Seain' is Believing

 I love spending time on the shore, but cannot articulate how much I despise sand.  As a chunky guy, it's pretty incredible all of the places you can find sand hiding after a visit to the beach.  I don't know if you have a "least favorite" texture, but sand is without a doubt mine.  It probably stems from my dad using sandpaper to file down my hooves as a child since I hated wearing shoes just as much then as I do now.  ...but that's a different therapy session. 

Because of this disdain, I often find myself appreciating the sea from a distance.  However, also as a chunky guy everything is hotter by nature.  It's like having a built-in super-insulated jacket. Between that and the hot weather here (90 degrees today. It's mid-October. Say whaaat?) I was more than willing to overcome my sand phobia and enjoy the direct coastal breezes and insanely warm Mediterranean water.  More importantly, it's free.  And gorgeous. And less than a mile away. WIN.  Thus, I've found myself spending the vast majority of my time roaming around the coast and, of course, people-watching.  (Are you catching on that this hobby will probably be the overarching theme of my time in Israel/on earth.) There's just something about warm water and hot weather.  It's like there's a gravitational pull between these two elements and lunatics-- a magnetic attraction of sorts pulling society's worst creatures toward one of nature's best features. #poetry. Needless to say, spending countless hours on the beaches of one of the world's most celebrated "weird" cities has already provided me with enough material to write an entirely separate blog. 

One particular incident left my skin crawling...and almost detached.

On my first day, as soon as I completed my little Israel-by-rail tour, I dropped my luggage off at the hostel and immediately searched for the beach.  Less than ten minutes of walking later, the pristine blue waters of the Mediterranean emerged at the end of a Neve Tzedek alleyway.  I joined the masses, cringed, and plowed through the sand and waded through the water.  I was pig-in-mud-style stupid happy.  Not long after I remembered I'm white.  Like WHITE.  Downright pasty. The breeze was hiding how miserably hot it was, and how terribly burnt my skin had became after an hour of trodding through the sea.  I sat on a bench brushing every single grain of sand off my feet before I could put them back in my shoes/sleep at night.  Sitting there, looking like a monkey de-lousing himself, a man walked up to me and introduced himself.  He was Avi, and Avi was creepy.  One thing I had learned from almost every source concerning Israeli society was that you don't want to be a frier: someone who gives up too much information and appears to be remotely naive. I had been advised that if questioned, be frank and provide a minimum amount of details while seeming suspicious.  After his unwarranted introduction, which was alarming enough itself since Israeli's are supposed to be "rude" and aren't known for approaching random strangers without reason, the rest of the conversation went as follows.:

Avi: Where are you from?
Me:  The States.
Avi:  Why are you here?
Me:  School. 
Avi:  How long?
Me:  A while.
Avi: Where are you staying?
Me:  Nearby.
Avi: Want to live with me?
Me:  EXCUSE ME I HAVE TO GO.
Avi:  I live at 11 Rehov Aordain (sp?--and yes, that's his real address in case find yourself in Tel Aviv, wondering what rape feels like), come visit any time and stay with me!
Me:  ________________ (<---- That's me. Lost for words. Walking away. Wondering how to yell "stranger danger" in Hebrew.)
Avi: Please visit! I want you to come share my house!

Clearly, Avi was code for Buffalo Bill and my epidermis looked like the hottest item at spring fashion week.

In other news, I've reached "molestable".  The diet is working!

Looking north: Tel Aviv's coastline from Jaffa.

 

Fortunately my time on Tel Aviv's waterfront has provided me with more than interactions with predators.  Yesterday was a lazy day.  Too hot for extensive exploring, I headed to a promenade and took a nap in a grassy area.  The sun starts to set around 4:45, and by 5:15 it completely disappears.  I awoke expecting a spectacular sunset, but witnessed one of the most actualizing and emotion-evoking experiences of my life.  I arose from my perch in Clore Garden and tried to hurry to Jaffa so I could catch the sunset from its hilltop view.  Putting my surroundings into focus, what I observed actually stopped me in my tracks.  In the same small expanse of park a multitude of sights yielded a uniquely Israeli scene.  In one area, Israeli men-- from very young to very old were playing soccer.  Beside them was a group of Arabs, presumably an extended family, grilling and laughing, clearly delighted by each other's company.  Steps away, on a rocky outcrop, a lesbian couple was making out.  Beyond them, African drummers attracted a small crowd adjacent to beach bums spinning fire batons.  Tourists on the deck of a trendy restaurant were snapping pictures of the sun being swallowed by the sea.  I felt invisible, and I was grateful for that.  The blend of people and activities were just as magnificent as the sunset.  In that instant I felt I was witnessing everything but nothing, all at once.  I truly had never felt more at peace. Maybe there was hope for this place.

As I walked away I passed, for the second time that day, a plaque marking the location of a suicide bombing that occurred barely more than ten years ago.

 

                       

 

Olive Hillel

If you know me, you know that my hometown is a very important part of my life.  Olive Hill is a tiny stain on the map of eastern Kentucky near West Virginia.  Although I often make fun of it, I'm so thankful to be from there; it shaped my world-view more than I can describe and provided me with a unique upbringing that I would never want to trade.  It's a small town, less than two thousand people, where a "big trip" means you went to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee-- not that there is anything wrong with that (except everything).  With that, you can understand the difficulty in expressing how odd and exciting it was riding up an Israeli coastal highway with someone else who once called Olive Hill home. 



Olive Hill: The city that never sleeps...
through church.

Yesterday, I did just that.  With the help of a science teacher from my middle school, I was put in touch with her brother and his family who live in Herzilya-Pituach, about twenty minutes north of Tel Aviv.  The husband, an Air Force retiree now Super Dad, takes care of three lovely children and is married to a Management Counselor for the US Embassy.  We went to their home in a truly breathtaking neighborhood filled with diplomats and foreign executives that starkly contrased the busy, grimy streets of Tel Aviv.  I recognize this is no ordinary Israeli suburb, but greatly appreciated the opportunity to see such a "normal", albeit extravagant, area compared to the insanity of Rehov Allenby and Nachalyat Benyamin (busy streets near me).


Herzilya: Hood livin'.

To revel in our American-ness we ordered Domino's since there are surprisingly few American chains in Israel.  The pizza still had Israeli elements to it though; the seasoning packets contained zaatar instead of Parmesan or red pepper flakes, and the "pepperoni" was made from...well, we don't know.  After much speculation, we reluctantly concluded goose.  Or buzzard.  Maybe stork.  It was good, but definitely not kosher.

It was fascinating to hear about their lives.  The three children have essentially never lived in America.  All rather young, they each consider a different place "home".  Cuba.  Japan. Now Israel. The youngest, less than five years old, helped the mother with her Hebrew when she placed the order. Too cool. We chatted about the seemingly endless list of Israeli holidays, the misery of grocery shopping (he had a similar experience to my yogurt debacle with cottage cheese), the plight of the Palestinians, and West Carter High School football.

The world has never felt bigger.  The world has never felt smaller.

Gross-ery Shopping

Over the last year I have put myself on a pretty strict diet.  Normally, I count every calorie and gram of fat I consume and restrict myself to a certain daily intake of both.  Right up there with the looming threat of war with Iran on my "things I'm dreading about Israel" list was grocery shopping here-- I figured/knew I wouldn't be able to read the nutrition labels.  Last night proved that the supermarket is in fact way more daunting than anything Ahmadenijad can throw at me.  Oh, except maybe a nuke. Maybe.

Yesterday morning I had a late breakfast at a cafe in Jaffa and spent the rest of the day at the beach. Rough life, I know.  After toying with the idea that I might know my way around this part of Tel Aviv enough to go out drinking without getting lost, I realized I should probably grab some food first to avoid getting too schmammered.  Looking to save money and avoid restaurant prices again, I was fortunate enough to find a grocery store nearby open late on Shabbat.  At first glance I thought, okay--- I can do this. Not so bad.  Air conditioning?  I'll stay here all night. Every cashier looks like a model? Added bonus.  ...then I actually took a few steps in.  No English.  None.  Zero. English. Sir. I forgot to mention adding to my dilemma was the fact that no one in my room at the hostel knew how to get into the kitchen, so I needed to get something that required no cooking and no refrigeration unless it was a small enough of a portion to be consumed in one sitting.  Minor parameters, no biggie.

After walking lap after lap through the aisles to the point that the security guard began to stare at me, I was more confused than ever.  I grabbed an apple, a mini-baguette, two liters of water, and some yogurt, all for about $5, so the savings overshadowed the frustration of being illiterate. Back in the hostel, I realized I had neither a spoon nor access to this glorious kitchen the website promoted so heavily.  I walked around aimlessly looking for one to no avail.  Defeated, I went back to my room and everyone was gone.  With no one watching and no other options, I quickly shamefully dipped my baguette into the yogurt and slurped it from the bread. In hindsight I acknowledge that the apple would have been the better option.  I blame the jet lag for clouded judgement. I immediately spat the "yogurt" out.  It was horseradish. Or hummus.  Or both.  Not that I'm against those foods, it just wasn't what I was expecting.

After the initial shock and confusion subsided, I realized that I might as well finish "dinner".  I heard the door to the room opening, so I quickly jumped up and ran to the bathroom to finish my food, embarrassed that it might be the judgemental girls from Spain coming in.  I scarfed down the baguette laden in mystery sauce and went back to my side of the room. OH NO.  Instantly I noticed that some of the ...whatever it was... I spat out was on my sheets and the floor.  I know not everyone has their mind in the gutter, but I'm pretty sure the scene looked beyond incriminating, especially seeing as how my big ass was running into the bathroom and slamming the door behind me as they entered. 

Needless to say, today I was less adventurous: I ate a Cliff Bar I found in my backpack and am meeting someone from my hometown for dinner.  Tomorrow, I try to find an English friendly supermarket. 

Shalom Y'all

My flight landed at 4AM yesterday and my hostel didn't open until 10.  What to do? People-watch at the airport, naturally.  I spent about 60% of my childhood people-watching with my grandmother, so I'm not bragging when I say I'm really good at it.  After spending a week in New York before my departure and doing plenty of gawking there, the only difference I noticed was that there are far fewer Jews in Israel.  Go figure.

With that, staring at strangers became dull, so I decided to see if I could at least drop my luggage off and explore for a bit.  After a brief chat with an information attendant I felt confident that I could navigate my way to my hostel.  Ha.  An hour on a train later I was literally on the other side of the country-- keep in mind Israel is roughly the size of New Jersey.  I failed to realize that I had hopped on an express train that skipped over my planned stop.  Knowing that Israel is a small country, I realized something was extremely wrong when the cityscape of Tel Aviv abruptly shifted to greenhouses and donkeys and every other indicator that I had made a huge mistake.  Part of me panicked, mainly because I had no idea how expensive of a error this might be.  We passed Herzliya, then Netanya, then Hadera.  This probably means nothing to you, but when I saw (and passed) the stop for Hadera all I could do was laugh and enjoy my baptism-by-fire into the Israeli landscape.  To put it into American terms, imagine taking a train from DC to Baltimore but failing to get off until Boston. I knew Israel was tiny, but damn, I was going over a mental map and realized just what a minute place this was.  My panic quickly turned into claustrophobia. 



After what seemed an eternity, the train finally stopped in Binyamin.  I jumped off with my years-worth of luggage, asked the first person I saw for help, and hopped back on a train on the other platform.  The day before I had gotten away with two free bus rides in Poland (I'll explain that little slice of hell in a future post) and thought I was about to luck out again and not have to pay for the extra fare.  About ten minutes into the return trip a woman came through our section of the train yelling in Hebrew and everyone started fumbling around in their pockets and pulling out tickets.  Shit.  I thought I was going to last at least a month in Israel without going to jail.  I showed her my 15-shekel (roughly $4) ticket to Tel Aviv Central from Ben Gurion Airport.  She frowned and just said "no".  I immediately poured my heart out to her.  "I have no idea what I'm doing I've been in Israel for five hours I don't speak Hebrew I'm lost I'm sorry Help me I'm poor".  Nothing.  She stared me down for what seemed like an eternity, stone-faced and pursed-lipped.  Double shit. I pulled out my passport thinking that might help for some reason.  She burst out laughing.  "I thought you were a lost little boy! You're how old?"  Leave it to my Benjamin Button disease to break the tension.  She not only let me go without paying the extra fare, but was kind enough to write out directions for me.  In English.  Thank G-d.

theory.

reality.