Based on the previous chuckles, I thought I would have company, but I was the only one. I quickly stopped myself and regain composure.

It wasn’t just what he said, but the finger-in-mouth visual aides he provided.. and the hair.. and the yarmulke.. and the high belted pants. He went on about the “uvula,” the little thing that dangles in the back of your mouth. “Ok, so everyone has an uvula, but some may not know because they don’t see it! It’s not one of the most well known memb- I mean, part of the body.” Aha! He was about to call it a “member!” As far as I know, only one human body part is commonly referred to as a member! Oh god! No one else seemed to pick up on this… and maybe I should be grossed out.. but I will give him the benefit of the doubt because I was so happy to have any fun moments in the otherwise painful class- I think I hate phonetics!

I am still thoroughly baffled at how well Israeli guys are both flirty and insulting at the same time. On the way out from the gym yesterday, I pushed the door to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. I didn’t want to break the thing, so I continued pushing and pulling it, until a guy behind pushed it open forcefully. He said something in Hebrew. “Ma?” I answered. In English, he responded, “Ah, I see you tired yourself out so much, you can’t open the door!” Maybe it was the tone, but it didn’t sound like some light-hearted joshing, but more like a challenge! I answered something like, “No, it’s just that after that such a workout, I didn’t want to break the door!” Unable to retaliate, he mumbled something and bid me a nice day.

When I approached the gate to my dorm, I flashed my ID to the security guard. He motioned me over to him, and took my ID. “Very nice picture… very nice,” he said in English as he inspected it. “Um, thanks.” “Very nice!” he continued. “Well, ok, I hope the reality is as good!” I joked. “Oh it is,” he said in a higher tone, as if he really was providing me with affirmation. He then asked me where I’m from. I said New York. New York City? Yes. He looked skeptical. Where in NYC? Well… “Long Island, right?”

“Long Island isn’t part of New York City.”

“Yes. It is,” said the Israeli who knows everything.

“No it’s not! There is Brooklyn, Manhattan. Queens, Bronx, and Staten Island.”

“Oh right, Staten Island. That’s what I meant.”

“Yeah well, not the same thing.”

“Ok, so where are you from?”

“I’ve lived in different areas, but most recently Queens.”

“Oh,” he said, looking slightly disappointed in that way non-New Yorkers do when they find out you don’t live on top of the Empire State Building.

He asked me how I like Israel.

“It’s ok. It’s a lot to get used to.”

“Is it what you expected?”

“I’m not sure I knew what to expect.”

“Of course you had expectations. How can you go somewhere and not have expectations,” said the Israeli with one way to view the world.

“What do you mean? Anything can happen where you move somewhere. I hoped to go to school and to work, and I’m doing that now, but otherwise it’s hard to say what I expected.”

He asked me a bit about school, and then sighed, “For me, I have a big decision to make soon.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“I’m finishing graduate school in a few months, in Community Organization (or something like that, some kind of organization thing), and the army wants to take me back, but I don’t want to go!”

“Why not?”

“Well, first, I don’t want to cut my hair.” He did have good hair. I’ll give him that. Fully black hair in loose curls rolling around his head, level with his light blue eyes. He was very attractive in the way that a good number of Israeli guys are -as long as they are not moving or speaking. “And second, I finished the army. I can’t imagine going back to it.”

“I can imagine that. How long would you go for?”

“It’s a year contract doing exactly what I went to school for. And I’d get to live in Tel Aviv. But still, they have you for that time.”

“Well, it’s only a year. Maybe it’s not so bad. Especially with this economy.”

“The economy is always an excuse. You can find what you want, if you look for it,” he said, not in that American optimist way, but in that Israeli way that makes you feel the truth is so obvious, it’s hard to believe you’d question it in the first place. He went on, “I think I will give them a decision by tomorrow.” He didn’t give me a hint about what his decision is, but I think I know which one it is going to be- I’m imagining him walking into barber shop- nay, salon- with a melancholic Aviv Geffen song as the soundtrack.

However, I still don’t understand. If he is such a hot item, why did he have to go back to the army for a contract officer gig? Why couldn’t he just let his locks run free while finding this other great job that was obviously waiting for him, if only he looked for it?

Maybe this was part of the “flirting” and he was trying to impress me, but more likely the mix of machismo, stubbornness, and delusion that is so prevalent here!

You know that in his head, he was being totally nice, warm, friendly. Not a hint of – woah, people, I just had deja-vu writing that, seriously. Have I already said that about an Israeli on here? I’m not joking.

I wished him luck, he said he’ll see me around, and I was off. A few feet away, I nearly slipped. Damn you, wet Jerusalem stone covered in leaves!

After two and a half weeks of a great time in New York, I came back to my stuffy room in Jerusalem. Is my visit really over? It made me sad to see my room here in the state it was the day I was so excited to leave for New York, the moment the Nesher sherut came too early and I had to leave the room a bit messy.

The stay in New York was filled with many emotional ups and downs, but lots of fun. Within a few days, I felt I had never left, but of course I still felt different. I was in New York with no job, no apartment of my own. I lived out of bags, and never felt fully comfortable because of it. However, I saw friends, ate great food (with a newly ripped-at-the-crotch pair of jeans to prove it), same a couple of museum shows, and watched some movies. Yeah, New York’s not too bad.

One of the first things I noticed as soon as I got off the plane is that after being in Jerusalem for so long, New Yorkers all looked like Abercrombie and Fitch models- Swedish edition. Their clothes were made of fine, well cut fabrics and their boots were not platform. Most of the adults walked without children in tow! I felt frumpy at times.

I had a couple of celebrity sightings- Steve Buschemi (I like to convince myself that he followed me to my train transfer), and the plus size model winner of a recent season of America’s Next Top Model- can’t bother to look up her name, even on my fast-speed new Mac. Yes, I also bought a new Mac laptop, and now I feel I need to upgrade my lifestyle to match my trendy operating system.

On my last night there, I gathered some friends at The Magician on the Lower East Side and had a proper farewell.

The next day I savored the bizarrely warm day with Eli by eating at Veselka, took in the crazy vibe the city gets during the first warm days, and eventually made my way back to Jill’s, where I crammed all my crap into one bag, ran to eat two last slices of pizza (one plain, one chicken and broccoli- something I normally don’t order but can’t get in Israel, so I went for it) with her and my sister, and hopped in a cab a bit after 7, worried that I was running late for my 10pm flight. I was at the gate to my Delta flight by 7:45. Never have I gone through the airport so quickly. Part of the reason was because it was a Saturday night flight, so most of the people on the flight, the religious ones, came last minute, after finishing up their Shabbat. The flight took off late because someone decided not to get on at the last minute, and the luggage crew spent 30 minutes retrieving his luggage.

When I first boarded the plane, it was blissful. Quiet. The seat next to me remained empty as the rest of the plane filled and part of me hoped the passenger wouldn’t show. I even sat my stuffed dog, Dubs, on the empty seat. Then the religious people came on board, and with them screaming babies. A group of religious women walked toward the back of the plane, rolling luggage that was barely carry-on friendly. By then, most of the overhead bins were full. One of the women asked an older grouchy looking man wearing a yarmulke behind me, “Excuse me, would you mind moving your bag?” “Yes, I do mind,” he replied curtly. “Well, ok,” and said, hesitantly. Just then, a remarkably attractive and very gay flight attendant walked over and asked what the problem was. The woman said, “There is no room and the man here says he is unwilling to move his bag.” The flight attendant offered to move the man’s bag for him, but the man just said, “Your bags are too big, I don’t understand why you didn’t check them in!” The women ignored him and the flight attendant still moved the man’s bag and assured him by saying, “Look, mister, I’m moving it right here!” and found space for all of the rest of their stuff too. Ah, is there anything a gay flight attendant can’t do? (I always get excited when I get a gay flight attendant, they are generally so much nicer and more helpful than their female counterparts. Sorry.) Then the older guy stood up, and to no one in particular, blurted, “This is why I stopped using El Al, and now look.” By “this,” he clearly meant the religious women, and they clearly knew it. They looked at him uncomfortably, said nothing, and he plopped himself back down in his seat, and remained quiet.

But.. but.. I was confused. What did he really mean by “this?” Loud families, usually religious? Then just take a flight on Shabbat, which he probably didn’t do because he observes it himself. But these women didn’t bring kids on board. They just had lots of luggage. I hate El Al because I’m still waiting on a refund months after I cancelled a flight with them, but what was his beef?

Anyway, the noise levels continued to rise. I got a call from my mom soon before the plane took off. She was nervous and sad about my leaving again. She showed it by saying, “What airline company are you using?” “Delta.” “Delta? Why would you take Delta?! Everyone uses El Al! Who uses Delta for Israel! Oyyy!” As if the plane would instantly go up in flames en route to Tel Aviv if it were not part of the national Israeli airline. As if terrorists eye non-El Al flights on Kayak and rub their hands gleefully at the prospects of possibly (but probably not really) lower security levels.

The flight was almost full. The seat next to me was still empty. I eyed the remaining people coming in, gauging their gender and religious levels. Religious men- sigh of relief. They must be sitting next to other men. Religious woman with baby, oh no, please, keep moving….. sigh of relief. Freedom to stretch was almost mine! But at the last minute, a young Ortho guy walked up to the seat, and I thought, “This can’t be.” I barely moved Dubs out of the seat before he dropped a few crumpled plastic bags onto the seat next to me. He didn’t look at me as he crammed the bags in the overhead bin and placed a carry-on suitcase in the leg area in front of his seat. An older man stood next to him, asked if he would be alright, and then walked away as the guy maneuvered his skinny legs around the suitcase and sat down and looked straight ahead. For a while, he read a prayer book, but mostly stared ahead.

Ok, maybe religious Jews do sit next to people of other sexes when they have to, but I just never noticed a precedence for it on a plane. It didn’t happen on buses in Jerusalem, except for that one time I was frotteurized by a religious guy who did sit next to me, but I guess planes provide fewer options- you can’t stand!

The flight attendants were becoming agitated and rude, as they are wont to do on Delta. Even before take-off,  a female one with copper skin, yellow hair, and a look that said she would run you over with her SUV if she could, walked down the aisle waving a crumpled plastic bag, “Someone left this near the bathroom! WHO left this near the bathroom?” she threatened, as if it was the most absurd thing that could have happened. One religious guy spoke up and said it was his bag, but after inspection, it turned out it wasn’t, and the attendant walked away and voiced “Jesus Christ” between her teeth.

I partly didn’t blame them for being agitated. Full flight, oh so many demands and babies. I find nothing glamorous about being a flight attendant, except for those great travel discounts. I did feel that the moment they wheeled the beverage carts down the aisle, someone was hovering behind them, asking them to move, as if they could squeeze the cart to the side. That was really annoying. I’d lose it within a day. At one point, even the gay flight attendant lost it and told a passenger who was practically his shadow, “Step back, sir.”

I guess the Ortho guy didn’t have time to order a kosher meal, so when he heard someone give theirs up, he very politely asked for it and the SUV attendant ordered him to wait until the end to see if any were left. Later on, the gay attendant walked down the aisle holding a tray, announcing, “Kosher meal, kosher meal!” My neighbor again politely stopped him and asked, “Is it left over?” The attendant replied simply, “It’s kosherrrr” and threw it on his lap. The neighbor then ate the cake, then the salad, and some of the main dish which I could not recognize.

By then, I drank some wine, swallowed a special pill, and even though I tossed and turned constantly, I woke up with two hours left on the plane. The neighbor slept sitting straight up, with a blindfold on. God know what I did in my inebriated state. I probably kicked him, drooled on him, anything is possible.

We arrived in Israel. I got on the sherut to Jerusalem, another surreal experience I can’t go into now because I’m jetlagged and running on 3 hours sleep and I think I’m quite possibly delirious, which is the reason I will give for writing such a long post about a flight.

I’ll end by saying this- The Russian is gone! She moved out while I was away. Sorry to all who will miss her character, but I’m sure I’ll find others to replace her without having them live close enough to ruin my home life! It has been so quiet. So niiiiceeee.. so why can’t I sleep, even though it’s past 1am and I need to get up in 6 hours?!

EDIT: Ok maybe this is what’s wrong with El Al.

I spent last weekend visiting the family friends in Nes Tziona. I almost didn’t go because I could not get my day started, and before I knew it, it was 3pm and Shabbat was nearing. I ran out to the bus stop and waited for 20 minutes along with a gruff guy who gave his crotch a good scratching about three times. Ten minutes later, he asked me for a lighter, I gave one to him, and when I took my lighter back from him, I realized my lighter, and ergo my hand, touched his crotch. I kept my hand at a safe distance until I able to wash it later on.

The bus came, but it moved slowly. Religious people were rushing in the streets, making me more antsy. I dreaded having to call and tell my family friends I missed the bus. Because I sleep till, god forbid, 10 am when I visit them, they think of me as some sort of slacker and would assume I missed the bus because I slept too late and took my time getting ready.

I got the central bus station. The place was clearing out. Sherut drivers yelled to tell me there were no more buses. I wasn’t falling for their tricks. I ran on. I ran past the security line, almost forgetting to put my bag through the scanners, and ran up and up the escalators. The station was deserted. Not one person was running for something, and I knew that’s a bad sign. I persisted. I ran to the area where the buses stand, and in the distance, I saw one lone bus. It could have been any bus going anywhere in Israel. But I still ran. I approached the bus, asked the driver if he was going to Rishon Le Tziyyon, and he said yes. Success! I beat procrastination! I think I can leave at 3:15 next time.

Despite the fast-paced start, the visit wasn’t all that exciting, but I got to watch some classic Israeli movies, as well as Back to the Future II and Big. The TV selection for movies made after 1990 is just not good here.  An overwhelming number of made-for-TV Lifetime style dramas that somehow pass for American cinema rule the lot.

 On the bus ride back to Jerusalem from Rehovot on Saturday night, the bus was filled with datim in full Shabbat regalia. One guy didn’t bother to turn on the overhead lamp to read his texts, but instead attached a portable book light to the edge of the book. I thought it was a great photo. No camera on me. I was soon distracted by a familiar song playing loud enough to drift towards me from the driver’s area- R.E.M’s “Losing My Religion.”

I came back to the Rishon/Rehovot area a couple of days later to vote! I wasn’t planning to vote, assuming I missed some registration deadlines, but when I found out I received a voting card and all I had to do was bring it to a nearby school, I decided to do it.

(Google.co.il on the day of the Israeli elections. Probably the American election day logo, considering the booths, with an Israeli “elections” button thrown in.)

I walked to the school with the older wife. It was a cold day out, and I was unprepared. It has been so warm here that I stopped bringing out my jacket,  but the day of the elections was windy, and later on the rain poured so badly, my lights flickered and my internet went out for the night.

 I voted not because I like any of the candidates, but because I wanted to experience what the process is like here. The wife and I walked into the school building, down a hallway decorated with cardboard paper shapes on the walls, per usual, and walked to the room designated by a number on our cards. She walked in first, and I waited. The room was set up with a long table with 3 or 4 people sitting there, 2 checking off names. There was a Russian guy there working the door who could tell I didn’t speak Hebrew well. When it was my turn to vote, I walked into the room and he asked me if I needed help. I said maybe. He said, in Russian, ”Do you know who you are voting for?” I said yes. He said, “Oh ok then, I thought I could help you decide if you weren’t sure yet.” Even the moment before I voted in the actual voting room, someone was trying to manipulate my vote! I walked to the other side of the classroom, and stood behind a folded presentation board posterboard (what do you call those things?) that sat atop a desk. Behind it was a box with partitions for slips of paper for each party. I picked mine and put it in an envelope that was given to me. Then I walked out and inserted my envelope into a blue box that looked like it donated by the kids who normally roam through that classroom. Then I left and caught a bus to Tel Aviv.

Maybe it’s part of my general mistrust of everything here, or my strong belief in how badly practically everything is run here, or the face of that Russian guy, but many times I wonder if that box made it where it should go.

I met up with a friend at the Eretz Israel Museum to see a photo exhibit by a guy who supposedly unlocked the world of Charedi people. There were a few good photos, but mostly Flickr positive comment good, nothing amazing. I was also annoyed that this photographic “unveiling” of Charedi life featured almost no photos of women.

After we were done there, we walked over to a few of the other pavilions- coins, ceramic, the mail history pavilion- which featured nothing but large facsimiles of postcards on posterboards and TV screens- but the exhibition that shone the brightest was… the concrete exhibition. Yes, an entire room devoted to the history of concrete in Israel. When you walked into the room, there was a little cement mixer, and in the hole was a TV screen that featured an artsy black and white film centered around shots of a large abstract concrete structure. The surrounding walls were covered in tiny TV screens depicting historical images of building Israel using concrete. However, the TV screens were mounted on frames made of wood, the antithesis of concrete. The frames were so massive that the entire concrete exhibition hall smelled strongly of freshly sanded wood!

Speaking of Russians. My neighbor is officially insane and everyone here hates her. Recently, she had her mom stay over her room for a few days. At first, I was elated because I thought the mother came to help her move out. The semester has ended and they were cleaning the room obsessively. But instead her mom stayed over a couple of nights last week and this week. Almost every night, I heard the Russian throw tantrums, call her mom stupid, a bitch, ask her if she was sick in the head or plain dumb. The mother said nothing in return.

 
Yesterday, they were actually getting along well, and I saw the mom in the kitchen. A plain woman, bleached blond hair, bright eye shadow. They were having a grand old time, which surprised me. She had her awful techno blasting through an open door and they smoked cigarettes in the hallway. Then they discussed how the mom would get to the airport, and about a half hour later, in a flash, the Russian began to scream at her mom and ran out the room, slamming the door to the kitchen and bathroom along the way. It was so bad everyone came out of their rooms to see what happened. A half hour later, two girls knocked on my door asking if I would come with them to complain about her, but in the end I couldn’t because they wanted to go when I had to work. However, after that, I heard the Russian again, arguing in Hebrew with some people. I came out, assuming it would be those girl, but I saw two of the Arab girls and a male friend of theirs. I couldn’t really tell what exactly they were saying, but I heard the words “noise,” “room,” etc. I decided to add my two cents. I told her, in Russian, that she is always loud, slamming doors, blasting music. “I’m never in room!” she said. She is always in her room. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her mom gazing at the scene doe-eyed, but the Russian yelled at her mom to go back into the room and she scurried away.

The Russian continued, to me, “Listen. I’m so, so, so sorry if I have upset you in any way. As a Russian to a Russian. I would never. I beg your forgiveness. These girls are giving me such problems, these Arabs,” she sneered. She stank of cheap liquor, and wore her usual black leather jacket and iridiscent green eye shaow. “Honestly, I can’t believe you came out here like this. I would never do that to you! Anyway, I’m leaving soon. Did you know that?” I lit up visibly, probably. “How would I know that? Um, when are you leaving?” I could see a glimmer of disappointment behind her eyes when I asked that, but she didn’t answer me. She made some more racist comments, and continued to implore me to join her in the Russian plight against the Arab girls who want quiet so they can study. ”I don’t see what this has to do with anything,” I said. ”But it does! These girls are disgusting, look at that one over there!” Then she made some vulgar comment I couldn’t grasp but involved her breasts. “This makes no sense. We are all neighbors and we need to live together.” “No we don’t!” The Arab girls started up their arguing again, and the guy joined in, and I said, “Listen, I just want quiet” and walked back to my room. A few minutes later, the Russian yelled something that was obviously offensive because the guy asked her to repeat it, but instead she ran into her room, locked the door, and then yelled it again. All of this with her mom there. Lovely family.

Yes, it is time to move out of here.

At least I get a break from it all during my visit to New York- less than 6 days away!

Today,  I was doing it again, when another “midrach” saw me and stopped in his tracks.

“Did another trainer show you how to do that?”

“Um, yes.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Oh.. ok.”

“Is there something wrong with it?”

“Um, no, not really,” he said as he shook his head, frowned, but continued to stand there.

“Is there a better way to do it?”

“It’s not that. It’s just that I know of another exercise you can do. It works your Gasdfjs Ksdjfaksd muscle.”
“My what?”

Annoyed, he repeated, “The Fadfj JSdfas muscle. It’s not quite your ab muscle, but the exercise works the ab muscle as it works the GFshdfa sadfsd. It works here,” he pointed to the general abdominal and leg area.

Confused, I tried to move away from the machine to see if he wanted to show me this magical move, but he illustrated by bending slightly and said, “It’s this move where you bend your knees at an angle, and then take your knees to your chest.”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing?”

“No. You need to pull your legs higher.”

“Higher? I don’t think that’s possible.” I tried to do the move, but there was just no possible way my legs could go higher, even in peak physical condition.

Instead of showing me, he just kept explaining the move as “No, but higher.”

“I don’t understand how this move is different from the one the other guy showed me.”

“Well, if he showed you this move. He must have had a good reason.”

“What reason?!”

“I don’t know, but he must have suggested it because of something.”

“Um, now I’m scared. Thanks.”

“No, don’t be.  Next time you see him, ask him. But also, if you want a trainer, let me know,” and he walked away.

 Ok, so obviously all the “midrachim” are told to show people the same move on that machine. This guy was trying to lure me in based on the false hope of a better move with higher leg lifting, but he was so unpleasant, I would never consider a session with him.

After that, I walked to the weight area and watched a woman with her male trainer. I’ve always found it awkward to see a trainer stretch the trainee. The positions they get themselves in seem.. compromising. Usually, the two are chatting away so it’s not so bad and I find the contrast amusing. But this time the trainee woman was lying down, eyes closed, in what appeared to be a slightly painful euphoria while  her oversized trainer looked down at her intently as he stretched her legs. I wondered if they were married, not to eachother of course.

This is why I could never have a trainer. I don’t want to chat as I work out, I don’t want Tantric style stretching sessions, and I don’t want someone telling me they are showing me moves to work out muscles I’m not sure I believe exist.

The bus drivers in this country are crazy- period. Especially in Jerusalem.

Since I’ve gotten to this city, I have had to learn a few things:

1.  If you don’t know the Hebrew word for driver, then you will after your first bus ride, because not one ride on a bus is without someone yelling “NAAHAAG!” from the back of the bus because the driver is too impatient to use the back mirrors to make sure everyone has exited the bus. One time, there were three to four “NAAHAAG!”s for one stop because the driver kept closing the door every 5 seconds because the bus was so packed he couldn’t see people were trying to make their way out… or pretended not to see…

2. Bus drivers will not wait for you to get on before they start driving.  One time, a bus stopped for me and I asked the driver if he was going to the central bus station. Without looking at me, he nodded yes, and then took his foot off the brake pedal and start rolling. I ran a few steps and hopped on. Another time, the bus driver started rolling as I had one foot on the bus and one still on the ground, and I almost tripped.

3. If you’re not sitting when the driver starts driving, hold on tight! It’s going to be a jerky ride. During most bus rides, I find myself being propelled down the aisle, and I basically turn my body and let myself be swung into my seat. If I don’t get a seat, I always hold on to something with both hands.

4. The bus drivers here have no mercy for the disabled. I’ve seen blind people get on and barely make it past the bus driver before he slams on the gas, and they go flying, usually stopped by the help of another passenger. One time, the bus driver did it twice to one poor blind guy as he was trying to get onto the front seat*, to the point that the exasperated man yelled, “NAAHAAG, why?!” and the driver just ignored him and offered no apology.

5. Bus drivers hate eachother. In New York, I was amused by the tradition in which bus drivers raised their hands in recognition of one another when they would pass eachother on the road. Overall, there seemed to be a level of respect for other bus drivers when a cluster of bus emerged during traffic. Here, bus drivers honk and cut eachother off all the time. Let’s not even go into the story of the tour bus driver who drove down a ravine and killed two dozen Russian tourists- the accusation against him is that he was so mad about getting cut off by another bus driver, he was driving wrecklessly. 

One story I can’t make sense of happened to me as I got on the bus after work one day. I stepped on and thought, “Wow, my first female bus driver!” However, for some reason this woman gave me the feeling that her live-in boyfriend is a bus driver but he felt too sick to go to work, so she figured she’d just do it for him. Bus drivers here don’t have a uniform, but she looked like she just finished watching a Dynasty marathon on TV. She wore a bright red velour jumpsuit with lipstick to match. Her stomach reached over above and around the wheel.

I gave her my card to punch, and without looking at me, she made a wave gesture to motion me along. Was she really not a legitimate driver or could she not wrap her fake nails around the hole puncher? I’m still not sure. She braved her way through Jerusalem rush hour traffic, and made such illegal moves that one car drove alongside her to yell at her. Once we approached campus, she honked passed other buses, and once we approached the final stop, I pressed the stop button, which I soon realized was silly because it’s the last stop and obviously she would let us all off there. The last stop approached… and passed… as she gathered speed. “NAAHHAAG!” called out the remaining students on the bus, and she halted, although not immediately. I looked up front toward her, and in the reflection of the rearview mirror, I saw her big red mouth smile.

Maybe it was an embarrassed smile, but I’m not sure she is capable of that emotion. Maybe it was the lipstick, but the smile looked sadistic. Did she purposely pass the last stop as a silent protest against my pressing the stop button, or did she just plum forget to stop the bus in anticipation of finishing her (boyfriend’s?) shift and returning home to new Israeli Big Brother episodes?

 I just don’t get it.

* The front seats on Israeli buses are reserved for the elderly or handicapped, but they are so inconvenient because people need to climb a big step to get onto them and there is about 2 inches of leg room. Just try mounting or descending from the thing when the bus is in motion!