Plane ride musings

In some ways, a long plane ride is a perfect way to transition from one experience to another.  As the plane gained speed down the runway I wanted to scream “slow down!” like I did the first time I rode the log ride in the Wisconsin Dells.  I distinctly remember us in our little fiberglass log, slowly climbing, climbing, higher and higher, ever nearing our impending fall, and all I could think about was how terrified I was of falling, so I tried desperately to plead with anyone who would listen to stop the ride!  Let me off! 

But the plane was cleared for take off and in the air we went. 

So many miles in the air, so far away from the cities and fields and streams and deserts of either of my homes, it’s easy to feel disconnected from them both.  Sitting in this metal cocoon shooting through the sky, distance is created for me, an ending made and a different life renewed.  I am leaving Israel.  I am going to the United States.  I left one life behind and am on my way to continue the one I put on pause five months ago…

…from before I fell in love.

I’m not that old, so it goes without question that I remember the first time I fell in love.  I remember how terrified I was to utter those words to that boy but how satisfied I was once I heard it and how I silently let a tear or two drip down my cheek when he said it back that night over the phone.  I remember how, for the first time, I really trusted my gut and let myself express what my heart was trying desperately to tell my brain through its pulsing Morse code.

Now I’ve fallen in love a second time and not with a single person but a whole society, a country.  In five months (or more if you include my first trip there), I fell in love with tall, dark, and handsome men.  I fell in love with wide-eyed black-haired women.  I fell in love with frolicking care-free children.  I fell in love with old, wrinkled, smiling faces who’ve weathered war and peace and cared for so many children as their own.  I fell in love with strangers on the street and taxi drivers and produce sellers and security guards.

And I think they love me, too.

I suppose it doesn’t matter how or with whom you fall in love because the feeling itself comes from the same place – somewhere deep and secretive, rarely revealed but always waiting to be seen.  So why don’t we let it free more often?  Because it’s terrifying.  Just when you think you have it all figured it out, Love sneaks up on you and messes things up, puts thoughts in your head to which you never paid heed, and shakes your world just enough to make you lose your balance.

Then again, common sense should tell me that like any new relationship this is just infatuation, pure and simple, and when I get home I’ll realize where my heart really lies and leave it at that.  I’ll continue living my life as I’d planned it originally: become a high school music teacher, marry a nice Jewish boy from a suburb with a strong Jewish community, have a few kids, and spend all the major Jewish holidays and celebrations with my family.

Then again, man makes plans and God laughs.

A whirlwind end to the trip of a lifetime

In the spirit of full disclosure and record-keeping, I present to you a summary of my final travel experiences in Israel.  I’m not even going to pretend to lie and label it a “short” summary.  Hah!  Brevity has never been my strong suit.

Friday morning I finished packing and met a friend for a goodbye lunch then left the kibbutz around 1:30 pm.  A man stopped for me outside the kibbutz and brought me straight to the train station, talking to me in Hebrew the whole way and complimenting me on my own apparently-impressive command of the language (“Five months?  How wonderful!”).  My distant cousin (second cousin once removed, to be precise) picked me up from the train station, along with her mom and brother who arrived on the same train.  Her mom and brother live in the U.S. but had come to visit in Israel, and that night for dinner we were joined by the other sibling and his boyfriend.  As it turns out, not only do I have family in Israel but they have three adorable children whose grandmother lives close to where I go to school.  Needless to say the distant family is not so distant anymore.

I spent Shabbat with my family, playing Monkey in the Middle with the young girls (which is called “hamor b’emtzah” – “donkey in the middle” - in Hebrew), spending some time at a nearby kibbutz’s pool, and sharing a mix of Hebrew and English with them all.  Saturday night we all went to a bookstore then got ice cream and I took pictures of the kids. 

Sunday morning my cousin took me to the bus stop and I rode a bus PACKED with soldiers going back to their bases after the weekend.  Now, when I say packed, I mean there was only enough room for me to stand in the middle of the isle.  Thank goodness Israeli bus drivers can’t go longer than an hour and a half without a break; instead of spending all three hours standing in the middle of a mass of sleeping soldiers, I was able to get a new spot sitting in the isle next to the bus driver – much better situation for my motion sickness.

I got to Kiryat Shmona where an exuberant lady from the busy rushed me around and helped me find what bus I needed next then sat me down where I needed to be and told me to wait, the next bus would be there in 45 minutes.  When the bus came I found five other girls who were going to the same state park as me – known as “The Banias” – and I tagged along with them from the kibbutz that was our starting point.  From Kibbutz Snir we walked the three km to the Hermon Stream Nature Park and Reserve, rested a bit and ate some lunch, then went through the park where we saw a most beautiful waterfall.

After leaving the park I hitchhiked back to Kiryat Shmona.  Again, the man who drove me was incredibly nice (if not a little sketchy), and before dropping me off exactly where I needed to be he gave me his phone number with the strict instructions to call him should I need any help at all.  I didn’t, but the offer was appreciated.

I spent the night with a guy I found through CouchSurfing.  He is a 27-year-old student, hiker, traveler, and mountain climber, and greeted me at his door with a hug.  I made myself at home, took a shower, we talked, then I took a nap while he studied for his exams this week.  We prepared a stir fry to share for dinner, talked some more, then I passed out from exhaustion.

Monday morning I took an 8:00 bus from Kiryat Shmona to Tel Aviv (three hours, this time with a real seat) and walked around the city for seven hours.  I went to a hummussia and hung out there for about an hour since I got into a conversation with a young guy from Darfur who recently came to Israel to go to school.  I also spent some time in Shuk HaCarmel where I bought a touristy t-shirt, helped some non-Hebrew-speaking women buy a ½-kilo of figs, and met a guy who just came back from a couple years in Lebanon teaching history and who will be going to the same university as me in the States next year.

When the train landed me back in Rehovot last night I was absolutely exhausted and I called the couple who I’d planned on staying with that night, the son and daughter-in-law of a couple I know on the kibbutz.  Well, they were all going to their parents’ for dinner and betach (of course!) I was invited, so I went there and feasted on homemade pizza and cheesy potato salad with one of my adopted families.  Since all my luggage was at their house anyway (his son hadn’t picked it up since I dropped it off there on Friday), I stayed with his parents instead.  His mother kissed and hugged me and took plenty good care of me, his dad gave me practical advice on traveling around the globe, and when I left they made sure I knew that if I’m ever in Israel with my own family we are all invited for dinner at their house.  You hear that, Mom and Dad?  You have a dinner invitation in Kibbutz Na’an.

Finally this morning, after a hearty breakfast and last goodbyes, my favorite taxi driver and friend picked me up and drove me to the airport where we exchanged thank you’s and I’ll miss you’s and tentative plans to get together when he’s vacationing in the U.S. next month.  That one might actually come to fruition!  Either way, we’ll be friends on Facebook and I know that the next time I’m in Israel he’ll be the first one I call when I need a ride.

And that was that.  I got in the airport, through luggage and passport control and security, and I got on a plane.  And miraculously, the plane is not over capacity even with all my memories and emotions from the best five months of my life.

Oh the strangers you'll meet!

Last night was "Layla Lavan" - the White Night festival in Tel Aviv and Yafo which celebrates its UNESCO-given title as the "White City" with live music on open stages throughout the cities, along with art exhibits and a plethora of events.  The timing couldn't have been more perfect for those of us on the Ulpan who took our final exam yesterday and felt unquestionably deserving of a night of frivolous, careless abandon in Israel's party central.

Despite the fact that I am not the frivolous, careless abandon kind of person I succumbed to the peer pressure and joined my classmates on the bus we ordered to take all 25 of us to Tel Aviv.  To be entirely honest, I didn't enjoy the celebration all that much, but the following story deserves special recognition:

Having gotten separated from the few friends I had been sticking to, I found an unassuming spot on the edge of the beach and sat, half hoping my friends would come find me, half hoping to be invisible to the drunk and overconfident Israeli bachurim.  I started talking to someone when another guy about my age noticed I was speaking English and asked me where I was from.  He and his black friend (that is significant) were from New Jersey and had recently arrived in Israel with the tentative plans of volunteering on a kibbutz for the summer.  So we got to talking and I was enjoying the company of these two kind strangers when suddenly the black guy asked if I liked Disney movies.  When I said "of course!" he broke into song with a number from Aladdin and, without request or hesitation his friend and I joined in.  After a rousing rendition of "A Whole New World" we switched to "Part of your world" from The Little Mermaid, the black guy and I doing a fabulous impromptu duet.  Now, I emphasize his ethnicity because I found it rather humorous that I was sitting on a beach in Tel Aviv at 4:00 in the morning, singing Disney songs with a stranger from New Jersey who was half rapping some of the lyrics.  I'm sure Walt would've been thrilled!

His friend was feeling a little left out so for his sake we started singing "American Pie," which we and the people immediately surrounding us were thoroughly enjoying, until we got to the line "And moss grows fat on a rolling stone," after which we stopped, completely unaware of what followed.  None of us could figure it out.  We tried desperately and managed to muddle through a couple other lines here and there before succumbing to our bad memories, singing the chorus once more, and calling it a night.  We said our goodbyes and went our separate ways, never to meet again.

That single moment was, without a doubt, the most amazing and fun part of my whole evening in Tel Aviv, and I couldn't possibly let it go unrecorded. 

Like a dream

Out of nowhere a triple realization struck me with a force and clarity I could not have anticipated:

In one month, I will no longer be in Israel.

In one month, I will be home.

In one month, I will no longer be home.

In the last couple weeks I have met new people and had wonderful experiences that have lifted my spirits and given me yet more reason to love this already astounding adventure.  A few weeks ago a new girl about my age moved to the kibbutz and joined us at the factory and we immediately became friends.  A few days later I met a girl at the pub who is originally from Canada but just finished her Israeli army service and also lives on the kibbutz - yet another new friend.  I met a wonderful guy hitchhiking and thanks to him got my opportunity to see an Israeli wedding - new friend number three (and possibly more).

I intend to pack as much as I can into these remaining four weeks.  Planning on hiking in the desert this weekend, I'll hike at least twice more in the Golan Heights, hopefully at least one more trip to Jerusalem and Tel Aviv each, and I have to get to Safed yet.  And while I'm doing all that I will be cramming in every last bit of Hebrew knowledge I can while I'm still surrounded by people speaking it.  I will also continue to try every new and unique food and dessert that I can because life is too short to say no to good food from another country, gosh darnit!  So what if I'll have to work extra hard to get rid of its not-so-wonderful effects on my tummy?  It'll be worth it.

Even after four months here, I have moments where immense feelings of gratitude rush through my thoughts, my feelings, my veins, and I am filled with the breathtaking realization that I am living a dream.  Two years ago while sitting in a hotel room in Jerusalem toward the end of my Birthright trip to Israel, I wrote in my journal that I would come back to Israel someday.  I also wrote a prayer that this would not end up like the many similar promises I've made to myself throughout my life, but that this would come to fruition and that I would actually follow through.  As I talked about this dream more, voicing it to friends, family, and acquaintances, it became increasingly more concrete and blurred the arbitrarily imposed lines between reverie and reality.  At every step of the pre-journey journey - applying and getting accepted to the program, finalizing details, buying my plane tickets, getting my visa - I got a little more excited and renewed my own faith in my plans.  And at every step, I thought to myself "I can't believe I'm doing this."

A couple weeks before I left I spoke to a friend on the phone and with apprehension, trepidation, and excitement in my voice I asked him, "Who is this girl?  This person who, in two weeks' time, is hopping on a plane alone to fly to another country for five months?  This surely isn't me."

But here I am, flesh and blood, mind and heart, sitting in 28 degree (82 degrees F) weather, looking out at hibiscus bushes and a tree with purple flowers, listening to bird song occasionally accompanied by the soft rustle of leaves in a breeze, enjoying a calm day before we celebrate the holiday of Shavuot, and the thought that permeates my mind is:

"I am so lucky to be living my dream.  I am in Israel, and I love it."

Who knows where my path will lead?

Alas, this dream will come to an end in precisely 28 days and I will be on my way back home to be with the family and friends I miss so much.  But at the same time I am flying towards one home I will be leaving another - a paradox of the most heart-wrenching sort.

People keep asking me if I'm planning on making aliyah so that I can live in Israel and to every one of them I say "I don't know."  I know I will go back to the U.S. in July and graduate with my degree next spring.  But quite frankly, I know nothing after that.  I refuse to let myself make plans because the reality is that in my time here I have fallen in love with this country in new and profound ways that will ensure it always has a role in my future.  The trouble is I don't know exactly how.

One of the many things I have been learning here in addition to Hebrew, Israeli culture, and how to make the perfect Israeli salad is how to trust, how to have faith, which surprisingly is something I severely lacked throughout much of my life.  Despite the fact that this has not been a specifically religious experience (if my difficulties keeping Kosher here are any indication), I feel it has given me the opportunity to grow as a Jew and, more importantly, as a human being.  I feel more calm, more secure, more trusting that while perhaps not all things can be explained, some things do in fact happen for a reason.

So even though I don't know exactly what will happen in the future, I'm okay with that.  And since I don't know, I guess I'll just have to enjoy every last moment of this dream before I step on a plane and wake up.

Dear God, Where's my skirt?

On Friday I decided to go to Jerusalem to spend Shabbat in the Old City at the same hostel I stayed at the last time I was there.  I felt a strong need to get off the kibbutz and enjoy a more spiritual and religious Shabbat than I've had in a while, plus the allure of the Ashkenazi foods I grew up with (gefilte fish and kugel, to name a couple) was incredibly tempting.  (For as much as I love the food of Mediterranean Jews, the Eastern European stuff will always hold a special place in my heart.)  So I packed my bag quick, hitchhiked to Rehovot, and hopped on a bus to J-town.

After stopping at the shuk and also buying a new pair of cheap brown sandals to replace my way-past-dead tan flip-flops, I walked to the Old City, bought some bread from a vendor, and managed to make it to the hostel without getting lost!  Huge accomplishment, if I do say so myself.  As I expected, the moment I walked in I was greeted with warm smiles befitting the return of a good friend more than the entrance of a stranger.  I picked out my bed, got myself comfortable, schmoozed a bit then went to get ready for Shabbat.

That's when I noticed that disaster had struck.

After making my bed I had taken out the one skirt I'd brought with me - one of the beautiful, silky wrap-around skirts I'd bought since coming to Israel - and spread it on the bed in hopes that it might de-wrinkle a bit.  I'd gone downstairs and when I returned to take my shower, my skirt was gone.

Now, I know that I have a penchant for misplacing things, forgetting what I've done with something, or other similar acts of mental clumsiness.  But I searched high and low for that skirt, on every visible public surface of that hostel, under beds, and through all my belongings (which amounted to one lightly-packed backpack), and it was absolutely nowhere to be found.  I talked to every single person in the building asking if anyone had seen it and with the exception of the one girl who saw me take it out of my bag, all answers were negative.

If the last time I was there was any indication of the norm, then I had no reason to feel that either I or my belongings would be at risk among such generously warm-hearted girls.  In fact, once they heard I had nothing to wear for Shabbat, two girls dressed me up like a doll in a black skirt, black shoes (since my new brown sandals couldn't possibly work with black), a beautiful azure blue shirt, and a necklace to match.

But their kindness did not negate the fact that I was upset over losing my skirt.  And unfortunately, it tainted my entire Shabbat experience.

Yes, it's just a skirt.  It's a material possession, and not even an expensive one at that.  It's more or less replaceable, and it's not as if it had significant sentimental value, other than being something I bought myself in Israel.  Being a person who doesn't buy a lot of souvenirs, that was important to me.  And not knowing where it is, if someone took it or if I absentmindedly put it somewhere else is challenging for me to handle.

Still, I tried to enjoy myself.  I made a new friend before dinner Friday night and we went together to a family's house for some wonderful food and warm companionship.  But in this ultra-Orthodox community, I wasn't entirely comfortable with the man of the house.  His wife was absolutely lovely and often chided him for bringing up topics or making comments on things that might have been better left unsaid or ignored, but I felt ill-at-ease with my impression that he thought I was new to religious Judaism and somehow ignorant of the customs.  Far from it - just because I'm not an orthodox Jew doesn't mean I don't know the blessings, the rituals, the rules.  Secretly, I was offended.

The next day we ate lunch with a most eclectic group of ultra-Orthodox Jews.  The wife - a happy, smiling, loving woman who loved bright colors, art, and sequins - was very much into Jewish mysticism and seemed to connect every aspect of her life to spirituality and God.  Some of her guests were equally esoteric while others were more interested in pragmatism, though all seemed impassioned and excited to be living lives founded in unwavering faith in God.  Though the woman's smile and spirit were contagious, I felt challenged by the way even the most seemingly mundane things were given a spiritual significance.  Additionally, when I tried to offer my own opinions or potential reasons for religious experiences, she doubted them and almost immediately countered with explanations she considered more correct, more true.  Perhaps she was right, but I was silently defensive and I began to recognize in myself a distinct unwillingness to accept the outlook and way of life she represented.  (Click here to read about my observations of the dichotomy between pragmatism and spirituality in Judaism.)

And throughout it all, I could not stop thinking about that stupid skirt.

One of the beliefs members of the ultra-Orthodox community often hold is the concept of fate, predestination, and that all things happen for a reason. These are concepts I have always personally had trouble accepting for a variety of reasons.  But if I put aside my walls and barriers and unwillingness for a moment and think as they do, I can ask the following questions:

Why did my skirt go missing?  And what am I to learn from it?

For the last few years I have been making a conscious effort to calm myself in the face of trifling upsets, to go with the flow a bit more and make clear distinctions between what truly matters and what is simply not worth worrying about.  Intellectually-speaking, I know that losing that skirt is not really that important.  It wasn't a prized possession of significant monetary value, it wasn't a gift or memento from a long-lost friend, nor did its existence in my wardrobe make any real difference in the grand scheme of things.  And losing that skirt provided strangers an opportunity to act in kindness and generosity - in a word, a mitzvah (good deed).  Looking at it that way, perhaps it was a good thing I lost that skirt.

But similarly, in the grand scheme of things, why would God not want me to have it?  Did he feel I only need two instead of three?  Or maybe he has better fashion sense than me and it was actually ugly or made my butt look big.  

You see where my skepticism of this philosophy starts kicking in?

By the end of Shabbat, I was feeling worn out and frustrated, upset and even angry that the weekend I had been looking forward to turned out to be so much less than I expected.  But as I contemplated it all on the bus ride home, it occurred to me that the events of the weekend had revealed my own insecurities and defenses, things that I still have to work on in order to become a kinder, happier, and more open person.  Isn't that what we should all be working towards, religious or not?

How's Israel?

My favorite question, and the hardest to respond to, this is the one thing my friends and family are sure to ask every time we talk.  "How's Israel?"  How can one possibly respond to that succinctly?

I realize most of my posts of late have been about holidays or history (or both) with little description of the daily activities that make this experience what it is, and some of you may be reading this thinking "Sure, that's all well and good, but how's Israel?"

(At least I like to pretend that's what you're thinking.)

Before answering that question I have to make one very simple but very significant distinction:  Israel is not the same as the Ulpan - they are two different worlds entirely, complete with different languages, types of people, experiences, and various other qualities, separated by this thing called a "kibbutz" in the middle.  To give you an idea of the differences, a simple list should suffice:

Ulpan (based on averages and overall impressions)
Primary Languages: Spanish, English
Median age: 18 years
Popular music choice: Kumbia, Latin pop
Free time activities: sunbathing, partying, napping, yelling
Most common meals (outside of dining hall): anything heated up from a frozen package (schnitzel, pizza, etc.);     pasta; rice; hard-boiled eggs; anything with chocolate

Israel
Primary Languages: Hebrew, English (Arabic and Russian, too)
Median age: 29.4 years
Popular music choice: American pop, Mizrahi, anything on the Galgalatz radio station
Free time activities: having not spent too much time off the kibbutz, I'm not so sure.  Napping?  Shoe shopping?  Yelling?
Most common meals: hummus; falafel; shawarma; Israeli salad; schnitzel; anything with chickpeas, sunflower seeds, or sesame; hard-boiled eggs; anything with chocolate

As you can tell, there are some similarities between the two.  In either case you can generally count on some amount of English by most of the population, schnitzel and chocolate are loved by all (though not at the same time), and yelling seems to be something of a favorite pastime for Israelis and Ulpanistim alike.  But the two are definitely different and at times - when I'm in class or at lunch or sitting in my room blogging - I am convinced the Ulpan is not even part of Israel, and that it is not until I get away from the Ulpan, cross the kibbutz, and step off of it that I enter into the country I thought I'd been in all along.

I am feeling the undeniable urge to be brutally honest and the truth is, I'm getting a little sick of the Ulpan.  Don't get me wrong, I love my teacher, my work, and learning a new language, but learning, working, eating, and (trying to) relax[ing] with 24 of my not-always-closest-friends is getting a little tiring.  Alright, a lot tiring.  I'm sure you can understand such frustrations, especially coming from the unsociable nerd I am.  (I still don't understand how Kumbia and cheap Vodka are still so appealing to some of my comrades.)

Israel, on the other hand, is awesome.  It's getting hotter so I am incredibly thankful that the kibbutz pool is open and I've been making great use of the area roped off for laps.  I am still in love with the rude and gruff Israelis who surprise me at every turn and I'm looking forward to doing more traveling in my last seven weeks in the country (wow, can't believe that's all that's left!).  As my Hebrew improves I get increasingly more eager to test myself among the natives, and my favorite compliment is, unquestionably, "You've only been here over three months?!  Mitzuyan!  Where did you learn Hebrew before?  You didn't?  That's impressive!" . . .or any variation thereof.

I'm happy with the things I've done, the people I've met, the experiences I've had in Israel thus far.  Let's add some of them up, shall we?

• Been to the Tel Aviv Opera
• Saw Victor Wooten perform in Tel Aviv
• Hiked two portions of the Israel Trail
• Stayed in hostels in Jerusalem and Haifa
• Been through at least four "Old Cities" (Jerusalem, Akko, Yafo, Ramla)
• Bought three wrap skirts and two pairs of Thai Fisherman's Pants (which I'll just refer to as "Israeli pants" even though they're not)
• Eaten plenty of falafel, shawarma, pita, and hummus, but I'm nowhere near done tasting all of that
• Traveled to and stayed in a few kibbutzim and moshavim around the country
• Met, talked to, and befriended complete strangers
• Hitchhiked
• GOTTEN TAN!  BY ACCIDENT!

The kibbutz itself has also afforded me some wonderful experiences, such as meeting Shoshi and her family, and more recently the Nadav family, all of whom feed me gratuitously and offer me unsolicited hospitality in ways that only Israelis know how:  "Just come over for some nes cafe any time you want!"  And just in case my mom or any other Jewish mommies back home are worried I'm not eating enough, fear not: the Jewish imahot here wouldn't dare let such an atrocity happen.  (I've come to terms with the fact that I've got some serious gym-work ahead of me when I get home.)

Another wonderful kibbutz surprise:  On Thursday night I went to the pub (which I just about never do) and serendipitously met a Canadian girl turned Israeli who just finished her army service and is living on the kibbutz for another month before going home to visit, then moving to Jerusalem.  Turns out she's been here the whole time, at least when she wasn't on her base, and I never met her!  Well, I suppose it's not that much of a surprise; after all, it is a pretty big kibbutz and she was only home on weekends.  Anyway, she's a little older than me and, well, I think I made a friend :).  (Funny how no matter what age I am a new friend always makes me a little giddy.)

And these recent kibbutz surprises come right when I needed it most, just as I was reaching my threshold of patience for the Ulpan and some of its members.  I guess if you're patient enough, some of the things you need in life can find their way to you.  You just have to keep your eyes, mind, and heart open.

So how's Israel, you ask?  

It's wonderful!

Just as long as I don't have to spend too much time on the Ulpan.

Traveling in the North, Part III: To the sea!

On Friday morning I had to get from Kibbutz K'far Gil'adi to the central bus station in Kiryat Shmona.  There were no buses around the kibbutz so my only realistic option was hitchhiking into town.  To my American friends and family this will seem an absurdly dangerous idea, but in Israel hitchhiking is a perfectly viable means of transportation.  My fellow shvistim, hikers, also had to get a ride to the beginning point of the next segment of the trail, so the three of us stood at the side of the road just past the kibbutz entrance, one of us with our finger pointed to the street, waiting for someone to stop.

Before too long a middle-aged woman stopped and though she didn't have room for all three of us, there was plenty of space for me alone.  So I quickly said goodbye to the friendly shvistim, hikers, got their phone numbers, and got into the car.  The woman driving was incredibly kind and we had a pleasant conversation for the entire ride to the bus station.  Even though it was a bit out of her way, she dropped me off directly in front of the station, then I said many thank-yous, wished her a Shabbat Shalom and Chag Pesach Sameach (happy Passover), and was on my way.  No exchange of money, no unnecessary formalities.  Just a simple trading of the honest goodness of two strangers.  (That is also now on the list of "Things I wouldn't be able to do in the U.S.")

Jezzar Pasha Mosque, Old City, Akko

I got on a bus to Akko, labled as Acre on most maps, spelled thusly I'm sure because of the French influence.  In 1799, the French army under Napoleon's leadership failed an attempted siege of the city which was heavily protected by a moat and other barriers, plus artillery.  Today, the Old City of Akko remains as part historical site, part tourist attraction, and part living space on the edge of the greater city of Akko.  When I got to Akko I walked to the Old City and was impressed with its great walls hiding loud, bustling streets filled with Israelis, Arabs, and foreign tourists alike.  A great green-roofed mosque caught my eye immediately with its stately placement in the midst of such touristic chaos.

I browsed some shops a bit before going in search of Humus Said, a hummussia that had been described to me as having "the greatest hummus in Israel."  By the time I found it in the middle of the shouk (market), I had little doubt that the claim had truth to it.  The small, humble restaurant was filled to capacity with hungry people of all backgrounds, and Muslim waiters slid swiftly between tables and chairs carrying stacks of pita and hummus plates to the customers, then balancing even taller stacks of finished plates back to the kitchen.  I patiently waited in "line" (because such things do not truly exist in Israel) for what may have been more than 20 minutes before getting into the door.  Once in, a man asked how many and when I told him it was just me, he quickly sat me at a table for four already occupied by two guys.  Didn't matter - there was an open seat and that was a precious commodity in such a lunch-hour rush.  I sat and, having no menu to even pretend to read, asked for the basic hummus plate - hummus with chickpeas on top and olive oil, served with a plate of vegetables and warm pita.  It arrived within minutes and I dug in.  Now, I realize this may be a point of contention, but I actually enjoyed the hummus at the kibbutz slightly more.  Blasphemy, I know, but I think I might be entitled to the opinion.  Still, it was a wonderful meal.

Humus Said: Putting the "mmm" in "hummus"

After paying the 15 shekel and squeezing my way out of the tiny hummussia, I wandered the Old City some more.  Walking along the wall I had a beautiful view of the azure Mediterranean Sea, and I calmly took in the majestic view.  As I walked and observed, the Muslim Azan, Call to Prayer, began emanating from the minaret of the green-roofed mosque.  The call was stunning to hear, strong and significant as its melody lilted over and among the crowds.  I know Muslims do not consider it music, but for someone outside their religion it was impossible to overlook the musical beauty in the call.  It also reminded me that though Israel is a Jewish country, there are many of differing religions, creeds, and ethnicities living within its borders, none of whom should be forgotten or lost amidst the Jewish majority.

After having spent a few hours in the Old City of Akko, I found my way back to the central bus station where I got a bus north to Naharriyah, from where I got on a sherut (shared taxi) to my friend's kibbutz in Beit HaEmek.  She made aliyah less than a year ago and joined the Israeli army; when she's not on the base she lives on the kibbutz with a group of other Israeli "lone soldiers."  Lone soldiers are characterized as those who's family or parents do not live in Israel, whether because they are not Israeli by birth or because their Israeli families have moved to other countries.  Most of the soldiers at the kibbutz had moved to Israel from the U.S., and it was fun spending Shabbat with all of them.

Perhaps the most enjoyable part of that Shabbat was seeing the camaraderie among the soldiers.  They really were a family of the strongest kind, strangers thrown together but sharing in a singular experience that is new, exciting, and absolutely terrifying for all of them.  They took care of one another, and for a day I was welcomed into that family with open arms.

I felt as if I had been traveling non-stop for over two days already, so it was a welcome reprieve to relax and do nothing with yet another group of strangers-turned-friends for Shabbat.  And Kibbutz Beit HaEmek is also a beautiful kibbutz with old gnarled olive trees at every turn.  It's a shame I didn't take pictures at the kibbutz.  I guess I'll just have to return sometime!

P.S. Don't forget to check out the Facebook photo album on the Photos page!

Traveling in the North, Part II: Im tirzu, ein zo agada

Officially being added to the list of things I would never have done at home and thus make Israel seem that much more amazing is the following story:

I arrived safely and uneventfully at the northern town of Kiryat Shmona with the intention of proceeding to Kibbutz Snir or the Banias National Park as a bus would allow.  Somehow I found out about this beautiful park with waterfalls, streams, and the ruins of an ancient pagan temple, and decided I must absolutely see this while in Israel.  But plans changed when I happened upon two young backpackers at the bus platform who were going in that general direction.  I told them I was planning to hike in the Banias, they explained they were embarking on a multi-day trek following portions of the Israel National Trail, and - surprise of surprises - they invited me to join them!  Despite how much I wanted to see waterfalls in Israel, a part of me urged "This is a great opportunity!  Screw your plans!  LIVE!"  And so I joined them.  The bus came and we were off.

The day's plan was to hike from Kibbutz Dan (the "Dan" of NaanDanJain Irrigation Systems) to Kibbutz K'far Gil'adi - 12 km and approximately six hours of fairly easy hiking on roads and through fields.  Unfortunately, my two hiking buddies were maybe a little too anxious, seeing as we got lost within the first couple kilometers.  Luckily, what they lack in navigational skills they make up for in kindness, perseverance, and optimism, so we only jokingly complained about the extra few kilometers we undoubtedly walked.

Though the roads and paths were often blasé and uninteresting, the scenery was anything but.  Fields and groves of wheat, avocado trees, orange trees, and more; hills and valleys with a few grazing cattle; mountains to the North and West with small clusters of homes nestled amidst them; and two streams to occasionally break the silence of the land.

As our shadows grew longer behind us we stopped more frequently in an effort to appease our increasing fatigue.  By the time we were within a couple kilometers of our destination we paused at a bus stop, happy to see a bench.  Thank goodness for that alluring bench, for had it not beckoned to us and had we not stopped, we might never have seen the car stop to drop off a hitchhiker, might never have considered our tired legs, might never have asked the driver for a ride, and might never have made it up the hill to their kibbutz -- and our goal.  Then, as if luck were not already generous enough, we were offed a room with beds and a shower for the night - all for free.

(This was incredibly fortunate for me because though I had planned to go to Akko after the Banias and possibly stay with a friend who lives nearby, it wasn't certain whether or not I'd be able to use her couch.  Thus, in accepting this random offer from a couple of strangers, my sleeping arrangements for the evening were magically secured.)

Having carried many a kilo with us all day, we were beyond blissful to put our stuff down and dine at a hummussia, a specialty hummus restaurant, for dinner.  Having never been to such a place before, I was amazed at this menu featuring a variety of tasty meals served in a plate of hummus alongside a heaping stack of warm pita.  I ordered hummus with fresh sauteed mushrooms and onions, and it was possibly the best hummus and mushrooms I have ever eaten.  Meanwhile, my friends ordered hummus shakshouka (remember when we made that?) and hummus with beans and other tasty things.

We went back to our room (though not before getting lost yet again), cleaned up and digested, then set out for the pub at which we lasted approximately 29 minutes before deciding we were far too tired to stay there.  So we left the pub and made our way back (without getting lost!), and promptly collapsed, each of us on a much more comfortable surface than any of us had expected for that night.

Throughout the day I kept wondering about this rather uncharacteristically spontaneous decision I had made to change my plans so drastically.  In some ways I was upset I didn't get to the national park which looked so beautiful and breathtaking in the photos.  But with every thought of the trip I missed, I came back to pleasant thoughts of the company I was with, the sheer experience of making friends out of strangers and doing something I would certainly never have done on my own.  Where did that little, urging voice come from at the bus station?  Surely that was not me.

"If you want it, it is not a dream"

While we were at the restaurant, I noticed a quote painted on the wall.  It was originally written by Theodore Herzl -- father of modern Zionism and one of the primary reasons for Israel's existence as a Jewish country.  "Im tirzu, ein zo agada" - If you want it, it is not a dream.  I remembered it from my days at summer camp where we always sang it after lunch on Friday afternoons.  And as I sat in that restaurant on a kibbutz in Northern Israel with two people who did not exist in my life 12 hours earlier, after having hiked nearly 15 kilometers on the Israel National Trail, after making a decision that was so utterly unlike any decision I would normally make, I looked at that quote and felt an understanding of it.  Total and complete comprehension.

"If you want it, it is not a dream."  It is the Optimist's Creed, a call for action and strength of conviction, and something we should all remind ourselves of daily.  For myself, I have always wished I could be more spontaneous, less uptight, and generally more willing to move with changing circumstances instead of fighting the universe.  And for years I thought "This is just how I am.  I cannot change that.  I will simply accept it."  But among the many things Israel has taught me, I have learned that oftentimes, what we deem impossible is simply our fear putting artificial constraints on a perceived reality.  Anything is possible.  I believe that is what that little voice in my head was telling me - that I need not be so certain of my plans and that I should take opportunities as they present themselves instead of caching them and perhaps inadvertently putting them out of reach forever.

Here in Israel, I am living the dreams I never even knew to want.

Traveling in the North, Part I: Take my breath away

Note: I have added a Maps section where I have posted maps of the various kibbutzim and towns I have visited in Israel throughout this program.  It will be updated as I travel and should serve as a reference for the places I mention.


Another note:  I have updated Flickr with some photos that are also posted on Facebook albums, and the Photos page has a link to the newest Facebook photo album from my trip to Northern Israel.
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Last Wednesday afternoon I excitedly embarked on a self-organized journey in Northern Israel where I planned to spend my few days of chofesh, vacation, before Pesach (Passover).  I have a few contacts in the North and figured it would be a wonderful way to see them and some of the country, and it would cut down on expenses since I wouldn't have to pay for hostels.  After riding on a multitude of trains, buses, shared taxis, and strangers' cars, and hiking through kilometers of roads, fields, paths, and city streets, I can confidently say I had a wonderful - albeit exhausting - time!

I planned first to stay with a woman whose number was given to me by a member of my synagogue.  I contacted her and she was more than happy to host me at her house, even though it was a couple days before Pesach and she was hurrying to finish cleaning and preparing.  Of course, that didn't stop her from being a wonderfully gracious hostess, yiddishe mama (Jewish mother), and personal tour guide from the moment she picked me up near Tiberias.  As we drove to her moshav (explanation to come), she pointed out all the mountains, valleys, and explained their history and significance.  "You can see Tzfat on that hill, that's the Upper Galilee over there, those two cliffs are like that because they separated when the tectonic plates shifted.  Oh, let's stop here so you can get a picture!"  You get the idea.

She also told me all about her moshav on Mount Arbel.  For reference, a moshav is a uniquely Israeli type of community or settlement developed in the early 1900s during the Second Aliyah, a period of time when a large number of Jews immigrated to Israel.  Moshavim share many qualities with kibbutzim such as their agricultural traditions and close, supportive environment.  However, land and homes on traditional moshavim (plural) are generally privately owned and operated unlike traditional kibbutzim which share everything.  As we drove through the moshav, she pointed out her neighbors' olive groves, orange trees, almond trees, and other crops. Some families had livestock as well, and she told me about how her husband's parents had had a dairy farm on the moshav which they'd sold ten years prior.  Today, many on the moshav do work outside in nearby towns or cities but the community maintains its unique and comfortable atmosphere.

We drove into one section of the moshav that had been developed by and for the second- and third-generation moshavnikim (moshav citizens).  How beautiful it was to drive down the quiet road lined on both sides by quaint houses tucked behind tall trees and blooming gardens!  Behind my hostess's house were a line of fruit trees - pomegranate, pomelo, shesek, orange, clementine, and - of course - a grape vine.  The house itself was of a comfortable size with large windows letting in morning sun and a magnificent view of the Arbel and Nitai mountains.  Can you imagine a more perfect way to wake up?

The adjective "breathtaking" is often used to describe views of beauty, but rarely have I experienced something truly breathtaking.  In the past I would use the word because it seemed appropriate but without ever knowing that something could, in fact, take your breath from you.  Upon looking at the amazing views surrounding the entire kibbutz, I was stunned at how suddenly the word "breathtaking" became the most accurate description of what I saw.  Soft rolling hills of green speckled with the yellow and pink of Spring, larger heights and mountains to the North and East proudly standing guard over this precious land, the white stone city of Tzfat sitting serenely atop a mountain in the distance and sparkling with light as Day imperceptibly gave way to Night . . . all was breathtaking.

Needless to say, I was incredibly excited to see more of this part of the country on my hike the following day.  Little did I realize, though, that my plans might change so dramatically . . .

Purim Weekend, Part III: On the road again

Seeing as the rest of Israel was celebrating Purim on Saturday evening, I wanted to be part of the celebration in some way.  However, that would entail finding a place outside Jerusalem to stay for the night, and my new friend and I determined that would be a near impossibility, especially since we were particularly interested in going to Tel Aviv.  Another girl at the hostel tried desperately to convince us that we needed to go, no matter the cost, because this is Israel, the only country on Earth where the general public is wildly celebrating a Jewish holiday!  Come on, this is rabbinically-sanctioned alcohol consumption!  But despite her pleading and attempts to prove that we would surely regret it if we didn't participate, my friend and I decided that we were better suited for a quiet night in Jerusalem.  Surely we would still see people in costume, and Tel Aviv could wait for Sunday.

Motzei Shabbat (after Shabbat, i.e. Saturday night) we headed out to Ben Yehudah Street (remember the State Street of Jerusalem?), where it was crowded with droves of people enjoying themselves in much less crazy ways than we would have encountered in Tel Aviv that night.  We enjoyed the sites, the sounds, the many musical buskers of varying levels of talent, and decided that we were going to celebrate with some good ol' fashioned gelato.  On our way, however, we were apprehended by two guys who were quite obviously looking to get some phone numbers.  I'll admit, though, they started the conversation in the least sleazy way possible.  One came up to my friend from behind her, touched her on the shoulder and said "Sarah?  Oh, you're not Sarah!  I thought I saw my friend; you look so much like her!"  They started talking while his friend started a conversation with me, and then they joined us for gelato.  Nicely done, boys, nicely done.

The next  morning we departed for Tel Aviv, though not before stopping at the giant shook (market) at Machaneh Yehudah where we got some fruit and bread for breakfast.  1.5 shekel for an orange twice the size of my fist?  Yes please!  We hopped a bus to Tel Aviv with the intention of spending the afternoon on the beach, but alas it was overcast and thus we didn't get quite the tan were hoping for.  Still, we treated ourselves at a beachside restaurant for a midday snack, then walked around and found some fantastic shwarma (Israeli gyro) in the afternoon.  

As we walked through Tel Aviv with its fancy beach front hotels, plethora of restaurants and shops, and large city vistas in the background, I noted that, having just come from Jerusalem, it was like going from Washington D.C. to California in an hour.  I know some Jews often bemoan the lilliputian size of Israel, but quite frankly it's wonderful to be able to do so much, see so many different places, experience such extreme variety in very little time.  You want hot?  Go south for the day.  Cold?  Go north.  Mountains?  Northeast.  Religion?  West.  A more cosmopolitan experience?  East.  Snorkeling?  South.  And you can do it all in one week.  Heck, you could even hitchhike most of the way!

I suppose I should thank Israeli public transportation at this point.   Thank you, Israeli public transportation!  You may not always make sense, but you're always there!  (Except on Shabbat.)

As it turned out, there was little Purim-related celebration to be found on Sunday in Tel Aviv, and in some ways I'm sorry I couldn't be in Jerusalem for their parties Sunday night, but my friend and I thoroughly enjoyed our own, relaxing, personal Purim.  And if I did, in fact, miss something significant, then I guess I'll just have to come back to Israel some other year and do Purim right.  

Purim Weekend, Part II: Lo lefached klal

Friday night I slept comfortably at the hostel with more than a dozen other girls, all of us well-fed after Friday evening's dinner at various family's homes.  Saturday morning I awoke and quietly ate a breakfast of pastries and juice while I waited for the other girls to get up.  I had a pleasant conversation with one of our madrichot (like a counselor or RA) for the weekend, an orthodox girl who, two years earlier, barely knew the aleph bet.  I joined her to hear the special Torah reading for that weekend, then we passed the time before our lunch placements.

The nonchalant, carefree atmosphere of Saturday morning set the tone for the rest of Shabbat.  All was pleasantly calm as we had our lunches, walked around and relaxed in the afternoon, and joined the men's hostel for the third Shabbat meal.  I drifted between small groups of people, joining conversations here and there as I was interested.  In the afternoon I had a wonderful song session with Batya, a beautiful African American kallah (bride - she's getting married in June!) who, despite her Baptist roots, is now an Orthodox Jew.  She has a gorgeous singing voice and I thoroughly enjoyed making up harmonies and countermelodies with someone who shared my passion and fervor for music.

Of course, as was indicated by Friday night's festivities, music played no small role in this Shabbat.  Every meal was seasoned with our voices, our clapping, and our raucous percussion on the tables.  Per Orthodox custom the women generally remained rather quiet while the men sang at the top of their lungs, but their spirit and joy was so overwhelmingly persuasive that I couldn't help but sing, even if it was mostly to myself.

For the third Shabbat meal, we were led in song by the evening's guest, a recently married young rabbi who spoke about Divine Providence.  There, the women sang more openly because there were few married men who needed to be concerned with hearing the beautiful voice of someone other than his wife.  We repeated the melodies until the tables shook with our percussion, and it was so much fun to see the guys so fully swept up in the spirit of the moment.

After dinner I went with another girl to the Kotel in hopes of catching Havdallah, the closing service for Shabbat.  I had heard that Havdallah at the Kotel is an amazing experience, but alas, we were a few minutes late and missed it.  So instead we sat and talked, learned about each other, and developed a friendship faster than I think I have ever experienced.  She had recently come to Israel on a two-week trip and was spending Shabbat in Jerusalem because her brother is a student at a yeshivah (religious school) in the Old City.

I went to Jerusalem not knowing what I would do on Saturday.  I figured I might walk around, see the city, get lost, and enjoy the day.  Little did I realize I would be entirely immersed in a Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) community in the Old City.  I'm glad I didn't have other plans :)

An evening of fine culture ala Shostakovitch

I know at least two of you out there have been anxiously wondering how my evening at the opera was.  And I shall tell you quite succinctly:

It was absolutely, marvelously splendid!

Alright, enough of that short-and-sweet silliness.  On to the good stuff.

The evening began in the middle of the afternoon.  I had to make my way from Kibbutz Na'an to Tel Aviv by 6:00, but really I wanted to get their earlier to make sure I knew where I was, allow for inevitably getting lost, and maybe even have some time to walk around and take in a few of the sites in the city.  (Note:  Tel Aviv is arguably the most cosmopolitan and contemporary city in Israel, second in population only to Jerusalem.)  So I took a taxi from the kibbutz to Rehovot where I hopped on a train (almost literally, I was so excited) with the kind woman who assured me that I was, indeed, on the right platform.  For the 25-or-so minutes we were on the train we chatted pleasantly (her English was fantastic, I might add), and before leaving she gave me her phone number in case I might ever need anything in Jerusalem, where she lives.  She also gave me the name and number of a religious gentleman who apparently makes it his job to give young travelers in Jerusalem a place to eat for Shabbos dinner.  Such generous hospitality!  She also made sure to note that whether or not it was in my plans, I would likely end up making aliyah (immigrating to Israel) - because that's what so many people do!  Such an Israeli philosophy :)

Made it to the correct train station in Tel Aviv thanks to the advice of my earlier taxi driver, made my way out of the station, and stepped into the wide, sunny, bustling world of Tel Aviv.  I knew more-or-less what direction to go, but I did ask a few strangers (in Hebrew!) how to get to the street where I would find the Performing Arts Center.  It was a little further than I expected, but I found it.  Almost missed it, too!  But as I was walking I saw a street sign for the Israeli Opera.  Then another.  Then another.  Then I looked at the building I had just photographed for its grand facade and found, to my astonishment, that I was looking at the home of the Opera.  The joy I experienced in that moment would have, I am certain, made a professional psychologist question my sanity.  But I was so excited not only for the opera but for the opportunity to see my first fully-staged professional opera in Israel and to bask in the company of other like-minded music enthusiasts (read: nerds).

When my friend got done with work and met me there, we got coffee and tea while we waited for the half-priced tickets to go on sale.  Upon purchasing them we found out that it was actually free for him to go because he's in the army.  Lucky.  Surprise, surprise, he's considering going to many more events now with this knowledge in hand.  I don't blame him a bit.

We still had two hours before the show so we traipsed around Tel Aviv looking for a place to eat.  Now, I should clarify that he was traipsing.  I was running.  His height was a significant disadvantage for me.  Luckily he knew where we were going so our jog was not for naught and we ended up with some quick and inexpensive Israeli thin crust pizza.  Gotta admit, Israeli fast food puts American fast food to shame!

We got back to the Performing Arts Center with just enough time. The theater was beautiful, with dark woodwork and smooth shapes throughout. And despite our inexpensive tickets, we had a perfect view of the stage!  Third row balcony, center.  Absolutely perfect for us.  Though as my friend pointed out, we found ourselves in the "Retirement Loge."  I didn't mind; at least the old man next to me didn't snore when he fell asleep.

The show began with a short introductory narration in recitative and my friend and I both silently celebrated when we found the projected translations above the stage to be in both Hebrew and English.  And with the lead soprano's opening melody I finally understood what one of my professors once said:  Opera is meant to be seen, not blindly listened to.  Admittedly I don't normally care for the operatic vocal aesthetic, but she was telling a story and it didn't matter to me.  Of course her voice was beautiful and carried perfectly unaided in the expansive theatre, but it was that combined with the orchestra and the story that made it all come together.

Now, of course I expected the music to be fantastic.  But what I hadn't considered was the stage and set.  All I can say is WOW.  This was a fantastic, ingenious idea for a set.  The entire set was a series of hinged wooden walls, one the entire length and height of the stage, that could be moved and transformed to fit each scene.  It worked perfectly, seamlessly, and dramatically.  Both my friend and I commented on it endlessly during intermission.

The orchestra was absolutely magnificent and conducted by a female conductor!  This is significant because there are so few female conductors of significant repute throughout the world, so seeing a woman conducting the orchestra for the Tel Aviv Opera was wonderful!  What's more, Shostakovitch scored this opera heavily with brass, so there was an antiphonal brass choir situated in either loge near the stage.  There were also musical interludes during which the brass choir descended to the stage and played directly to the audience, acting as a sort of modified Greek Chorus at significant transitions in the production.

The only drawback to being in the balcony was that at times we felt detached from the singers, but they were still quite audible.  Though there was one man in particular with such a strong baritone voice I'm sure there wasn't a person in that room unable to hear him perfectly.

I must admit, there are a few humorous anomalies about seeing an opera in Israel.  For instance, in a show including three murders, a wedding, and a suicide, there's bound to be a religious figure, and in Russia that figure is an Eastern Orthodox priest.  So there is something rather hilarious about seeing a man who otherwise looks like Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof wearing a priest's vestments and making the sign of the cross with the rest of the cast on stage.  Let's face it:  most of those people were Jews, so it added a hint of comedy in times when there probably should have been none.  I couldn't help it - I snickered.

The show ended after 11:00 pm, at which point my friend and I had to make our ways back to Rehovot and then to our respective homes.  Again we walked/jogged to the central bus station where we took a sherut (a large van which serves as a less expensive and faster option than a regular bus) to Rehovot then each took our own taxi back.  My taxi driver, Avi, was incredibly kind and talkative, and he, too, assured me that I'd be back to Israel.  "They all come back," he said.  And when I paid him he smiled warmly, told me how I'm such a nice girl, and wished me good night.

I promptly conked out after 1:00 am, pleasantly exhausted and culturally refreshed.
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P.S.  Pictures will be up soon on Flickr, and a link will be added to the Photos page, both within the next days or so.

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.

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.

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 :)

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.