Souvenirs

The French verb se souvenir means "to remember."  From this comes the noun souvenir, used in both French and English.  The English use of the word souvenir describes an object, which is essentially a physical representation or manifestation of a memory, and often taken from a faraway, exotic, or unique location.

It is interesting that these souvenirs -- rememberances, if you will -- should always be so concrete.  But what about when we have no tangible object to represent an experience?  To this the 21st century masses shout "Take a picture!" or "Video!  Audio!" but even these are not always options.

It is in these moments where no palpable souvenir can be found that we must return to the true meaning of the word and simply remember.

I spent last Shabbat with some acquaintances of my Mom in Rehovot.  The family is Dati, referring to a the general population of religious (Orthodox) Jews in Israel.  However, as I found and as was explained to me, the labels are less significant here, as the people themselves are more chromatic, representing a more inclusive spectrum than I have personally observed in the United States.  But I digress.

I was delighted to find the siddurim (prayer books) at the synagogue with which I am most familiar.  Same publisher, same translation, everything.  Other than the new melodies and the d'var torah (sermon) which was completely in Hebrew, I was entirely comfortable and "at home."

While listening to the d'var torah, it became increasingly axiomatic that the person speaking was not Israeli.  The accent had none of the guttural depth of a native Israeli, and I turned to my hostess to ask where he was from.  "The United States," she replied matter-of-fact.  "Most of the people here are Americans or others who have spent a lot of time abroad."  She explained that generally-speaking, synagogues in Israel are less of a community than elsewhere around the world.  You go, you pray, you leave.  Why form a community with the people in your synagogue when all the people around you are part of the Jewish community?  But Americans, well, some of us like that once-a-week community, like being part of something special to make a true distinction between Shabbat and the rest of the week.  So this synagogue grew with that in mind, built and cultivated by a predominately Ashkenazi (Eastern European) English-speaking congregation.

As with most Jewish services I've attended, song played a primary role throughout it all.  My Jewish friends and family will understand what I'm talking about, but I'm not entirely sure if everyone else will.  You see, in Judaism we do not sing from Psalters or other notation.  We are not told when we will sing what.  With a few exceptions, what we are singing are not songs but melodies put to the requisite text.  Everyone in a given community knows the melodies, knows the variations, may even know alternate melodies.  And though many are found throughout the world, many more are unique to each community and region.  And of course, each community's interpretation of the melody is as individual as the people themselves.

It's always comfortable to go to a new synagogue and hear the same melodies with which you're already familiar, but it's even more exciting and impressive to go somewhere and be introduced to something entirely different.  It's as if each new melody brings new meaning to the words we are proclaiming, creating a sense of ruach and kedushah that otherwise gets lost amid the monotony and regularity of the service.

It is impossible to describe exactly how I felt upon singing with this congregation, but it is a feeling not entirely foreign to me.  The opening notes are like Pavlov's bell to my musical mouth.  I feel a sense of awe coupled with excitement as I try to train my ears and voice to the rise and fall of this new current.  As I am swept along the melody with the rest of the community, I begin to listen for the splashes of harmony and counter-melody - the old man's inspired cry here, the woman's dolce soprano voice floating gently above the others there - and I try to mimic them or add my own to the growing stream.  Soon, I am singing confidently with them, enjoying the music we are creating but knowing full-well I may not be able to recreate this precise moment.

I wish I could have a camera inside the synagogue to show you the joy, the sincerity, the pomp, the variety.  I wish I could record the sounds and spirit of these moments, but alas, I am forbidden.  Yet while I might momentarily bemoan the circumstance, I remember just as quickly that I must enjoy it that much more.  In order to create my souvenir, I must live in the moment as fully, as completely as possible, to ensure the memory remains not only in my mind, but in my eyes, my ears, my body, my soul.

There was another such moment, albeit more subtle, before dinner on Friday night.  It is customary among religious Jews for parents to bless their children before the Shabbat meal.  There is a particular blessing one says, though I imagine most parents add their own words, private prayers and supplications.  So Friday night, I again witnessed this prayer for the children.  The children that evening were not so young - ages 19 to 23 - and yet this custom was carried out as it had for their entire lives.  I watched as my host's 19-year-old son stood in front of his father.  Tenderly, his father placed his hands on either side of the boy's head, touched forehead to forehead with eyes closed and uttered words that only they and G-d could hear.  After the prayer had been said, the father kissed his son's head.  I watched their profiles in this ritual and again thought how beautiful it would be to photograph.  But I caught myself mid-thought and instead focused intently on what I saw to impress the image on my mind.  And I'll tell you:  This image is better than anything my camera could have taken, because the image I keep to myself contains not just color, hue, line, and texture, but memory, emotion, spirit, and the essence of love and life.  It is the greatest souvenir I could have taken.

Chocolate Cows

Even in Israel, in a Jewish country, Valentine's Day found me.  Two weeks later.  And in the form of a package from home.

I won't deny that I squealed like a little kid at summer camp.

Thank you, Mommy and Daddy.  I love you!

Jamaicans with Attitude

Before coming here, I was warned that I’d need to develop a thick skin to deal with the rude Israelis.  No sense of customer service, no concept of lines or order of priority, and absolutely no patience.  Think I’m exaggerating?  Just watch how they drive.

But I’ve also been told that being in Israel is like being part of a brotherhood, a club with secret passwords and handshakes.  I began to imagine something like the mafia: selective, secretive, harsh and unforgiving on the outside, but incredibly generous and obliging within.  And I thought further: “Will I ever get in?”

As it turns out, the handshakes aren’t so secret and the password is forgiven the moment they hear an awkward attempt at rudimentary Hebrew.  But shh!  I didn’t tell you that.

And though they are indeed rude, Israelis can also be incredibly kind individuals, sometimes in the most peculiar ways.  Ways that make an American stop and question if you’re really allowed to act like that.  And by “act like that,” I mean “act as if you’re already acquaintances, friends, mishpachah (family).”  And mean it.

The thoroughly non-Israeli sweatshirt.
Because it's colder than I thought.

This evening I went with three friends to nearby Rehovot where I bought a pair of cheap, gaudy earrings, a thoroughly non-Israeli sweatshirt, and falafel for dinner.  One friend got her nose pierced and another tried falafel for the first time - an all-in-all good evening.  Yet the greatest part of the entire evening was, to me, the wonderful Israelis we met along the way.

earBling!

It started with our taxi driver, Gil, who charged us 10 shekel less than anyone else just because we're on the Ulpan.  His English was very good and before dropping us off at the mall, he pointed out a number of places to eat and check out in Rehovot.  He also came to pick us up at the end of the evening and told us before leaving the car that if we ever need anything - help, advice, whatever - that we should call him directly.  Mitzuyan.

After the mall we went in search of a tattoo/body piercing parlor and a complete stranger showed us the way.  At the parlor - a small place found by going through a cafe then up a flight of outdoor stairs to the loft above - the man with the long hair and baggy jeans gave us all the safety, health, and aesthetic information one would need to get a nose piercing.  He also asked if we were from the Ulpan so he could charge us the discount fee and asked about how the other guys were doing, the ones who'd had their noses, eyebrows, and ears pierced a few days earlier.  After it was done and he'd given our friend a sugar cube to suck on and some water to wash it down to take the edge off the shock, he gave her his number and said "If you need anything or have any questions about it, call me any time.  Even Saturday."

And at the falafel place, the young guys behind the counter were nice and [relatively] patient with our awkward attempts at Hebrew (remember the password?), then they offered us free chips (French fries) and salad because the manager wasn't there.  When I put on my new, incredibly non-Israeli sweatshirt, one of them noticed the tag on the hood and offered to take it off for me.  In no time at all he went from being the man who served me my pita to the kind friend helping out an anonymous buddy and member of the not-so-secret society.  

Oh, and I nearly forgot about the man in the bakery who gave us each a free piece of seasoned pita.  Publicity stunt?  Maybe.  But I'm betting it was less contrived and more sincere than many of the similar stunts you might see in the U.S.  

Remember when I said that beseder is kind of like the Israeli national motto?  Their version of Hakunah Matatah, if you will.  Well, it turns out it's not just a saying but a way of life, which has led me to the following conclusion:  Israelis are like Jamaicans with attitude.  Cool, compassionate, care-free, but with a temper hotter than a summer in the Negev.  

I think that has been the hardest thing to deal with, thus far.  Yes, the home-sickness, time difference, and language barriers have been difficult, but the most personally challenging thing is dealing with the fact that here, I don't need to care quite as much about the little things.  That would only make me stick out like the tourist I am.  This should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I am anal-retentive, moderately O.C.D. (though perhaps not clinically), neurotic, and picky.  This is in total opposition to our program director who worries about things as they come, taking one day at a time, never worrying about that which need not be considered in the moment, and not giving in to our incessant pleas for more, more, more information, please!  "Why do you need to know now?" he coyly responds in his beseder demeanor.  I'll admit, it unnerves us all to no end.  But I'm learning to cope.

My friend, The Crazy Baby Mama (the woman from L.A. who made aliyah not long ago) has talked about Israel's general badassery, and how that badassery is instilled in every child from birth, creating an entire society of badasses.  Why, you might ask, would that be necessary?  As far as I can tell, it's a survival tactic.  Imagine living in a country where your very existence is the cause of great strife and even a war or two (or five) among your neighbors.  Imagine living in such close proximity to hot-headed people with incredible hatred and incredible power.  And if every day was, in essence, a blessing of the highest degree, would you care so much about the trivial details that fill mundane lives?  No, I suspect not.  So despite occasionally yelling at each other, it seems Israelis have more room to enjoy life and the people in it without constantly worrying about silly things like political correctness or personal space and privacy.

Along with learning how to speak and how to live in very close proximity with 24 other students who all speak different languages, I'm learning how to be a kibbutznik, learning how to let things slide a little, to not care so much, to not get upset or bothered at the things that really just don't matter.

Hakol beseder.

It's all good.

Home away from home

No matter where you are in the world, a Jewish mother is a Jewish mother to everyone regardless of familial affiliation.  For those who are unfamiliar with Jewish mothers, here are some basic rules and guidelines:

1.  Never say no to an offer for a meal.
2.  Never say no to an offer for more food at said meal.
3.  Never say no when offered a ride home at night because "It's dark out and I'll  never forgive myself if something were to happen!"

Last night I went to Friday night Shabbat services where I sat next to the same woman from last week (whose name I've only heard once and have since entirely forgotten).  Middle-aged and very kind, she asked me about my week, told me about her husband who works in China and had just returned home for the week, mentioned her job as a lawyer, and invited me for dinner, all before services began.  After services she introduced me to her husband and we walked to their house on the kibbutz.  I talked with the husband for a bit and he told me about his job in pharmaceuticals and how he recently started working in China - four weeks there, two weeks here.  He seems to like it, though.

At their house we found their daughter and son-in-law with their own adorable six-month-old baby who was apparently fascinated by me.  "Ani chadashah!  Mah?  Mah?" I said to him while he continued to stare at me with the most intense and inquisitive gaze I've ever seen on an infant.  We waited patiently for the other guests to arrive while Mrs. Kind Israeli Woman finished the salads.  Her daughter told me that as a student of the current Ulpan, I should consider myself adopted.  Apparently with every Ulpan (and there are two per year), this woman brings home at least one or two students and "adopts" them into her family, offering them a meal any Shabbat they don't have other plans.  One of the other guests coming that night was adopted from last year's Ulpan at this time and had since made aliyah (moved to Israel and become a citizen), and the daughter told me about one of the first adopted girls who, fifteen years later, has a husband and child and still keeps in touch with this family.

By the time we sat down for dinner there were nine of us, including another couple (another daughter and son-in-law?) and their son (not the adopted one).  Dinner itself was a spectacular feast of various salads, two rice dishes, stuffed peppers, beef, chicken, and probably a few other things that I didn't see across the table.  We sang Shalom Alechem, made kiddush and hamotzi, then dug in.  It was glorious!  I didn't realize until that moment how much I was missing a good home-cooked meal.

I was thankful to have the ex-Ulpan guy there since he grew up in Australia and thus had no trouble speaking English with me.  Meanwhile, everyone else spoke Hebrew and despite the whole five days of classes I've had so far, I could barely understand a word.  That's alright.  It was enough for me to be in their presence.  On Shabbat.  In Israel.

After dinner I helped clear the table with everyone else, then we sat down for a dessert of fruit salad, nuts, cookies, and rugelach.  Per Israeli custom on Shabbat, the TV was turned on.  I watched a couple news segments in between talking to Mr. Australia-turned-Israel, who told me some fascinating things about Israeli politics, social structure, and customs.  And he told me about the amazing phenomenon whereby Christmas and Easter go completely unnoticed.  He's making a convincing case for making aliyah. ( But don't worry - my degree would be worthless here, so I'm not really considering it).

My attention back on the TV, I noticed how wonderfully strange it was to hear news casters signing off with a Shabbat Shalom on national television.  Once the news was over, the channel was changed to the Israeli version of Saturday Night Live.  I thought "Oh goodness, everyone will be laughing but I won't have a clue as to what's going on."  Wrong!  Sure, maybe I couldn't understand the words, but the make-up, music, backgrounds, characters, and mannerisms were hilarious in and of themselves.  If Israelis know how to do anything, it's make fun of themselves, and they did a fantastic job.  There is also no such thing as being "Politically Correct," which means they have no problem making fun of their Arab neighbors as well.  I can't wait until I can understand it!

Even though I was less than a ten-minute walk from the Ulpan and the worst that could happen to me is to be jumped on by a large dog (which happened the other night with a dog twice my size), I couldn't back out of being given a ride back.  I also have an open invitation for any future Shabbat dinner, so I'm sure I won't be a stranger in their home.

I'm told that of all possible landings in Israel, landing on a kibbutz - and this kibbutz in particular - is one of the softest.  I'm thankful for that.  I'm thankful for the community, the strangers who quickly become relatives, the watchful eyes and helpful hands, and the knowledge that whenever I really miss home there are many in close proximity that are willing to take in an extra daughter.

Spiky tree and honey B

First, I'm having trouble uploading photos to flickr because they exceed the file size, so please check out my facebook album to see what I saw yesterday.  And Dad, I'd really like your opinion on some of the photos.

The past few days have been both eventful and uneventful, insomuch as they've been packed with stuff to do but little to actually write about.  For the sake of open discourse, I'm happy to say that although my work in the garden is dirty and challenging, it's incredibly fulfilling.  Not only can I see the effect I am having on whichever space I work in, but I feel good at the end of the day (or rather, middle of the day, since I start at 6:00 am) knowing I have worked my body and muscles.  By the end of my time working in the garden, I suspect I will have arms of steel.  Tanned, of course.  Yes, be jealous O Frozen Ones of the Nort': I already have a tan line.

I've only had a week of classes and already I am learning bunches o' stuff.  In five days of class we have learned thirteen verbs, conjugated in all forms within the present tense.  We have learned numbers, letters, and days, a slew of miscellaneous nouns, adjectives, and prepositions, as well as a variety of phrases and questions.  I will undoubtedly have to devote a little more time to studying since I'm having trouble keeping it all in my head.

Yet perhaps the most interesting and unexpected thing I have discovered in the last week (other than the spiky tree) is how differently people learn, hear, and speak a language depending on their country of origin.  Hebrew is a very guttural language with little definition of consonants at the anterior of the mouth.  The /r/ sound is rolled in the back of the throat, where one also finds the /ch/ (found in "Chanukah").  But even the vowels and other consonants are kept well within the recesses of the mouth, which somehow ads to the Israeli "Go with the flow, b'seder" philosophy.  Why expel greater energy to move your lips when you can get your point across anyway?

You'd think this would be a very easy accent to master, but no, not so.  There are some who try hard to learn the how as well as the what of the language, but then there are others.  There are the unquestionable American students, somewhat presumptuous and only a little ethnocentric, at times unwilling to adapt to this culture's practices.  You can hear it in the Hebrew with an American accent, hard /r/s at the front of the mouth, the over-exaggerated vowels, the unnecessarily crisp consonants - the biting /t/, whistling /s/, /l/ touching the teeth.  These are all things I expected to hear, but aside from the challenges posed by /ch/ and the rolled uvular /r/ I expected the rest to be easy to emulate.

Apparently, however, other languages with other accents have their own problems.  I was utterly astonished when, on the first day, I discovered that many Spanish-speaking students had a lot of trouble saying the /v/ sound found in Hebrew (despite the fact that Spanish uses the sound - or so I thought).  And in French, the /r/ is guttural, so it is very often confused for the Hebrew /ch/.  But of course, if you are francophone and you know there is an /r/ in a word, you'll pronounce it like your own /r/.  Which means that a word like chadar ochel can end up sounding like chadachochel.

Each language's phonetic transliteration of Hebrew is also different.  The German girl to one side writes "w" for /v/ sounds, while the francophone to my left uses "ch" for /sh/ sounds, thereby making it impossible for the teacher to use phonetic transliteration while the class is still learning the aleph bet.

It astounds me how what you speak can influence what you hear.  Sure, each person may have the same sound waves entering their ears, but how they interpret the sounds may differ greatly depending on what associations they have.  And of course, learning something new always starts with associations to what is familiar.

Having taken a class in French phonetics, I enjoy listening to linguistic sounds, determining exactly where in the mouth it is formed and with what means.  Doesn't mean I can repeat it in my own mouth, but knowing is at least a step in the right direction.  Which reminds me:

Personal Ulpan Goal #64: Learn how to speak with a uvular rolled /r/

(Don't ask me what the other 63 are.  I wouldn't know.)

Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's door

You will never believe what happened last night.

I am now the new (or at least temporary) pianist/female vocalist for an amateur Israeli rock band playing covers of American 70s-80s rock songs.

At around 9:00 last night I went in search of a piano.  I had seen an old baby grand in a building adjacent to the chadar ohel, likely never tuned, so I went there first.  The door was locked but there were two guys inside cleaning, and I would have asked to come in if they hadn't started blasting their own rock music.  So I decided against bothering them and turned in the direction of another building that I was told houses a piano.  Upon approaching it, my spidey-senses started tingling and were confirmed when I heard music coming from within.  Lights were on, a door was open, and in I went.  To my left was a room with men dressed for a martial arts class and a few of them had stepped into the hallway for water.  "Is there a piano here?" I asked, and they pointed me in the direction of a hallway with at least one practice room complete with an upright piano!  Ta da!  Not a grand, and not all that great, but a piano nonetheless!

I played for about a half hour before leaving the room, at which point I bumped into a trio of guys from another room.  Little did I know that my piano snobbery would land me jamming with a band!  I asked them if there was another piano in that room to which they responded "You play piano?"  They didn't care that I was only classically trained - they needed a pianist.  And they didn't care that I was incredibly hesitant about my singing - they needed a singer.  So I joined them in a larger room complete with piano, drum set, some amps, microphones, and what may have been recording equipment.

They had  a comparatively small collection of music, including some of the darker Leonard Cohen songs, some Pink Floyd, REM, and the Doors.  They only had a couple Hebrew songs, but for nearly every piece they had the chord chart for me to read.  I've never had much practice with improv so I mostly stuck with the chords, though I'll try to branch out in future sessions.  They also wanted me to sing which I finally did with the lead guitar/singer away from the piano.  And guess what - THEY LIKED IT!  I've been invited back for next week's rehearsal with the stipulation that I listen to the music I was otherwise unfamiliar with.

As I said, this is an amateur rock band.  Drums, bass, guitar/vocals, and none of it terribly refined.  But mostly they have fun.  I really enjoyed playing with all three guys - all very nice, all have good English, so it's easy to communicate with them.  Only one of them is a kibbutznik, a guy who's dad works in the garden with me.  The other two - the guitarist and drummer - are from outside the kibbutz.  I'm guessing they're in their late 20s/early 30s, though really I don't know for certain.  I'm not entirely sure what happened to their last pianist, if the guy left or was kicked out, and I have no idea if they'll want me to stay with them the whole time I'm here, but it's pretty fun in the meantime!

For those of you who know me, you'll know this is not at all my usual scene.  Seems that Israel is proving to be a wonderful experience for a bunch of unforeseen reasons.  And I've only been here a week :)

Ani ovedet b'noiy, b'ulpan kibbutz Na'an!

Ani Nashira, v'ani lomedet ivrit b'ulpan kibbutz Na'an.  Ani lo olah-chadasha aval ani teyeret me'artzot-habrit.  Gam, ani talmidah v'ani gar b'kibbutz.  Ani ohevet ha'ulpan po!

Translated:  I am Nashira, and I am learning Hebrew at the Ulpan on Kibbutz Na'an.  I am not a new immigrant, but I am a tourist from the United States.  Also, I am a student and I live on the kibbutz.  I love the Ulpan here!

___________________________________

And so begins my introduction to conversational Hebrew.  We have finished our second class, have learned the answers to basic questions we will likely be asked by Israelis (What are you doing in Israel?  Where are you from?  Where do you live?  Etc.), have learned a few extra words here and there as well as the singular pronouns, and we've started working on the alef-bet (alphabet).  We have class every day so I have to make sure to study a little every day in order to ensure I retain the newest information as completely as possible.  Thus far I think I'm doing well except I occasionally forget the smaller words or prefixes for things like "from," "at/in," "who" vs. "what," and a few others.  

We started learning with transliterations in whichever phonetic system worked best for each individual depending on their country of origin and we're just starting to learn the alef-bet.  It seems odd to me but instead of learning it from beginning to end in a song or other such device, we're learning it in sections.  I'm not quite sure how the letters are grouped, but I think it has something to do with the shape of the letters as written in the standard handwritten form.  Another oddity is that what I've always called cursive is apparently print and vice versa, but what it's called doesn't really matter as long as I know what I'm looking at.  

I've already learned the alef-bet and know how to read and write (albeit slowly at times), so thankfully my teacher gave me a different worksheet to complete while everyone else was finding all the letters of a particular sort in a large grid of letters.  My task was to read two passages of a few sentences each in Hebrew (without the help of vowels for most words!) then respond to questions based on information given in the aforementioned sentences.  And guess what - I did it!  Only had one spelling error and a grammatical error.  WOO HOO!

Of course, learning isn't all that we do.  As you know, I'm here to work as well, and work I shall!  I have been given the task of working in the garden (which is more or less what the Title says), and I must say I'm quite happy with this assignment.  I get to work outside, move around, lift things, make things prettier, and do this all alongside two kind classmates and our boss, a very conversational man who encourages us to learn not only about gardening, but about the kibbutz, Israel, and Hebrew.  And, after only a few hours working in the sun I have a definite tan line on my shoulders and neck.  The only significant downside to this is that work starts at 6:00.  In the morning.  Yeah, it's still dark then.  And because I'd like to eat a little breakfast before I leave at 5:45 with the other girls I wake up at 5:00 a.m.  It's not that I don't like being up that early because really, I love being awake early in the morning.  I just don't like the act of getting up, and I don't trust myself to do it consistently.    

We were scheduled to work until 1:00 p.m. and though we were let out a little earlier today, we still had a break for "breakfast" around 9:00.  Now, breakfast for Israelis is not like breakfast in the United States.  As far as I can tell, things like pancakes, waffles, and even bowls of cereal are a little out of the ordinary.  Vegetables, on the other hand, are highly qualified for a fantastic breakfast.  So we sat down at a table in the gardening office/lounge/kitchen and spread in front of us was an array of cottage cheese, chocolate spread (think Nutella minus the hazelnut; they love this stuff), butter, bread, and fresh uncut tomatoes, onions, cucumber, and avocado.  So I took some vegetables and cut them myself, following the example of the other gardeners, mixed it with some salt, pepper, and the greatest olive oil I have ever tasted, and voila!  Israeli salad for breakfast!

Other than work and class today, I also went for a 30 minute jog.  Well, sort of.  It was a mostly jog/part walk, and I managed to get lost in the process.  This kibbutz keeps getting bigger every day!  I really don't like jogging but it would definitely be worth getting into since I won't have a steady exercise regime otherwise.  Let's just hope I get better with practice.

Pardon the extremely non-chronological nature of this post.  I hope I didn't confuse anyone too much.  Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day (which has, thankfully, gone completely unnoticed here).  

Shabbos - Kibbutz style

I'm writing this Saturday evening after having spent a relaxing shabbos sleeping and walking around the kibbutz - with my camera this time.  I met a lovely kibbutznik who made aliyah not long ago and is originally from L.A., and she showed me and Esther around a bit.  I'm sure she'll read this, so I'll make sure not to say anything bad about her.  Haha, don't worry, I don't have any bad words to say about her!

Going from L.A. to Kibbutz Naan is a significant change for her.  Things here are at a much slower pace, much more intimate, and also a little more invasive.  But she did talk about all the wonderful aspects of the kibbutz and even put its privatization in a very positive light.  Up until now, I've regarded that shift as a negative thing in the history of the kibbutz movement, but she said that without it there is no room for entrepreneurship or, to an extent, significant personal fulfillment.  She finds that the option to work outside the kibbutz and live for oneself is appreciated, not only by her but by many in the kibbutz.

She had some wonderful stories to tell as well, and I learned things about the kibbutz (both good and not-so-good) that make it seem even more alive.  For instance, as we walked through her neighborhood, she commented that the architecture of the buildings is indicative of the many layers of Israeli and kibbutz history.  Case in point:  Many of the older homes have newer kitchens that have been added at the back because 30-40 years ago everyone ate together in the cheder ohel (dining room), so there was no need for private kitchens.  In addition, many only had one bedroom because all the children on the kibbutz would live together and raised as such.  It is not to say that the kibbutzim are deteriorating.  Far from it; they are thriving and changing with their people, adapting to new necessities as they arise.

She also told us about many of the Francophone kibbutzniks that will undoubtedly find Esther and even said she'll try to get me in touch with the music director here.  YAY!

But enough about today.  Undoubtedly it is last night that will interest you the most.  

I went to evening services and heard a speed of Hebrew that rivals a Chasid's conversational English, put within complex rhythmic and metrical patterns for melodies I've never heard.  I could barely move my eyes quickly enough to follow along, much less move my lips, but it was a lovely experience.  There weren't many there - we just barely had a minyan of men plus six women and a couple children, and in many ways it reminded me of the small congregations I know and love.  Inside jokes, respected elders -- a small but loyal family.  I might be reading too much into it, but hey, nobody's stopping me.

Afterward we had dinner with some of the gang from the Ulpan, then I went to sleep at 8:00.  Why would I sleep at 8:00, you ask?  Because I had to prepare myself for the mother of all parties.  

Kibbutz Naan is home to one of the largest and most popular clubs in all of Israel.  It has two dance areas, one with hip hop and an awesome light/strobe system, the other with rock music of Israeli, American, and some Latin descent.  Both areas have bars, and there are guards and security personnel to be found in each area.  At the peak of any Friday night there may be upwards of 700 to 800 people there, dancing, smoking, and some passing out.  I have also learned that Israelis give a new meaning to the phrase "Jewish Standard Time" (the phrase that explains why Jews are usually late by 30 minutes or more to any event).  Our Ulpan director told us that if we got there at 11:00, nobody would be there.  So we planned to leave our rooms around midnight.  When we arrived it was already busy, but by 2:00 a.m. I found myself dancing on the edges of the thickest, most dense crowd I've ever been in, with the possible exception of the lines to the women's bathroom at Summerfest concert.

I finally left with a few of my friends around 3:30 a.m., exhausted and sweaty but content.  Those of you reading this who are above the age of 35 will be happy to know I consumed very little alcohol and it was easily matched, if not outweighed, by the water I drank.  This is certainly not something I'll do every week, but it was definitely an experience worth having.  

Still discovering

I have limited time in which to reveal to you all the myriad things I've experienced in the last day and a half, so here goes:

Yesterday was cold.  No, really, it was.  Windy, almost-rainy (though it finally poured overnight), overcast, etc.  Yeah, definitely cold.  I know, you still don't believe me.

Yesterday evening I went to Rehovot again with a big group and while they all went to Kanyon Mall I went to Bank HaPoalim, which I believe is one of the largest branches in Israel.  And let me tell you, on a Thursday evening on the day everyone's salary is paid it is BUSY.  My bank trip ended up being nearly 45 minutes long, after which I ran the six or seven blocks in drizzling rain back to the mall to meet everyone.  Then I bought the most sugary tea I've ever had from a group of young girls who were trying to raise money.  I gave them 4 shekel because their English was so good and they were really adorable.

Before I went to the bank I found a guard at the mall who, incidentally, spoke French and gave me directions.  Mom, I wanted to call you right then and there to tell you how neat it was to be speaking French with an Israeli guard, but I had to run and knowing I'd report it here I decided against it.  I hope you don't mind.  But I'm very glad I chose French back in 7th grade even though you thought Spanish would be more useful.

Speaking of Spanish, we now have four people from Argentina, I think 11 from Uruguay, and one from Costa Rica.  Plus there's a Portuguese-speaking girl from Brazil who just made aliyah, lives outside the kibbutz and will be joining us for classes.  The final count also includes two Canadians, two Germans, one Swiss, one Belgian, and four Americans.  Majority language: Spanish.  Other languages: German, English, French, Portuguese, plus a little Russian from one girl and Dutch from Esther, though I've not heard her speak it.

Last night I went with everyone to the Kibbutz pub and paid far too much for a wine cooler, played a game of pool and chatted.  I met a kibbutznik named Roni who works at the factory and speaks little Hebrew, but he's nice.  He even noticed me today in the dining hall and said hi.  I'm meeting people!

Today the teachers came to place us into one of two levels of Hebrew classes, and I'm in the beginner level, which I expected.  I'll have my first class on Sunday and find out what job I'll have then, too.  I'm hoping to work in the garden.  I hear it's the dirtiest and possibly hardest work, but I'd love to work outside regardless. In fact, I'd like some hard manual labor.

This afternoon was free again, as has been the norm the past week.  So while my roommate took a nap I walked around the kibbutz for about an hour with the very nice dog in the pictures.  I finally found out her name is Laplan (or is it Laplam?) and she came with me nearly the entire way, which was fun.  The sun was out, too, and the wind died down a bit so it was really quite a pleasant walk.  Unfortunately, I didn't have my camera with me but if it's still nice tomorrow I'll go around again and take pictures of some of the other places I discovered.  This really is quite a large kibbutz and has a lot to offer.

I stopped at the kibbutz boutique/cafe as well and found some adorable clothes I would love to buy, so I might also return there later.  If I understand it correctly, there are to adjacent shops: one is a regular boutique and the other is a second-hand store.  Which can only mean one thing:  THRIFTING!  Friends of mine would be so proud (you know who you are).

There is a synagogue here and Mincha/Maariv services start in half an hour so I have to get ready.  Until next time, be well and Shabbat Shalom!

"Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning..."

I'm not sure what a Chelsea morning is, but maybe this is it.  Crisp, cool, but with the promise of a clear day.  Birds singing, some squawking, and the far-off sound of human activity first embarking on the world.

And a lovely talk with my parents, the first significant conversation since my arrival. :)

I woke up at 6:00 am Israel time to speak to my parents at 10:00 pm Wisconsin time - dedication!  And definitely worth it.  Even though I've got plenty of time this afternoon to sit on the computer if I so choose, it was nice to get out of bed and start the day before everyone else.  Hey, just because I'm still in my pajamas doesn't mean the day hasn't started!

Last night we had a nearly two-hour meeting to go over all the various details of the program for which I took notes in French and repeated in thirty minutes to Esther.  I shall now add "Translator/Traductrice" to my resume.

I was also awoken a little past midnight to the loud music and party-like atmosphere that seems to accompany the Argentinians.  Sorry guys, but I had to tell you to shut up.  It was just too much, and the second night in a row, no less.

But today is a new day, fresh, beautiful.  Despite the blue skies and palm trees in my photos, you should know that it is still a little chilly.  Here I am in a thick sweatshirt and demi-gloves and I'm cold.  In the middle of the day it'll start to feel like a Wisconsin spring but it cools off greatly at night.  Basically what I'm saying is you can still be jealous, but not quite as jealous as you thought you had to be :P

I'm sorry, that was mean of me.

But you can't blame me for gloating!

Anyway, in other non-weather-related news, the teachers will be here on Friday to determine exactly which of the two levels of Hebrew each person should be in.  As for myself, I'm assuming I'll be in the beginning level because even though I know the Aleph-Bet (Hebrew alphabet) and how to write it, I know nothing about the grammar.  I suspect that after two weeks in the beginners class I'll be right at the same place as everyone else, and I fear that if I were to start in the advanced class I'd have a few gaps in my education.  I'm told, however, that I should trust these teachers, that they're quite skilled in what they do and know precisely how to work with a multi-lingual group.  From what I gather, the classes will be taught immersion style: entirely in Hebrew.  Wish me luck.

As for the jobs, we will get our assignments once they know which level of classes we'll be in, because the schedules for the two groups will be opposite one another.  We will have lessons five or six days a week (depending on the work schedule and other factors) and work about three days a week. On the days without work we'll have the entire afternoon free to do homework, study, get ready for the next day's class, and (if there's time) relax a bit.  Not sure how much time I'll have for blogging once the program really gets going on Sunday, but similarly there won't be much to report once our schedule is set.  But don't worry, I won't skimp on the details of whatever job I'm given because I'm sure my parents and many other people are waiting impatiently to see if I'll be doing the kind of manual labor that a city girl (really?  Manitowoc?) has never done.  I think they underestimate me.  They, apparently, just want to see me shoveling animal poop.

Other than that, not much has been happening.  Still waiting for a group of 11 people from Uruguay to arrive. Once everyone's here I'll give you the final count complete with nationalities.  Are you surprised to know there are only five Americans total out of nearly thirty?  Apparently we're not the greatest thing on Earth.  Who knew?

All ethnocentrism aside, things are just lovely here.  And I'm so glad to know that my friends and family are reading this, too.  I miss you and love you all!

Languages, languages

On this, my first full day on the Kibbutz, I spent nearly the entire day speaking French.  I've become friends and roommates with Esther, the girl who I said was from France but is actually from Belgium.  My brain hurts after nearly 10 hours of continuous French.  I also find myself switching back and forth from English with the other girls to French with Esther, which is more challenging than I expected.  Soon I'll add Hebrew to the mix and I have no idea what will come out of my mouth then.  I might also find myself returning to the States with either a French or Hebrew accent, so beware.

I'm updating pictures from the day to my Flickr page (username: shiramind) so hopefully you'll be able to see the link.  If not I can try to find a way to post them here though I'm not sure I have that option.  We'll see.  Anyway, Esther and I spent plenty of time wondering the kibbutz which has both beautiful houses and small trailers, paved roads with brick sidewalks and dirt paths, and lots of trees.

We got some groceries at the convenience market on the kibbutz so I actually have something for breakfast tomorrow, then in the evening we joined two other girls for a cab ride to Rehovot where we hung out at the mall.  I bought the shampoo I needed but wasn't there before the bank closed so I couldn't exchange my money.  I'll have to spend the money to go again during the day so I can get to a bank.  Oh, and the exchange kiosk didn't like my Traveler's Cheques.

One new girl, Tami, came while we were out and was put in the room with Esther, but because she only speaks French, Tami and I switched rooms so I could room with Esther.  That means all French, all the time.  Who would've thought that I'd go to Israel to learn Hebrew and end up perfecting my French?

I'm home!

Greetings from Israel!  Or should I say, Shalom!

Now that I'm fully awake and feeling a little more refreshed, let me tell you about my travels which were, with the exception of the taxi ride, blissfully uneventful (keep reading for the taxi story).

The flight from Toronto to Tel Aviv was 11 hours, plus however long it took us to leave the airport (deicing was involved) and get to our gate at Ben Gurion Airport.  Needless to say, it was long.  Then the Passport Check was excruciatingly long for no apparent reason.  Long and hot.  I think my backpack gained ten pounds in that line.

Got my luggage with no problem (and it hadn't been destroyed), was able to get a cart for free, and made my way to the taxis.  Now here's where it gets interesting:

I managed to get the taxi with the one driver who spoke no English AND didn't know where the kibbutz was.  It seemed as if he hadn't ever heard of it.  I tried to tell him it was near Rehovot so he put that into his GPS and away we went.  In between saying my mantra "Trust the driver, trust the driver" while going around sharp turns near other cars, I thought "Well, if he drops me at Rehovot I guess I'll just have to find another taxi.  Or call my mom's friends who live there.  One way or another I'll get there, no need to worry.  Beseder."

Once we got near Rehovot there was a sign for Na'an (where my Kibbutz is) which he pointed out then put in his GPS.  Still, he ended up asking four or five other drivers if they knew how to get to the kibbutz and FINALLY we made it.  Thankfully, he only charged me the fair to Rehovot which was about $34.  Not too bad.

I was only the second Ulpan student to arrive, though as of last night there were seven here total, including myself.  One girl is from Germany (though originally from Russia), and she speaks rather fluent English.  She recognizes a need to work on it more so she's glad I'm here to practice with, but she's quite comprehensible.  There's a group of four from Argentina who speak Spanish almost exclusively.  One of the boys among them speaks enough English to converse and he's acting as a sort of translator for the rest of them.  Later yesterday evening another girl came from Zurich, Switzerland, whose English is also pretty good.  She even speaks a little French and some conversational Hebrew already.

This morning a French girl came and I'm told she doesn't speak any English, so hopefully I can meet up with her soon and introduce myself.  I'll get to practice French and she'll get a translator - a win-win in my book.

(Oh, that reminds me.  I met a lovely French Canadian woman in the Toronto airport and we had a pleasant conversation entirely in French.  I'm kind of glad we didn't sit near one another on the plane, though, because my brain would not have lasted 11 hours in a foreign language.)

As for the kibbutz itself, there's little to report.  From what I can tell it's a pretty big space with the Ulpan situated at the furthest point from where I came in.  I've only seen a couple kibbutz workers other than our Ulpan director.  Overall, things are pretty quiet where we are.  And I'll admit, it's not quite the idyllic Garden I had created in my mind; it reminds me rather of Camp Interlaken - muddy but fresh, the buildings old and filled with a miscellany of furniture and other items, none of them matching but creating the type of atmosphere that gives true meaning to the Hebrew phrase "Beseder" ("it's okay/alright").  For those who don't know, beseder perfectly characterizes the Israeli persona.

I don't get the Internet connection in my room and I forgot to bring my camera with me to the moadon (lounge, though I don't know if that's a direct translation) so I'll upload the pictures of my room later when I tell you more about the kibbutz itself.  In the meantime, just imagine something tiny.

SURVIVOR: Sky Edition

Okay, so it's not that bad, but let me detail the beginning of my trip.  You might find it interesting:

My plane was supposed to leave at 2:00 PM from Chicago so I planned to arrive before 11:30.  We arrived when I'd hoped, I said my goodbyes with my family, and went to the Air Canada Check-In desk.  While waiting for the gentleman I noticed that my flight had been canceled along with the one immediately preceding it.  Oh boy, I thought. I have to get to Toronto to make my connecting flight with Lufthansa and it's not that long of a layover.  What to do?

Well, G-d bless that kind man.  He put me on the next flight (which was -- conveniently for me -- delayed by an hour) and changed the rest of my itinerary so I could take a direct flight from Toronto to Tel Aviv on the same airline.  PLUS I have an awesome window seat with, I am told, nobody nearby!  Whether or not that will remain true by the time I board the plane is questionable, but at least it's not a packed flight.

Yet another blessing in disguise.  Thank goodness I got to the airport so early :)

I spent the flight working on my latest crochet project and listening to a kind gentleman who loved to brag about himself and his children, then successfully made my way through the Toronto airport upon disembarking.  I've not been in many airports, but I must say, this is a pretty nice one.  Very easy to get through, lots of signs, and includes a restaurant with a fantastic grilled veggie sandwich.  C'est magnifique!  (That was a nod to the French Canadians.)

I can tell I'm on my way to Israel because of the many people sitting around waiting for this flight, there are a fair number of Orthodox Jews, plus a few others who are just probably Jewish.  There's a girl nearby, looks to be my age, and I wonder if she might be going on the same trip I am.  Hey, it's not an impossibility!

Oh goodness, there are two guys in front of me who just opened the largest Toblerone bar I've ever seen.  I hope they don't notice me salivating.

I love people watching.

P.S.  Daddy, you were right.  It wasn't because of the weather that they canceled the flights.  The gentleman I sat next to on the last flight said it was almost definitely because they had too much spare room on each of the flights, so they canceled two in an attempt to move everyone to the surrounding flights, thereby maximizing the use of space and minimizing unnecessary flights.  Makes sense to me.

"Lechi Lach, on a journey I will send you"

The late Debbie Friedman (ע״ה) composed a beautiful song based on the opening words of the parasha Lech L'cha, the section of Bereshit (Genesis) in which G-d tells Abraham to leave his father and his home in favor of a foreign place that G-d will show him.  This new place, the land of Israel, is to be the homeland of the future generations.  Without question, Abraham and his wife, Sarah, follow the command and go.

I am not suggesting that my journey is divinely inspired.  However, one article (http://njjewishnews.com/article/torah/making-connections) explains that lech l'cha (and its feminine counterpart, lechi lach) is a little diaphanous in the Hebrew, thereby allowing for multiple interpretations.  The primary translation is usually "Go forth," the command given by G-d.  However, it can also mean "Go to yourself," "Go to a new place," or "Go forward," along with the myriad symbolic meanings associated with each.  It is appropriate, then, that my own "going forth" should be chronicled with a blog of this title.

In less than three days I will board a plane for Israel.  It is not the first time I have been there, but this is certainly the first time I have ever embarked on a journey of this magnitude.  This, for me, is big, and I do not intend to waste a bit of this opportunity.

Lechi lach to a land that I will show you
Lech li-cha to a place you do not know
Lechi lach on your journey I will bless you
And you shall be a blessing, you shall be a blessing
You shall be a blessing lechi lach.

Lechi  lach and I shall make your name great
Lech li-cha and all shall praise your name
Lechi lach to the place that I will show you
Li-simchat chayim, li-simchat chayim
Li-simchat chayim lechi lach.

And you shall be a blessing, you shall be a blessing
You shall be a blessing lechi lach.

~Debbie Friedman