Experiential Learning

The view of Tel Aviv's beachfront from our outdoor cafe was beautiful as always.  My friend Lauren and I were finishing up our coffee, trying to figure what part of town to explore next.  Then, it happened.  The potential moment I had feared most about living in Israel.  A moment I had been expecting, but not now, not here.  The distant blare of an air raid siren transformed the busy intersection next to us into pure chaos.  I don't think I registered what was going on, my mind had separated itself from my body.  I jumped up. Like everyone else, without thought or understanding, I started to run.  Lauren looked at me confused; from her vantage point she couldn't see the reaction of the crowd behind her and therefore wasn't fully able to process exactly what was going on.  We grabbed each other and followed the mass of people.

A statistic from some news source soared to the forefront of my mind from an infinite amount of other thoughts: In Tel Aviv you will have roughly 90 seconds to find shelter once you hear a siren sound.  One and a half minutes stand between you and the danger of being exposed to an incoming missile.

The first place we saw to seek shelter was occupied.  We kept running. Like, RUNNING. I could have qualified for the Olympics if this was a time trial.

Two Israeli women motioned for us to follow them into the Tel Aviv School of Design's lobby.  The receptionist yelled for us to go into the parking garage.  We entered and stood there in disbelief.  I had tried to prepare myself mentally before arriving for how I would react if this unfortunate, unlikely, but yet still possible situation were to occur.  Now, in the moment, I was laughing.  We were scared, but we had quickly found safety.  It was obvious that we were trying to keep each other in good spirits, attempting to make quick jokes and block out the insanity of what was going on around us.  It was comforting that the Israeli's were laughing too.

Then the laughter stopped.

I felt it before I saw it.  The most disturbing, haunting echo resonated through the concrete garage.  Every part of myself reacted to this literal feeling.  My stomach.  My mind.  My instantly goosebump-covered flesh.  And lastly, my eyes.  From where we were standing in the parking garage we still had a limited view of the beach.  A huge splash erupted from the water. I cannot give an honest distance because I have no idea where to even begin with that estimation.  But it was close.  Too close.  Psyche-altering, perspective-changing, feel-your-skin-turn white close.  What made it more alarming was what stood between us and that Fajr-5 missile: nothing.  No other people, no other buildings. Just space, time, sand, and sea.

We emerged from the shelter to collect our belongings from the cafe's table.  We must have looked shaken, because the waiter came over and attempted to calm us down.  "It's okay, finish your coffee!" he encouraged.  "We're fine, we're just surprised American's!" I exclaimed as I picked up my cup.  I believed myself, too.  Everything was too surreal to register.  And as I picked up my coffee, I realized my mind and body were still not on the same page.  Even though I thought I was alright, my trembling hand sent coffee spilling over the edges of the cup as I brought it to my mouth.

My undergraduate alma mater prides itself on "experiential learning"--a hands-on, immersion based approach to academics.  I'm in Israel to study Peace and Conflict Management.  This was experiential learning.  Before this event, war seemed real enough.  I knew it was a bad thing.  People get hurt.  People die.  But that missile made me realize everything I had "known" about conflict was arbitrary.  Textbooks, articles, the news--they can only teach you so much.  Seeing one missile taught me more than all my time spent in a classroom. This was without a doubt the most disturbing moment of my life, and I saw only one missile.  People in the south of Israel experience this every day, many times a day, as they have for years.  People in Gaza are trapped in a small space where it's literally raining bombs. I now have a tiny but terrifying glimpse into the hell that is reality for both sides.

I waited a few days to write this post because I needed time to organize my thoughts and sort through my emotions.  I have also used the time to deeply reflect on what I saw.  That missile was an act of indiscriminate violence.  There was no target.  It was sent to cause pain, to kill, and to frighten. It was more than a missile.  It was hatred.  It was inhumanity.  It was evil.

Last night on campus everyone in our program was finally back from the various places they had been traveling. Just the normalcy of being back together was comforting. So many others had similar stories from the weekend, and we could tell everyone was feeling the gravity of living in a news headline.

There has never been a more meaningful group hug in the history of group hugs.

I am thankful for them.  I am thankful for a living in a city that is out of harms way.  I am thankful for a huge reminder that what we are studying, what we are doing here, is important.

Polanski and The Bear

Living on top of Mt. Carmel has its perks: beautiful views of the city and sea, cooler temperatures, and an overall sense of serenity that is hard to find elsewhere.  However, I'd be a terrible American if I didn't take this opportunity to bitch about living in a location that most will never be fortunate enough to experience. There is a feeling of isolation here that quickly can turn from peaceful to mind-numbing-get-me-the-hell-out-of-here cabin fever, so any excuse to escape--even if just slightly down the mountain--is a welcomed one.

Thursday such an excuse arose.  Thanks to the connections of our Polish friends Tadek and Jan, we learned of a film screening and music performance at an independent theater in the Horev area of town.  The theater, about fifteen minutes from campus, was participating in a series of events celebrating the ties between Israel and Poland in the week leading up to Poland's Independence Day (11/11).

If you read my first post, I alluded to an "interesting" experience in Warsaw on my way to Israel.  Long story short, a gypsy tried to steal my wallet before plucking out my hair and spitting on my feet.  I'm pretty sure she put a curse on me, too.  Maybe that's why I can't sleep or figure out how to repair my toilet seat.  Or why my bathroom has toxic mold growing in it.  Or why my fingernails are growing so damn fast here.  ...I'm losing focus.  Maybe that's her fault, too.  I digress.  Regardless, the Polish students here are incredible; they have completely reverted any ill-will toward their people or homeland I briefly felt from my rumble with the Roma, and I was excited to catch a better glimpse of their culture.

Upon arriving at the theater, we sat at a table outside and found ourselves chatting with some other Poles who had also just arrived in Israel.  When the show started, we were surprised to find they were actually the musicians, and had prepared a unique but extremely impressive performance.  It's hard to accurately articulate what the show exactly was.  They had taken excerpts from Roman Polanski films, removed the audio, and provided us with a "live soundtrack" of sorts.  Using clarinets, beatboxing, chimes, whistles, and looping audio, they magnificently captured the essence of Polanski's work.

After the show, the night was still young, and we found ourselves at a bar across the street aptly named "The Bear".  No, it didn't have hairy gay men in leather passing out shots while prancing to Pat Benetar.  It was a Bear in the sense that you wake up the morning after feeling as if you were attacked by one.

There is a word in Polish I learned at the beginning of my trip with no real English equivalent.  It's crude, but sometimes is the only expression that seems appropriate for a situation: zajebisty.  Roughly translated, it means "fucking great".

Being off the mountain.  The performance.  The bar.  The friendships.  Well, there's no better way to put it.  It was just, just...zajebisty.   

 A clip of the performers, Sza/Za, from a show in 2010.  

See why it's hard to put into words?

L-R: Poland. America. Poland. Britain. I'm glad the Iron Curtain fell. 

The group, mid-Bear attack.

An Evening With Idit

Winter Term at Elon University is essentially an extension of Christmas vacation. A catalog of challenging courses are available to students, such as: Knittin' Mittens for Kittens, The Oval Office: Decorating Eggs to look like Presidents, How to Creatively Hide Your Meth Lab, etc.. You know, rigorous academia. Okay, maybe these are a slight exaggerations. Keyword slight. Moral of the story--take a joke class every day for ~15 days and BAM! four shamefully titled credits added to your transcript.

Junior year my winter term looked to be no different. Enrolled in Israeli Cinema, I returned from the holidays expecting some Jewish professor from the School of Communications to show us Schindler's list and feed us bagels. Wrong. I walked into class late, reeking of late night whiskey and nursing a hangover, aka: I blended in. Who was that in the front? Fiery red hair and hipster glasses, the instructor was way ahead of her time, aka: she doesn't even go here. Alright, now my interest was piqued. Five hours later I walked out of the classroom in awe. This Winter Term was going to be different. I was going to actually learn something and wait...was I excited about it? The subject matter sounded interesting enough, but the professor was the real story. Her name was Idit Shechori, and she was incredible.

Where to begin with such an interesting person? A former Lieutenant in the Israeli Army, she later founded and presided over her own screenwriting school in Tel Aviv. She had written, produced, and directed her own films and won numerous international awards and recognition in the process. She lectured about cinema all over the world, published an anthology of women's literature, and authored an almanac of Israeli cultural institutions. As impressive as her background was, it was her personality that truly stole the show. Her straightforward and insightful commentary about Israeli society accomplished something few professors managed to do, we were learning...and excited about it.

She planted a seed that grew into an idea: I needed to visit Israel.

Fast forward two years...

I walked out of my Tel Aviv hostel and was greeted by a familiar not-found-in-nature-but-trendy-enough-to-pull-it-off red head jogging toward me. “Hurry, the cab is waiting and we have so much to see!” And away we went. Via facebook, Idit had helped me in every way possible make my journey to Israel a reality. On my fourth day in Israel, my former instructor had agreed to be my travel guide for the evening. Correction: the BEST damn travel guide anyone could ask for.

Appropriately, our journey and Tel Aviv's modern history began in the same place, HaTachana. This brilliantly revamped train station, now a visitors center, marked where the first rail line connected Jerusalem to Jaffa. Tel Aviv was birthed in the surrounding neighborhood as a small Jewish community that emerged from Jaffa, Tel Aviv's Arab municipal counterpart. We strolled through the streets of the restored station and stopped at a 50's style fountain shop where we drank mint soda with a side of left-wing politics.

From there, we ventured to Neve Tzedek, a gentrified artists colony adjacent to my hostel. It's hard to accurately express how chic this neighborhood is. Simply put, it makes West Village look hoodrat. Mediterranean architecture, meters from the sea, lined with cafes and bougie botiques—some of my fraternity brothers would be in heaven. Pit stop # 2: Cafe Nina. Politics evolved into history over coffee and cake (sorry, diet) and an inevitable topic emerged. Her family's first-hand, tragic experience with the Holocaust brought a greater sense of reality to Israel's short-but-ancient history. We left the heavy conversation at the coffee shop and made our way to Rothschild, one of Tel Aviv's main thoroughfares.

There, she led me through various centers of art and culture, including the National Theater, Opera House, Philharmonic, and library. Tel Aviv is dubbed “The White City” in reference to it having the world's largest collection of era-appropriate Bauhaus structures, and many of the buildings we visited were awesome representations of this style. 

 

To me, the most meaningful stop on our tour was Tel Aviv's municipal building.  It was here in 1995 where Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated.  I'm in Israel to earn my Master's in Peace and Conflict Management Studies, which makes this location particularly powerful.  Rabin was the ultimate champion of Palestinian-Israeli peace, and it cost him his life.  Walking down a staircase after a rally celebrating the signing of the Oslo Accords he was shot and killed.  Bronze footprints mark his final steps. 

 

It was near there where Idit treated me to my first proper Israeli dinner. A ridiculously large assortment of salads and dips (picture below) were presented to us before the main course; this practice has proven standard in many meals since. American restaurants, please take note.

Hours from when it began, our perfect evening ended at the Marina. Like any waterfront commercial area, over-the-top eateries and stores lined the boardwalk. Idit pointed out subtle differences amongst varying levels of Jewish Orthodoxy I would have never been able to identify myself. “You see her? She's not on her period. Or she's pregnant.” 'scuse me? A couple clad in conservative attire was holding hands, and apparently there was symbolism behind that. Further down she pointed out orthodox parents eating tables away from arranged yet universally awkward first dates. I learned outdoor restaurants are ideal for this because unwed, unrelated couples can't be in a “room” alone, so everybody wins with this arrangement. As we meandered to the end of the boardwalk where the city meets its end at the Hayarkon River, Idit continued telling her history of the city she so endearingly and rightfully loved.

It was there I realized I had been going about Israel all wrong. Reading points of interest on a website and walking to them by myself, digesting the sights and sounds, and moving on to the next thinking I fully understood the place was as much a disservice to myself as it was the nation hosting me. An Anthony Bourdain quote surfaced from somewhere in my brain. “Be a traveler, not a tourist.”

As we walked back to the cab I made the most poignant realization of my trip thus far. I had arrived in a country halfway around the world where I only knew one person: Idit. Somewhere between dinner and the marina everything stopped feeling foreign. Was it while we were laughing over the insanity of Mormonism and a certain someone  awaiting to be forgotten in the pages of history with every other failed presidential candidate? Maybe it was learning about the darker side of Elon's administration (Princeton Review, if you're reading, take that #1 'School Runs like Butter' ranking away ASAP). Perhaps it was joking about Bibi's history as a furniture salesman. When doesn't matter, but the lesson does: even the strangest of places can feel like home when you are with a friend.

Thank you, Idit.

 

Restaurant at the entrance of HaTachana

 

The best calories are pretentious calories.  Cafe Nina, Neve Tzedek.

 

Neve Tzedek by day...

 

Neve Tzedek by night.

 

Opera Bau-House.

 

National Theater

 

Just a casual canvas-topped perfectly lit walkway

 

When better than a Monday night to folk dance in a pituresque plaza?

 

Star of the show: Idit in the right corner

 

Tel Aviv Municipal Building

 

Yitzhak Rabin Memorial. שלום, חבר

 

Appetizers.  Suck it, Applebee's.

 

Tel Aviv Boardwalk

aka: copyright infringement. Sorry Photobucket, I forgot to take a pic.

 

 

 

 

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.