False alarms January 2, 2009

A new job has meant a new gym membership for me. I went over the university gym and finally opened my membership. I had been waiting for a steady income flow before I did so, and wasted no time once the job was official. I was annoyed to find out that they required a doctor’s note to be presented at the front desk before I entered the gym. They required it for using the gym, but I was still allowed to use the pool! When I asked how that makes sense, I got no reply. After some Skype phonecalls to my doctor’s office on New Year’s Eve, they emailed over a letter as a Word Perfect file- who uses Word Perfect anymore! I had to download a converter to open the thing in Word and the letter looked so fake, I would never have accepted it if I were the gym. But I thought, “Ah, this is Israel. They’ll take anything.”

 

Unfortunately, I didn’t get to print out the letter before the weekend hit. I woke up this morning really wanting to go to the gym. The previous evening’s New Year’s and new job celebration- which involved eating a tasty, but lacking attempt at Mexican food along with half a bottle of wine, and then sharing a warm apple pie a la mode-  had me feeling bloated, and well, I already paid for my membership and wanted to use it, damn it.

 

I decided to take my chances and see if I could get away with not having the note. If I’ve learned anything here, it’s that nothing works right and you can get away with a lot. I walked to the front desk ready to play dumb about the letter, and it turned out all I had to do was scan my own card and go through a turnstile. The girl behind the counter was too busy talking away to notice me, and I walked upstairs to the work out area giddily.

 

The gym was decent enough. It’s what I’m used to in the US, but with shorter shorts and more sets of hairy shoulders. There were treadmills, ellipticals, an area for machines, and then an area with the more hardcore machines and weights where big guys looked at you funny if you walked in.

 

I walked out of the gym and heard another helicopter zoom across the sky. I looked up and saw that it was near a blimp. Why the hell was there a blimp in the sky? Is this really a time to be flying blimps above East Jerusalem? Are there such things as military blimps? The thing looked like an engorged missle. For a brief second I wondered if it was a missle, and I had to readjust my eyes to reassure myself that it couldn’t possibly be one before I continued to walk.

 

I came back to my room, ate lunch, and then walked outside to a nearby building to refill my laundry card. As soon as I finished, I heard a siren outside. I froze. A siren? Here? Can it be? Where are the shelters here? I don’t even know! There was no one around so I couldn’t tell if others seemed panicked. Then it struck me. It’s the Shabbat siren. I relaxed enough to go back outside. Part of me still expected to see someone running, but I found only cats running in an around trash cans.

 

I gathered my things and walked over to the laundry room, which consists of four washers and two dryers, and is the only facility for over a dozen dorm buildings. I didn’t have to wait for washers, but I did wait for a dryer. In many ways, I hate doing laundry, but here I enjoy it because I usually meet people. Today, I met someone who found it amusing that I was reading a highlighted and underlined copy of a children’s book about a dog named Shakshuka who disappeared. We talked a while about the usual, where we are from, what we are doing here, and he mentioned his travels to Jordan and Egypt, which I was interested in because I have met so many Israelis who are just not willing to go to Arab countries, even if it means missing out on some great sites, like Petra or the pyramids. He said he was often mistaken for an Arab to the point that when a group of four of them ate at restaurants in Egypt, the waiters set out three sets of plates and utensils because they thought he was the local tour guide.

 

Now my laundry is clean and I can’t choose a pair of clean underwear from the bounty on my bed.

 

I’m going out tonight. Jerusalem, be fun and don’t piss me off.

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.

Shabbat So-long November 23, 2008

I took off from Jerusalem Thursday night to visit the family friends for the weekend. I needed a break from the city. Wednesday night, I kept calling the next day Friday, because Friday is still the last day of my week, and will always be. ”Thursday” night travel to Rishon LeZion was a nightmare, with everyone, including soldiers, rushing home for the weekend. At the central bus station in Jerusalem, there was one security guard looking through the bags of every passenger, and people yelled and complained, like they do every time there is a line. I can’t understand why it’s not possible to add just one more guard during those hours. Then I found myself in the middle of a mosh pit, trying get on a bus. I tried to get out of it, but I was literally pulled into the bus ahead of most people and got a choice window seat. The bus rolled out, and it was already dark outside. It’s probably just me, but I feel that night really “falls” here. One moment it’s sunny and then without a warning, it’s dark, all before 5pm.

 

The bus sat in traffic, and I sat hungry, smelling the food on the lap of the large Russian woman next to me. In almost all the inter-city bus rides I take (I typed “long distance” initially, then erased it, remembering nothing here is truly far), there is a moment in which the bus drivers slams on the brake, a large backpack rolls down the aisle, and the owner scurries down the aisle and then back into his seat. This ride was no exception. Otherwise, the ride was unremarkable, but blissfully quiet, and once the bus got out of Jerusalem, “chik chak” and I was in Rishon LeZion.

 

 I passed by this nightly scene on the way. The eldery Russians (mostly men) of the neighborhood get together and play chess and backgammon in the brightly lit area adjacent to the park.  I wasn’t able to capture how long the tables are with my camera. I could have walked closer, but I didn’t want to draw any mustachioed glares.

 

I stopped by a store to pick up an oversized bar of what I think is Polish (every language was represented on the back of the bar, and I didn’t want to read too closely lest my eyes fall upon the nutritional information) chocolate with almonds. I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed. I wasn’t satisfied with my selection, but the place had either that or junky Israeli cholocate or Oreos. I arrived at the family friend’s place and placed the bar on the table. “Sorry, all I could get is this. I wanted a cake but didn’t know where the good bakeries are, and they didn’t carry a good bar of dark chocolate, like the ones you like.” The wife thanked me, but seemed a bit disappointed that I brought a huge bar of something she didn’t care for, or maybe she was worried her husband would eat all of it. I then endured an hour of family related speeches and advice, and reheated a dinner of shnitzel and home-made crustless quiche.

 

Oh, how I craved chocolate for a dessert snack. Having my period did not help the intensity. The bar remained untouched on the kitchen table. Would it be bad if I opened the bar? Then it would really look like I got it for myself. I milled around the kitchen, made myself tea, and made the motions of searching around for someone, which normally ellicts an instant, “What do you need?” from the wife. No reaction. “Oh, are you going to open the chocolate?” I asked, not so innocently. “No, if I eat chocolate at night, it keeps me up.” ”Oh.” DAMN! She didn’t even give me a follow-up, “but if you want some, go ahead!” Only pride stood between me and sweet satisfaction. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and I blurted, “Well, do you mind if I open it?” “Sure, do what you want.” I swear I detected some disappointment in her voice, but I couldn’t care anymore. The chocolate was well worth it. I considered bringing a bar home with me, but I know that would bring me down a dark path.. or maybe more milky, almondy, Polish-y.. mmmm….

 

 I spent the next day reading my Israeli graphic novel and studying. I’ve been reading graphic novels because I enjoy the combination of text and illustrations that provide context, and also because less text means more satisfying page turns. If I tried to read a regular novel, it would probably take me at least an hour to read and fully absorb a page. Maybe one day I will graduate to an Etgar Keret short story.

 

I spent Saturday with the daughter and her in-laws. We made food, watched a movie whose name I didn’t even catch, and then went to another in-law party, where I met up with a few people who are actually my age! I went out with them in Tel Aviv back in the early days (i.e. a month ago).

 

The ride back on Saturday night was a pain because I was dropped off at Gedera, where a bus was supposed to take me to Jerusalem. I was dropped off at an outdoor central bus station that reeked of urine, but didn’t see my bus number listed. I asked a group of punky Ethopian kids, and one guy told me I had to take a bus to Rehovot, and then catch a bus to Jerusalem there. Annoyed, I waited until the bus got there and asked the driver to let me know when he gets to the central bus station in Rehovot. Turns out he didn’t stop here, and he let me off at a nearby street and pointed into the distance and told me to walk there. Thankfully, I had been to that station before so I was able to orient myself past a huge park and through some streets to get the mall where the station was located. On my way there, I saw the same bus line (but different bus) drive directly to the area where I needed to go, and I was confused as to why the driver made me get off earlier. I waited for the next bus a while, remembering the last time I was there and a supposed rabbi who in any other place would just be a crazy, dirty guy with a shofar, ran around and blessing security guards, who were nearly crying, and made some young boys blow on his shofar (yes, it was just as awkward to see as it is to read about). No rabbi this time, but the bus soon pulled out into the street, where I saw a religious guy dancing at one end of a busy intersection. Showing off his joyous Jewish life, and inviting us all to join, perhaps? Or maybe he was just as happy as I was that Shabbat was over. I was disappointed to find out that the bus retraced almost all the roads I took on the earlier bus to Rehovot, and I was left very confused and further annoyed, but I got to Jerusalem quickly enough.

 

I was not willing to take a third bus, so I hopped into a cab with three other University students heading to the dorms. I sat in the passenger seat. No one in the car said a word the entire time, and I thought I was going to die about four times, thanks to the driving, but we made it to campus, and the three other students were dropped off at their respective stops. I was left in the car with the cabbie, who proceeded to ask me where I was from, if I have a boyfriend, and within about 15 seconds, he asked me if I would like his number. Yes, please, mister 50+ man! May I have your number?! I’m new to this country, and ever so naive!

 

Today I was playing music in my room at about 11am, when a girl who doesn’t even live very close to my room knocked on my door and asked me to turn down my music so she could study. I get a noise complaint?! Me??? The girls in this area leave their doors open constantly, one blasts and yodels to The Cranberries, another belts out diva power ballads, while others flip through nearly identical Arabic dance songs at all hours, and I get the noise complaint?! Of course, I was nice and considerate, because she isn’t one of the ones blasting music (I’ve never even seen her before actually), but I’m still in shock.

 

Wow, what an exciting post- multiple bus rides, chocolate, dorm complaints. Keep checking back for more updates, if you can stand to wait!

Freezing in Jerusalem November 16, 2008

I’ve been settling into my classes more and more. My intro linguistics teacher is really young and wears black nail polish and shiny Mary Janes. I saw her at a lecture and she was with a friend who also wears black nail polish. Which reminds me- when I was hanging out with my friend last week, he brought up hearing about goth parties in Jerusalem. This possibility was too amusing for me to pass up, so I looked it up and found a Jerusalem Post article about goths in Israel. The article was recent, from April, and it included quotes from party organizers claiming the scene was “alive” and kicking. It also provided two page links for the Tel Aviv and Jerusalem party organizers. The Tel Aviv link is now ”dead,” and the Jerusalem link has the legitimizing list of every goth/EBM/electo/industrial band in existence (not to imagine awesome gargoyle/Old City imagery), but the next party date is unknown. Could it be the bustling scene died since April, or perhaps it goes on hiatus during hot Israeli summers, when the goths succumb to the summer uniform of capris and Crocs? Or maybe all the goths left for India or South America? I’ve seen a few girls on campus who may be goth, but they could have also been very dramatically dressed Russians. I’ve also seen some impressive eyeliner work here, but mostly on the Arab girls.

 

Anyway, on Thursday I went to Birman, a bar/restaurant owned by Dan Birron, on Dorot Rishomin street. The place is owned by Dan Birron, who was the Green Leaf party candidate for Jerusalem mayor. He didn’t win, of course, but I enjoyed seeing his shaggy head on posters around town. I liked the place- cozy, warmy lit, bi-level space with live music, and even the recorded music they played was edgier than the stuff I’ve heard here so far.

 

Photo taken from the upper level of Birman. Only the hands of the piano player moved.

 

Scene from a neighboring bar on the same street.

 

When I stopped by a nearby convenience store, the guy behind the counter looked at my oversized camera and motioned for me to take a photo, and this is it. He seemed really sweet.

 

I spent most of this past weekend reading and studying.  I slept badly the last two nighte because it’s so cold in my room. Last night, I took a shower and felt especially chilly, so I got under the covers with the intention of studying in bed, but I was so cold I couldn’t take my hands out from under the blanket and I had to breathe into my comforter to get some warm air. Before I got under the covers, I turned on a video uploaded by the Library of Congress about a recent lecture about the developments of RDA (Resource Description and Access, will will replace AACR2, which means nothing to you non-library people) and international cataloging standards. I ended up watching about 25 minutes of it because I couldn’t move my hands. I’m not proud.

 
To battle the cold in my sleep, I’ve been cuddling up to myself so much that I’ve been waking up with leg cramps and chest pains, probably from constricted breathing. Today, I went to the housing office to ask them how to turn on my radiator, and they said the heaters won’t be one for another couple of weeks, and that the University decided when to do that. Bastards.

 

This week I have a language study date. I met an Israeli who wants to improve his English, and I need to improve my Hebrew, so we agreed to meet twice this week and help one another get some speaking practice. Ulpan is not giving me much of an opportunity to speak in Hebrew. I’m not all that happy with the Hebrew Uniersity ulpan- it’s helpful, but I’m not sure if it’s worth all that money when there are other good, cheaper ulpans without Rothberg kids in town.

 

Let me leave you with this video of the Russian version of “We are the World,” featuring some of best Russian stars from, gulp, 1998! Sent to me by my cousin in Moscow, without a hint or irony.

Tel Aviv photo dump! November 12, 2008

Here are some photos from my week spent in Tel Aviv with Eli.

 

While sitting at at an all-day breakfast place on Allenby (named Benedict? When will I learn to write down names? It was on the corner of Rothschild), this cat grabbed Eli and mine’s attention, and we took some photos of it. After we finished out meals, the cat came up to me with this desperate and harmless look belied only by those claws, which even my camera couldn’t help but focus on. It jumped on me, kneaded my flesh with those talons, and made itself very comfortable. Eli has the photos of it on my lap, since I was left immobile. I felt bad moving it off me in part because I didn’t know if I could without getting clawed in the face. When I tried to move, the cat let out a growl, but eventually I gave up and tried to stand up with it still on my lap. It hung there, nearly defying gravity before I gave it a final push and it sauntered off, as if saying, “I was done anyway.” When I went to the bathroom, it landed on Eli’s lap.

 

It was a rather windy evening one night, and the surfers took advantage of it.

 

 A typical apartment building on a side street parallel to Sheinkin.

 

 Same sidesteet. What can I say. I enjoy taking photos when the sky is still blue but the street lights are turned on.

 

 I also enjoy taking evening photos where light pours out of entrances.

 

 Ok fine, gratuitous night shots also because we didn’t see many daylight hours. This is the Nachalat Binyamin area in Central Tel Aviv, where you can find a weekly artists’ fair, as well as stores, cafes and restaurants, as with everywhere else in Tel Aviv.

 

 Photo credit to Eli here. A hot dog stand on Lillenblum, open all night for the drinking crowd, although I doubt this guy had a few. We subletted an apartment on Lillenblum which turned out to be perfect location-wise, although imperfect when it came to the constant construction outside the apartment. We could barely get to the door a couple of times, thanks to paint-slathered scaffolding that was set up by the landlord, who laughed at our plight, with what the girl who rented the apartment to us referred to as his “Mediterranean ways.”

 

 The view from inside The Minzar, a bar off Allenby. We found ourselves here a couple of times. Eli fell in love with the steak sandwich, but it wasn’t available the next time we came here due to a changing menu.

 

I threw this in just for fun. Two soldiers on our train ride “upstate.”

Two big reasons to stay here November 9, 2008

That’s it. I give up. No more libraries. No more English teaching jobs. Is it a concidence that my arrival here has coincided with the recenting Israeli opening of this popular American establishment?