Old England in Netanya, Israel

Isn't that just beautiful? Most people don't seem to realize that Israel is on the Mediterranean, and being that the Mediterranean bears ethereal magnificence, Israel is graced with some of the most breathtaking beaches around. Yes, yes, the Caribbean and Thailand are great, but if you walk three minutes from an Israeli Mediterranean beach, well, you're walking on some Biblical site, in some Biblical town, by some Biblical characters and their homes.

What you're looking at in the picture is a view from a balcony overlooking some of the beaches in Netanya. Netanya is slightly north of Tel Aviv, obviously on the coast, and it's well known for having the Ikea store. That and the best coastline in Israel, at least according to me. Not only do kids surf there, but it's also a hot destination for riding horses on the sand. Considering its physical qualities, the foreigners have moved in en-masse.

Land values in Israel are on the rise, astronomically, in no small part due to the rise in foreign-owned property. Rich Americans, Canadians, Brits, and French are notorious for buying up apartments, old Turkish houses, and land in areas like Baka and Katamon in Jerusalem (the German Colony). These neighborhoods are literally the Little Americas of Israel. You can walk down the street in Katamon and hear Hebrew, but if you walk by a school in the morning, I can guarantee you you'll hear a mother or father talking to a kid or two in English. If you get on the number 18 bus on Emek Refaim and don't hear some English, you might want to make sure you didn't have a concussion and wandered somewhere else.

Those communities in Jerusalem are so Americanized, or owned by non-native Israelis, because they are gorgeous locations. Emek Refaim and the surrounding Baka/Katamon neighborhoods were expensive areas in the time of the Turks, and they haven't ceased to be the most desirous since. An example? When the German Templars (a Christian sect that owned this area) were evicted after WW2 by the British because of their support of Nazi Germany, where do you think the British officers lived? Yup, they squatted on the houses in Baka, Katamon, and on Emek Refaim. How nice are they? You can't buy a place for less than a million, and that's probably a junky attic.

I went to Netanya for the first weekend of Passover (Pesach). I have a good friend whose step-father is a Brit, and besides owning a nice apartment in, you guessed it, Katamon, they have a place in a community in Netanya actually not known as Little America, but rather as Little England. On the way to synagogue one morning, I ran into a random British guy, and he asked me where I was going to daven.

I told him "Young Israel," the synagogue that my host goes to. The guy looked at me, chuckled, and like a good Brit he came back with some biting wit. "Yeah, more like Old England." The synagogue is populated by a bunch of old guys. I guess it takes a lifetime of income to afford one of these places.

It seems strange to me that there are definitively American places, and as if there is any need to further subcategorize Western, non-native Israeli areas, there's also those definitively British and French spots as well. That's one aspect to the whole 'Israel as the center of Judaism,' where Jews from all over the world come here to live or play. You don't think of this country as being large and diverse enough to merit definitively foreign clusters, but humans are humans, and we tend to group ourselves as we find most comfortable.

That being said, most of that "foreign" business is American. In Jerusalem, in general, if you see an Indo-European text on a sign, it's probably in English. However, if you are walking on Rechov Nice (a street) in Netanya, those signs are going to be in French. At first I unwittingly laughed at the stupid Israelis, putting "cacher" instead of "kosher" on a restaurant ad. Use a spell check! But, remember the street name, Danny! It's not Nice as in "nice to meet you," but rather Nice, the French Riviera resort city. At least in Jerusalem they name the streets in Hebrew! Usually.

We had our Pessach seder at my friend's step-father's apartment, which is right on the beach, and has a view of the ocean. I've been here before, and I was anxiously awaiting going back to see that terrific seascape again. I was unaware, however, at how many people were going to be there. After I found out that about 16 bodies were going to be staying at the apartment, eight of which were girls under the age of seven, I got a little nervous. Then my friend, her brother, and her sister and I went over to their friend's apartment. This family happens to be doing Passover in Italy, if you get where I'm going with this. I've known all these people for a while now, but I guess I'm always a little taken aback when I see their places.



Let's just say I'm constantly plagued by the worst of the deadly sins.

Hebrew Is Gobbly Gook!

Interesting Article Here!

This article that was on the Jerusalem Post website a few days ago is actually an answer to a question that I've had for a few years now. Considering that I am working with great effort on learning the Hebrew language, sometimes I look at its non-Indo European character set and I think, "Is this gobbly gook to anyone else?" I mean, do Israelis look at Hebrew text and see it like I see English -- as plain as my image in a mirror, as distinct as red and blue and green, as natural as the glare of a summer sun?

Apparently not!

Hebrew University did a study whereby they found that slightly jumbled words are more recognizable in English, and other Indo-European languages, than they are in Hebrew. For instance, "tutrle" and "mcie" are easier for English speakers to reorganize, instantly, into turtle and mice than their Hebrew equivalents would be.

This is because Hebrew is a root-based language. The Hebrew root is essentially a string of a few letters which have a definitive meaning, but can be used in tons of different forms (from verbs to nouns to adjectives) to carry on the meaning in a different context. You can't change them up.

In English, however, we would just have a totally different word with no connection between them. The best way to characterize the difference between Hebrew and English is that whereby English has thousands of more, distinct words, Hebrew is based more on context, structure, and these precious roots. Distinct words versus distinct word forms.

The roots can make for some really cool trivia. L'hosif, Yosef, tosefet - never mind.

Anyway, this makes me feel great! I kept wondering why my very smart teacher couldn't recognize a word in my homework because two letters were backwards. So those native Hebrew speakers actually don't have that instinctive recognition of Hebrew either! There's hope yet.

(If anyone wants to hear more about how AWESOME Hebrew is, comment on this post).

Another Interview, Hopefully...

Looks like my alma-mater, William and Mary, might run an interview on yours truly. Williamsburg, Virginia, meet Jerusalem, Israel, orthodox Judaism, the Israeli army, and falafel.

The world might implode.

My Hebrew = 8 Year Old's

I was walking to the supermarket a few days ago and I passed a little girl shouting from a falafel stand to her sister sitting in a parked car. She yelled across the sidewalk to her big sis' to ask her dad what he wanted on the falafel. It was too cute, but it also gave me some much needed linguistic faith.

"Tagee - tagee - tag - tageedi aba..."

She couldn't spit out her Hebrew either! It's funny that a child's poor language skills gave me a boost of confidence. Not that children speak poorly. Actually, quite the opposite.

My Hebrew is about the level of a small child's (in terms of true fluency), so when they speak so much more quickly and correctly than I do, well, it really makes you think "I SUCK."

Thank you stuttering Israeli child for giving me hope.

Celebrity? Not yet.

The Virginia Jewish Life magazine interviewed me a few months back, and now it is in print. You can read the interview at their website. I really don't like the editing job they did (i.e. none), but no worries. Pretty neat though, right? Click on this link to see my ugly mug and read the interview.

http://www.virginiajewishlife.com/inside.html

I don't know how long that link will work, so let me know if it goes dead!

The Young Guard

All across Israel little children are given the big responsibility of being crossing guards for heavy pedestrian walkways. They take it seriously, too! I've seen a little girl, no older than eight, no taller than my hip, yell at a grown man in his SUV. And heaven forbid if you are a pedestrian and you cross without their permission...

Here's the crowd that I have to walk through everyday after my class. We're right next to a fairly large primary school that seems to have a lot of American kids. It's a rich neighborhood, so every morning I hear "have a good day" more than anything in Hebrew. Purim, however, is a dress up day shared by all kids, from those in this picture to the joker in the mouse suit.

While walking to class, my friend and I were brushed aside by the cutest little girl in the world. She was dressed up as a ladybug. I was almost thrown into the bushes off the sidewalk as she tore by, excited to show her classmates her outfit. Oh how I miss the days of dressing up as a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.

Six Month Anniversary

Time is the greatest of con artists. We joke around with each other by saying, "hey, look over there," in a silly attempt to take a French fry, or to put a gum wrapper in the dupe's pocket. We do it knowing that they will see what we do, knowing that it's funny to pretend that the most intelligent creature on earth, presumably, could be dislocated from their personal awareness by a simple distraction across the room. "Oh, look at that girl!" Swipe.

We posture at how smart and wise we are, at how invincible to the ravishes of cunning we can be, but all the while a fearsome, abstract monster is slowly bleeding us. Time. The greatest con artist: You know he is stealing from you, and he tricks you over and over into thinking that he has left you alone, but over and over again you wise up to his ways. Nevertheless, you can do nothing about it. He says, "Oh no, you won't even know I'm around," but then six months later... six months have passed, and you could have sworn that those six months were merely a blink and a short nap.

Well, today is the official half a year anniversary of my becoming a citizen of Israel. The tone of what I just wrote probably sounds non-celebratory, but don't mistake my thoughts on time for my attitude and perspective of my time here. That is the entire point, that time is a wily beast, striking when you least expect it. Hence, "time flies when you are having fun." Hence, I'm having a great time, I have been having a great time, and all of a sudden six months have passed! Wasn't it yesterday that I was playing Xbox with my brother? Wasn't it yesterday that I drove to the movies in my green Jeep?

This seems like some type of a milestone. I'm not sure what it's really symbolic of, whether it's permanence here, or that I endured some big hurdles in the transition inherent in moving 7,000 miles - and overcame valiantly. Or, maybe it means very little, and I'm just making a big to-do about nothing.

Whatever the case may be, I can report home in a positive manner: Doing well, got food, have friends, staying busy, will call.

So, you may be wondering what those pictures are doing here. The first two, of the railroad tracks, are disused French-built rail lines in Jerusalem (according to nabataea.net, a pretty neat site). In fact, on my short walk from the bus stop to the building where I have Hebrew class, I have to pass over these tracks. This area of town is right next to the old train station, a remnant of the Ottoman history of this place. I have unfortunately not taken a close look at the old station, which is actually rather large, and I plan to explore it ASAP. I've wanted to do that for three years.

I walk over these tracks every morning and every afternoon. The sun is still slanting across the new-born sky when I make this trek, and the silhouettes of the trees fall on the tracks in a way that makes the morning feel like eternity itself couldn't exist longer. Time stands still, if that's possible, and the shadows stretch away the weariness of night. I walk over these tracks, covered in moss and deteriorating for half a century of neglect, wondering how many pilgrims made their way to the Holy Land on them. This was the line from Jaffa to Jerusalem, so I wonder if Mark Twain would have found his way to the true City of God on this very spot, if he made his journey thirty years after he did. Would he still have seen the land as "a desolate country," or would the railroad have convinced him otherwise?

I wonder many things when the sun casts shadows on these tracks, and I can't help but smile at the beauty of the life that we so often take for granted. How many people walk over these tracks and aren't amazed at how old and historic they are, terrified of the tears and blood and rain that have washed away so many lives, at what a witness these tracks must be for the history of a nation and a people, at how symbolic it is that they have been paved over by the new asphalt roads, at how romantic the times used to be, before we lost our way in modernity.

I wonder many things in this city. In this country. My soul has yearned for many years to feel a part of something so surreal, to walk from the rigors of daily life into the ether of history, to let my mind not just wander to a distant land full of stories too fabulous to be true, but to let my mind walk that land and tread those fables. That's why I moved here, or at least that's one of the reasons; to wake up in the morning to my dreams, not from them.

The other picture below is somewhat humorous to me. I was walking home from class when I looked down, bewildered by a rush of nostalgia, and saw what had caused this remembrance. There was freshly cut grass along the paved sidewalk, which instinctively placed me back in my parent's house, six months previous, where I spent the summer as their lawn-boy. The smell of cut grass = my parent's yard. Can't say that living in a city hasn't been the hardest transition for me, I have to admit. I get along just fine in cities, but there's something easier about open fields, tiny villages, and nature's permeation.

OK, I get it, rice and drains hate each other.

Here's another "jeez, these Israelis," type of post. Strangely, at the same time, there's also another "wow, this place," theme to this here little post. This country just keeps me on my toes...

The bus system here runs on EXACT time, in my experience. If you're 2 minutes late at the central bus station, you might as well forget it. That bus has come and gone. But, in a stroke of Middle East inconsistency, I walked out of my apartment this morning and saw my bus take off before I could catch up. Then, contrary to the typical 5 minute wait for the next round of buses, I stood in the cold for 45 minutes; waiting, waiting, no transportation in sight. By the time the next Green Machine rolled up there was a line of about 20 people pushing to be first in line. After I got on and started my homework (hey, I'm busy), a female soldier (yes, she was very pretty) sat next to me, and proceeded to watch me do every bit of the page in the workbook. How stupid she must have thought I am! "Don't swim in the water, it is too deep, and you don't know how to swim." "What are you drinking? An alcoholic drink or something else?" Etcetera.

So, at each stop there were about three to five times the number of people that usually are waiting for the bus... I can't say I didn't enjoy the old women yelling at the 25 year old driver. I can't say I didn't, especially as I found myself 30 minutes late to class. An inauspicious way to start a rainy day in the Holy City.

The day dragged on, but eventually I found myself back at home. I started working, as per my 2:30-ish to 9pm-ish schedule. I haven't posted about my work, as it is relatively new and fairly secret at this point, so I'll post eventually on that -- yes, I work for the Mossad... They are in desperate need of English speaking hitmen, I think.

Well, as I was saying, I got home, started working, got about two hours into it, and then heard some feverish knocking on our door. We have a back yard, as you could see from the snow pictures I posted, but there is a gate back there. No one outside of the few apartments that share it has access. We really never use that backdoor. So, I heard this knocking, and couldn't figure out where it was coming from. I walked to the front, thinking it was probably the mailman. He has come by trying to deliver the same envelope to us, one that doesn't belong to either myself or my flatmate, for the last month and a half. I figured it'd be a quick, "lo, lo, ze lo shelanu!" brush off... yeah, did I forget where I live?

I realized it was coming from the oft neglected backdoor, the one that is directly adjacent to our next door neighbors, an older couple that we've had... let's just say we've had our encounters. And, of course they don't speak English, so that's always fun for me as well. You think you know frustration? Try to defend yourself in a language that tends to tumble out of your mouth like accidently spitting out your gum while laughing. After about 10 seconds of him saying something about our kitchen, he says, "OK, let me just see," and all of a sudden he walks past me and into our kitchen. Just like that. Hello, how are you, blah blah blah in a strange language, and then some guy is pushing aside your dirty dishes.

A long, long story made short, I ended up taking about 30 minutes to plunge our kitchen sink. Apparently, our water system is connected to theirs, they pair up and run out to a single drain, and "in five years, five years we have never had a problem. As soon as you guys moved in now our drain is always clogged! I came home one day and the sink was filled to the top with backwater. This is not good. You understand what I'm saying?"

Yeah, I think I got it after the fifth time. Really. Yes, sir, I will indeed keep that drain cover in place from now on. He got so into it that he ended up using our dish sponges to scrub, literally scrub, down our sink. Then, he took all the junk that we plunged out and put it on one of our plates that was sitting next to the sink. It looked like a nice little dish of pâté, actually. Just imagine me standing behind this man, mouth agape at him scrubbing down a rather filthy sink with rather clean brillo pads, mouth agape at him speaking some rather fast Hebrew, mouth agape at how many times he said "keep the drain cover on," mouth agape when he knocks on our door again to give me a new drain cover. Ours didn't fit well, he said.

I felt pretty bad when the one he gave me also didn't fit well. Oh, and I met his grandson. Interesting day, I'd say. Oh, wait, not over yet!

Some hours later, as I'm listening intently to an audio file for my job, I hear a major commottion. Occasionally they have what seems to be some type of parade on the street, with a religious minivan making its way along the street. I never really go out to look at it, mainly because I'm busy, but also because it's so preposterously loud and obnoxious. Imagine $20 dollar speakers blaring '80s hair-metal: obnoxious. Well, this is $5 dollar speakers blaring Hebrew religious music, which can be nice music, but not when it's coming from a minivan while you're trying to pay your rent.

So, I took a look. I'm not sure why, but I think I know exactly what this was. I'm pretty sure this was a bar mitzvah procession. You gotta remember that this is Israel, that this is a country of Jews, and these types of things are fairly commonplace. Especially in the Sephardi communities, like where I live, where tradition is paramount.

I stepped out of my apartment, walked towards the blaring minivan, an old beater decked out with Christmas lights and Hebrew signs, and realized that they actually had a police escort. There were probably about 50 to 75 people walking behind the creeping van, cheering and singing and dancing. They were walking with a canopy and carrying a very Sephardi-style Torah, the crown of the Jewish people, lifting it up skywards while belting out ancient songs as if they themselves wrote the words yesterday.

It was a jubilant scene, a loud group, and I noticed with not a small amount of satisfaction that my neighbors were all at their doorsteps as well. Sometimes I like to play it cool, you know, act like Mr. Imperturbable; So, when I really want to take a picture of something that I think sticks out, and I see that all the time in this country, I always have the thought "they probably think you're a silly tourist - a total newbie." But, no, they were also watching the festivities.

I took a few pictures, but most of them were pretty terrible. But, here's two that you can at least get an idea of what was going on. The first one is a shot of the minivan. It's very blurry, but I think it looks kinda cool, so I put it in black & white and I like it. Considering the photo that won the World Press Photo of the Year, I don't think I'm too far off... The second one is a pretty hard to see shot of the people carrying the Torah. It's the full size image, so you can click on it and zoom in, or better yet download it and fit it to screen to see it all better.

And, this is just Tuesday. I already saw something absolutely outrageous today, which I also photographed, that I'm saving for a post on Friday. Tuesday. This place is unreal.

I walked into my ulpan class today, at the end of a 20 minute break, to find my fellow Hebrew-butcherers in a political discussion. I asked if they were indeed discussing politics, which they said yes, and I told them I would come back when they were finished. You see, I majored in politics, I worked in a political think-tank, I was involved in this stuff. And, I find it to be some of the most offensive, troublesome, and dreary business known to man. I enjoy international law and conflict analysis, I really do, but when it comes to the nitty gritty of people discussing this and that -- count me out. They convinced me to stay, however.

Basic stuff, you know. I helped explain to the non-Americans what was happening with these crazy primaries. Talked about the candidates, what they were saying, what everything meant, the schedule for the election, etc etc. Nothing crazy.

The whole time, however, the Italian girl that I talked about in previous posts (the, um, sensitive one), she looked like she had something to say, to me. Let me just air some grievances. First of all, she's one of those people that knows everything. Not literally that she knows everything, but she thinks she does...literally. She argues with our teacher, a native Israeli, over Hebrew. Come on. That's like Hiro from Heroes, the TV show, telling me about English verb structure.

Anyway, she goes on this rant about how America's "democracy" is such a joke. The meat of the story, what she was saying, was that politicians in America don't really represent the people, the people have no voice, that money is the only important factor in politics -- but only in America. Naturally, I said, "Oh, right, and the Italian government is a real democracy, right?"

"Yes, it is! It's funny that the whole world looks to America and talks about their 'democracy,' I mean, money is the only thing that matters in American politics!"
"Right. First of all, Italy is a democracy? Could have fooled me. Berlusconi owns all the media, owns the government, he was as corrupt as Arafat, and he's coming back!"
"Well, Berlusconi is different."
"And yet you are reelecting him."
"Well..."
"OK, and what about Italy having 61 governments in the 62 years since World War Two? How can the Italian government represent the people if it isn't even in office long enough to represent itself?"

Naturally, on her side, there was no return. That's because, my friends, America is a real democracy, and Italy is on the lower end of what anyone should consider a democracy! I mean, their most dominant political leader controls all the state media, which is oh so open, right? And, he really does use that control to censor what is said about him. That is a true blow to freedom of speech. Imagine if our president was the owner of Fox, CNN, NBC, ABC, CBS, and whatever other media outlet you could think of. You think you would ever hear about his failures, his blunders, his mistakes? I say that sounds a little bit like Iran. Or, Italy.

So, yes, America is a terrific democracy! Case in point: The intense fighting over the chance to be the Republican, or Democratic, candidate for president. Look at how big of a deal Super Tuesday was, and that's just to decide who gets to run for office, not who gets into office! Sure, money is important, but it really isn't everything. The McCain-Feingold Campaign Reform Act has done more than you could imagine to curb campaign finance questions, and though some shady deals do go down, the majority of funding only demonstrates how much constituent support a candidate has. And besides, all the candidates have millions and millions. In college I remember reading this study, for a class, about the relationship between campaign success and money. It hits a ceiling of effectiveness, just like everything does in this world. So, you can have billions, but it won't influence the outcome versus a few hundred million.

The point is, I'm getting really tired of this America bashing I hear from non-Americans! The way I see it is, we don't talk about your politics, so don't talk about ours!

Or, maybe I'm just sick of this silly Italian girl. I'll have to write another post about how she "gave me a talking to" after class. Check in for that on Friday, or Saturday. That cartoon at the top is a perfect political cartoon. It really hits the bulls-eye on the media in Italy before and after Berlusconi came to office. Check out the poll in the upper right corner. Give it a vote!

UPDATE ON PREVIOUS POST

The seat that the Italian sits in every day, next to Chicago and myself, was left vacant. She sat on the opposite side of the room, and sent me sidelong glances the entire time. True story. A little petulant, aren't we?

Europeans, what a silly group of people!

Today we played Taboo, or at least the ulpan equivalent of Taboo. We had slivers of paper with words on them, and we had to describe them for our partners' to figure out, without using the word, of course. It was pretty fun, really. I was paired up with a girl from Chicago, and also the Italian. We had such a hard time speaking over the din of the entire classroom, and the Italian said, "I can't hear what you are saying!"

"No? Sorry," and I leaned forward. "I'll speak louder."
"No, I just can't understand what you're saying."
"What?" I was confused. I spoke up, and clearly. "You don't know the vocab, you mean?"
"I don't understand Americans. You guys have such a strong accent, I can't understand a word you're saying! All I hear is American," leaning back in her seat, smugly and self-reassuringly nodding her head.
"Really?"
"Yeah, I can't hear you. Your accent just overpowers the Hebrew."
"Ok...," shifting to the right, towards my American compatriot.

At this point, the Chicago girl and I exchanged looks. It was mildly offensive, the way she so blatantly told us how terrible our accents were. She went on to tell us how she never can understand Americans, and that our Hebrew is always murdered by the accents -- worse so than any other non-native speakers. Great, that's very encouraging. Chicago, however, was not ready to lay down and accept humiliation.

"Really, you think so? I think the Portuguese are hard to understand," pointing her chin towards the Brazilians.
Emphatically, "No way! They speak like Israelis."
Chicago was not going to have that rebuke. She, after all, spent a year living in Brazil; she knows Portuguese. "I disagree, you're wrong, you notice how they speak with that sing-song tune? Their accent is so heavily Portuguese. I can tell right away where they are from."
"Well, I guess, but they don't sound so bad. I mean, I can understand them at least."
"Yeah, the French are pretty bad, right?" I had to put in my two cents, and they really do fight through that nasal inflection.
"I guess. Nothing like you guys," with a dismissing flick of the hand.

I didn't want to say it, but Chicago felt like it was time. I gave her a quick look, as if I knew what she was thinking, and gave her the go-ahead nod. "Italians, your accent -- it's also very noticeable."
"No!" The Italian sat bolt upright in her seat, eyes wide open. "That's not true! We have a very soft accent, and it drops completely when we speak Hebrew!"
"Right. In Italian you add an 'eh' or some type of up-talk ending, like 'spicy-eh.'"
"Yes, we add that in Italian, but we don't do it in Hebrew!"
"Yes you do! I had an Italian in my other ulpan class, and she spoke Hebrew the same way as you do," fingering her pen.
"No, whatever," the Italian sitting straight up, picked up her notebook, tidying up her desk with her eyes down, rearranging nothing worth rearranging. "You're wrong, whatever. Whatever!"

She was not pleased! It was silly how easily she told us that our accents were so visible through the Hebrew, but when we pointed out that she had an Italian accent, just as the Parisians have French accents, and the Brazilians have Brazilian accents, she took such great offense. We had a long conversation on the horrible American disposition, and the other students from other countries, but then when her nationality came into question... What puerile, touchy Europeans!

After a few minutes, knowing that the conversation was over, I let slip what I had really wanted to say the whole time. Italy-girl gave over a sentence, in Hebrew, while still playing Taboo. I let the thought on my mind slip, and I felt bad, and then I realized how comical it all was! I said, "Now that'sa spicy'eh meat'ah ball'eh!

"No way! I DO NOT SPEAK LIKE THAT! That's American-Italian, and I am not one of those people."
"Really?," responding in a deferential tone, realizing that I could have just been slightly obnoxious. "I thought Italians were Italians?"
"No, I am from the north of Italy. We don't speak like that," lifting her nose skyward.
"Oh, yeah, I guess not."

At the end of class, unsure if maybe I was wrong in my estimation of her accent, I asked Chicago what she thought. "Was she a little bit sensitive about that Italian thing?," not sure what Chicago would say.
"I know, right?! I'm glad you said that," fully effecting a look of surprise by raising her eyebrows and half-smiling.
"Good," relaxing my shoulders, "I wasn't sure if it was just me."
"No, no, she totally speaks with an Italian accent. I can barely understand her sometimes, because she puts 'eh' on the end of everything, so I can't tell if the verbs are masculine or feminine..."
"Yeah, me too! Sheesh, I thought I was being racist she got so mad."

This is why I like the Brits. Their accents are as heavy and pronounced as Americans, and they know it, just like we realize how terribly we butcher the language. We all do, really. That's the thing; speak proudly, but realize that if you're from Italy, or Virginia, everybody is going to realize you're not from Jerusalem.

Mamma mia! Non te la prendere!

Yesterday marked the one week anniversary of my ulpan. If you read a previous post of mine you'd see that I thought I was in the lower half of the class, barely able to keep up with the level. I was mistaken. I wouldn't be so presumptuous to say that I'm actually in the upper portion of the hierarchy, the hierarchy of the "better" students, but I would say that I seem to have one of the larger vocabs and ability to conjugate the verbs. Essentially, the way the class works is that she throws things out there, like a new verb or some review, and we answer her with the conjugated forms or sentences or discuss the questions she poses. Many, many times I'm the only one answering when it comes to which structure the verb falls in; the binyan, an all important element of conjugation. Sometimes, I'm the only one even answering what the verb means -- we do have quite a few on our plate right now, so I think I just have a mind for memorizing infinitives.

It's funny that I was so worried about the next 5 months and whether or not I would be able to stick to the class for that long. If you miss a day or don't understand something, and don’t have a chance to study, in a language course, you're just screwed. I had a right to be weary, but I misjudged my fellow students. I'm not saying they're dumb, or don't know Hebrew – they are smart, and they know the language pretty well. I simply lacked that all-important confidence. I am still too reticent in speaking, as I feel so self-conscious when I do. In my opinion, honestly, learning a language is the most difficult academic subject available. Math, science, politics... at least you can listen to the professor in your own language!

The class has taken on some new people, and other people have left (for the ones that left I thank Heaven). We have two new French girls, one of whom is fairly beautiful, but I don't think they really speak English. The pretty one is a little ridiculous. For instance, she was talking on her phone in the classroom, during class. For about 10 minutes. Yeah, French people often deserve their stereotypes, at least in my encounters. Also, we got an Ethiopian guy, who I can't understand a word of in Hebrew, or any other language for that matter. I think he speaks French to the Parisians. And, we have these two really cool Brazilian kids, a guy and a girl (and another girl, but apparently she said that the Americans have funny/stupid accents and she can't understand us, so...). The cool Brazilian girl is pretty attractive, in that South American, she's a dance instructor kind of way. The guy was supposedly an Olympic weight lifting hopeful. He isn't overly huge, though, so maybe I misunderstood him and he only helped train weight lifters. Whatever.

The last word is about this really really cool Italian girl. She's from Turin, which makes her cultured right off the bat. She knows Latin, French, English, Spanish, Italian and working on the 'Brew. Being that she's Italian, even though her English is better than many Americans, she tends to speak Hebrew with an Italian accent. So, when you think of Italian inflection, think "Now that-seh spice-eh meat-ah ball-eh!" And then, in Hebrew, "Yeish-eh lee-eh cheshek-eh laasot-ah..." It's a problem because suffixes are king in this language, but boy oh boy, how I laugh and laugh when she speaks! To myself, of course, considering I probably sound like a redneck to these people.

And yes, my main observations were just about the attractiveness of the girls in the class. What else did you expect? I'm 23!

Yesterday morning, bright and early, I had my first day of ulpan, intensive Hebrew school. Five hours a day, five days a week, for five straight months. Sitting in that seat and realizing how strenuous the next five months are going to be, I felt not a little pang of despair. I'm not normally one to feel like that in academic environments, but the nature of an intensive language course, one for a language of the country you live in and desperately want to be a part of, the language of Abraham and G-d Himself; The nature of learning a language under these circumstances is slightly overwhelming.

I suppose you could just call that 'pressure.' Sure, there's a lot of pressure to learn, but it goes deeper than pressure. Think about America and the influx of Hispanics. How many of us think, "Can't they just learn the language of the country they want to live in? If you want to go to all the trouble of moving here, take the trouble of a year or two and learn English!" A common sentiment, no?

The same sentiment and attitude is present in Israel, but it's magnified ten-fold. Firstly, a huge majority of the citizens of Israel, the Hebrew speaking public, come from families that moved to this country around a hundred years ago or less, and mainly around seventy years ago from the period of 1929-39. So, if I ever find myself having a conversation with older people, like taxi drivers or the random guy on the street that asks if you got any cool pictures of Bush (true story, had a 20 minute convo with this stranger), I tend to ask where they are from. They say Israel. I say, "No, no, where were you born? Where is your family from?" Germany, Syria, Morocco, Poland, Russia, etc. The point is, everybody's grandad and grandma had to do ulpan, every one learned this language in the exact same way that I am right now. There's no other way, really, besides the army.

The sociological effect is a mentality of "Everyone else did it, you can too," and if you don't, or cannot... Well, there's obviously no punishment for not knowing Hebrew, except the social stigma and despise it will bestow. In a country of rough personalities, people that don't care to hold back their opinion, despise is just about the equivalent of a crown of thorns.

But don't worry about me. I'm not too terrible at the language, and I enjoy it, which goes pretty far once you're in the trenches of language acquisition. If you are forced to learn a language that you couldn't care less about, like Spanish in high school, you'll never learn it, and if you get overwhelmed -- you're finished. So, I love Hebrew, even if I suck at learning it. It amazes me that I can have whole conversations in this strange language, after only a few months of class time over the past 2 years, and especially when I compare my knowledge of this language to Spanish, which I took for four years in high school. Four years and I couldn't order food at the local Mexican place. A few months of Hebrew and I'm debating politics and religion...

The only problem is that I'm either the worst or second worst speaker in my class. Ulpanim are broken down into knowledge/skill levels, which are determined by a written and oral test. I am in an intermediate (lower side of intermediate) class, which is just about my level, but the kids seem to know a bit more than me. The demographics of the class are interesting: 3 Americans including myself, 2 Brits, 2 Brazilians, 2 French, and an Italian girl that's probably 6'0 tall. The problem is that European and South American Jews are taught to speak and listen to Hebrew, while Americans are generally taught to read. So, I may be the worst speaker in the class, but I am one of the best readers.

Unfortunately, however, in the hierarchy of learning Hebrew, speaking is king. Therefore, I am the dunce. One last thing: Were you wondering what it actually means for a language course to be "intensive?" It means that the class is 99% Hebrew. For 4 and a half hours the only English or non-Hebrew you hear is when a new word is explained. And the levels above me don't even get that much. The teacher just goes, "Shalom, boker tov blah blah blah blah." And you're expected to keep up, or else.

As my new teacher, Sara, told us, "If you do not review, you will not remember, and if you do not remember... You won't get a job!"

Wish me luck. I will absolutely need it.

Today is the four month anniversary of my aliyah. The time is just flying by. I remember when I was home for the summer, surreal in the knowledge that soon I'd be in Israel for an indefinite period of time. Surreal in the knowledge that I'd be living here, as a citizen, as an Israeli. And now, four months later, I feel like I just arrived yesterday.

Davening tonight will be extra special -- bringing in a Shabbat with added meaning.

According to most all societies in the world, I rank among the taller crowd. I like to think that I tower above you mere ants, looking down upon your bald spots and dandruff, atop my position of prestige;-- just kidding? No, honestly, I realize that I am taller, but I don't think about it or find it to make me different from anyone else. This is just who I am.

Nationalities, or ethnicities, have general height parameters. The German and Scandinavian blood-lines tend to be quite tall. Various Asian ethnicities find their people to be extraordinarily short, at least by what we're used to in America. Along those lines, Israelis (Jews, remember), tend to be of medium height. Just like America, Israel is chock full of people from all over the world. The Russians here are generally tall, while the Sephardic (Middle-Eastern) Jews are generally shorter, at least in relation to the Ashkenazim (European Jews). So, like America, the average height is in the mid to upper five foot range, with quite a few six footers, and quite a few baseline five footers. So, I'm not like a Jewish Yao Ming out here, or something.

That being said, children find me to be monstrously tall no matter where I go in the world. This past school year I was babysitting a family of mentally challenged kids once a week, and found myself playing with about 15 kids from the cul-de-sac all day long, each week. The 6 year olds couldn't get enough of climbing all over me, wanting to see what it is like up in the clouds. I'm big compared to the typical 4 foot child.

So, I was walking down the street with a friend a few days ago, minding my own business, when we chanced upon a group of 11 year olds lazily kicking a soccer ball around. We were on course to walk by them, and from a block away I saw them all start staring. I was with an attractive female, so I wasn't thinking anything of it, until we were close-by and noticed that all eyes were on me.

"He looks like a basketball player!"
"No, he looks like a... He looks like a murderer!"
"Murderer, Murderer, MURDERER!!!"

I was wearing a grey and black outfit... So I grabbed my friend, looked behind me at the crowd, and pretended to go James Bond on her. The kids loved it. Hey, what can I say, I was born to be in the Mossad.

I suppose I should't be ashamed to tell anyone, especially if they read my blog, that I fancy myself a writer. All through my childhood I was encouraged by teachers and family (i.e.- my mom) to write; I was encouraged to develop my writing skills. I'm not sure if I'm a good writer, or if I'll ever be able to actually publish anything, but it is my dream. There's something comforting in knowing what you really would like to be, no matter how far off it may be.

I would like to write modern classics. I read so much from the 19th century, and I am obsessed with the supernatural ability of those writers to combine narrative with philosophy, mystery with psychology, and superficial with the super-serious. There is, nonetheless, a terrible feeling inherent in reading, and wanting to emulate the giants of the novel; A daunting mix of inspiration and intimidation. How could I ever hope to walk alongside Dickens, gamble with Dostoyevsky, or sail with Melville? I could never, of course, but since when did our dreams have to be so realistic?

I made this post because I was reading over my last post, and noticed the disordinate amount of times I used the word "despite" to start a sentence. My writing is, and always has been, plagued with the use of the 'conjunctive adverb.' However, despite, therefore, nevertheless. Also, if you'll notice, I started each paragraph of this post with the same word, "I." Another classic mistake in first person writing. I never said that I thought myself worthy of writing a book, I just said I wanted to write a book. Want to write a book. I also have a problem shifting tenses.

Sometimes I think I'll never write properly, even after all that schooling.

Despite one job offer that seemed to be perfect and final, and another that slipped through my fingers while I was under that first impression, I am still unemployed. There is no dearth of jobs here in Israel, at least for someone with my skill-set (weak but good enough for entry level). However, my unpliant requirements have knocked down most of my opportunities.

Despite my own personal boredom at having nothing to do, all my friends and family want to know what it is I am doing. Yes, indeed I am here and that is exciting, and it must seem really extreme to those of you reading in Virginia... but I assure you I am doing just about the same thing each day as I did each day of the previous summer. That is, I watch a lot of t.v., movies, and I have been reading books nonstop. I suppose it's a nice thing to have time to read, but it's a bit nicer to have a paycheck, in order to be able to buy the books to read. I'm having a great time, hanging out with friends, reading and writing at leisure, but each day I scour the job listings. It's either secretarial work or sales. There are plenty of freelance writing gigs, but I do not have the required government account for freelancing -- something I've heard is a royal pain to establish. You may not believe it, but job security is much more tangible than personal security, even in the heart of the Middle East.

With nothing to do, I have been out and about exploring my new neighborhood. I live in Tzomet Pat, or Katamonim, which is well known throughout Jerusalem (and maybe through Israel in general, I don't know). Unfortunately, it is well known as the 'ghetto.' Not that it is like Compton or Harlem, as a drug and gang infested area, but it is an area where many poor Jerusalemites live. The stratification of Israeli society is essentially this, from highest to lowest: Ashkenazi, Sephardi, Russians, Ethiopians. What that means is that the Ashkenazi Jews, the old world Europeans, that came over in the first big waves of immigration, naturally became the most landed of citizens. The Sephardis came over next, and established themselves. The Russians came over around the same time as the Ethiopians, from the mid-80s until today. The Russians have certainly had a rough go, but they aren't nearly as bad-off as the Ethiopians.

Despite the Ethiopians having been in this country, generally, for almost two decades, they have faced no small amount of discrimination. Just recently some reports came out about this problem, and like a good politician on his deathbed, Prime Minister Olmert quickly said "I will fight the discrimination against Ethiopians." This lip service has of course done nothing to ease the station of these second class citizens, and they continue to find themselves herded by economic and social pressures into neighborhoods like Katamonim. And they find me waiting for them, soaking up the cheap prices in this non-Western area of Jerusalem.

But honestly, Katamonim really isn't that bad. I've been to Harlem; Harlem is scary, Katamonim is not. I spend my days at the numerous parks we have here, running on the soccer field, or shooting hoops on one of the many basketball courts, and lounging about on the softest grass I've found in Israel (for some reason, it tends to be sharp and spikey). I don't know what all the fuss is about, at least in terms of the overall exterior health of the area. There is a bit of trash on the streets, but that isn't so rare in Israel, and definitely not rare in cities across the world. But, the reason that Katamonim isn't that bad, despite being a poor area inhabited by a disaffected minority, is because the Ethiopians are such wonderful people.

I have a great affinity for Ethiopians. Many of them are very religious, especially those in Jerusalem. They keep traditional Jewish houses, 'orthodox laws' if you will, and are so good natured in comparison to the common Israeli. In my opinion, Ethiopians are much more like southern Americans than any other group of people I've met from around the world (and you meet many different nationalities here). In short, Southerners are quiet, they smile and have manners. Ethiopians are quiet, they smile and have manners. The Ethiopians that came over from Ethiopia itself are, hands down, my favorite sector of Israeli society. Unfortunately, the Ethiopians being born here, those under the age of 20, are just as obnoxious and rude as the rest of the teenage punks.

So, I spend my days out walking the streets, frequenting the park, and mingling amongst my favorite Israelis.

I'll write another post this week on a trivial experience, and a very serious experience, with the Ethiopians.

After one of the worst periods of procrastination in my life, I finally signed up with a medical insurance plan here. Let me try to explain how the medical system works. The system isn't that clear to me yet, but here's what I do know.

The Israeli national insurance system is universal. All citizens are given nearly-free coverage which handles everything from basic doctor visits to hospitalizations, surgery to reduced cost medications, and even treatment of chronic diseases. The best part is that all insurance companies have to take a citizen under their service, regardless of age or health status. There are four insurance companies, and all the companies are treated as equal under the law. So, it doesn't really matter who you sign up with, but people choose their company based on word of mouth, as well as which facilities are closer to their homes. Universal pretty much means universal: everyone is accepted regardless of any condition, and being accepted means the same thing for everyone, namely, insurance in matters of health.

Ok, so I cheated and went to the government's webpage for national insurance (http://www.mfa.gov.il/MFA/MFAArchive/1990_1999/1998/7/National%20Health%20Insurance). All in all, this system seems to be working pretty well. I see pharmacies everywhere, and each one is attached to an insurance company. There seems to be a medical building on every block. In fact, I live in a somewhat out of the way cul-de-sac, and we have a large facility on our street! I've asked around, and everyone seems to be fairly satisfied with the system. Sure, it's socialized health care, so maybe you have to wait in a longer line than you'd like, but don't we wait for hours in doctor's offices in America as well? Moreover, Israel has one of the highest per capita rates of doctors in the world, and we have some of the world's leading pharmeceutical companies...so we like to say we have the best medical system in the world. I'm sure other countries have more resources, but I can say this for sure: Israel makes the most out of what it has.

I'm not sure if America is ready for this universal health care system, but after observing Israel and her system, a main sticking point for America in universal care seems irrelevant. That sticking point would be, of course, money. I realize that Israel has about 7 million citizens, while America has over 300 million. However, the main difference is that America has trillions of dollars to spend, while Israel has about $35 bucks, give or take. No, seriously, Israel has to spend 9% of her GDP on defense, one of the highest rates around the world, and that percentage is on the lower scale of what we have spent during the Palestinian terror campaigns (commonly referred to as an "intifada"). The scary part is that Israel has to spend this money in order to exist. Israel has no choice but to beef up it's military. Even though Israel spends so much of her money on defense, she still has enough to care for her citizens.

On the other hand, America has now spent hundreds of billions of dollars in Iraq, fighting an enemy that will never give up. One estimate claims, at least by last year, that we were spending $255 million per day in Iraq.* Per Day! And this is to fight an enemy that hides as civilians, hides behind families, uses remotely detonated weapons instead of engaging in a real war. Not only is the war a money pit, it is another Vietnam, which only served and only serves to drain the national reserve of confidence and morale.

I'm not trying to say anything in particular about the Iraq war. I've already said too much, maybe. What I am trying to say, however, is that America sure has spent a gross amount of money that could have gone a long way to establishing a universal health care system. I'm not even saying we should have a universal health care system in America. I am no expert on the benefits and drawbacks of universal versus private health care systems. Both have pros and cons, and I'll leave it to the experts to tell you what is what.

All that I am trying to get across is that money should not be the main stumbling block for America on the road to a better health care system. Israel is showing that even with a strapped financial outlook, a first-world country can look after its people. Israel's system is not perfect, but we all know that America needs some type of health care reform. That's all.

*http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/15377059/

Yesterday I had an interview/recruiting session at an American 'call-center' with a branch here. The company is the biggest 'Anglo' employer in Jerusalem, and it is a member of the Forbes 1000. Supposedly they pay American wages, but you sometimes have to work crazy hours, like graveyard shift, so it's a tradeoff.

The job I was offered was paying terribly, and it was strictly the overnight shift. Not exactly what I was looking for. I walked out of that building feeling a bit low, knowing that I would be going back to square one looking for a job. There are plenty of jobs here for English speakers, but so many of them are jobs that I don't want to be involved in, like secretarial or administrative assistant work. An undergraduate degree, especially in political science, doesn't really give any type of leg-up on the competition. The job market isn't so interested in me...

The real problem is that I am trying for such a specific job segment: English speaking position, afternoon hours (3 o'clock or so), with no experience necessary. This description fits the basic American company operating out of Israel, or a company working with companies in America. A friend of mine has the perfect job, fitting these requirements...but it's the exception, not the rule.

At least I can know that a lot of people are in my position! I have a few friends also looking under the same criteria, also having little luck. I applied to the most popular English newspaper here, for an editorial position, but they wrote me back asking how good my Hebrew is; guess that's a 'no.'

I do have one more string to pull...

The internet and cable guy came to the apartment today in order to set it all up. I guess this would be a nice segue to talk about the general Israeli 'personality,' or the Israeli character, disposition, attitude, or whatever word describes how these natives conduct themselves.

A native born Israeli, any Jew that is born and raised in the land, is referred to as a sabra. In case you don't know, a sabra is a cactus fruit. As you absolutely do know, cactuses are guarded with a tough outside shell and sharp, painful spikes. The sabra fruit protects itself with a tough skin, granting the ability to withstand abrasions and bumps, and rigidity to stay in tact during many stressful environmental conditions. Despite the tough exterior, the sabra fruit is truly soft and juicy on the inside, a true delicacy! It is one of the greatest achievements of nature, to be so brash on the outside, while being so soft on the inside.

This is the Israeli! The native Israeli is loud, rude, pushy, and just generally everything that Americans consider a negative personality trait. They don't wait in lines. They allow cell phones to ring during inappropriate times, and then answer them and have a full conservation, without ever budging from their seat! Getting on and off the bus is like too many salmon fighting their way up a narrow stream in Alaska; shoulders push, elbows block. The most normal conversations appear to be shouting matches, with wild gesticulation, and an unknowing observer would be sure punches will follow! The Israeli has more than a tough exterior, but...

With only a smile, a genuine greeting, and a friendly question, this rude specimen is suddenly your best friend! Greetings between men typically include the word "achi," meaning my brother. Names are shared, stories intertwine, and suddenly you are invited to someone's house for dinner, or given a special deal at the store, or any other number of possible positive outcomes. This is the way of the Jew, at least as it is found in biblical stories: Abraham's most important trait was his hospitality. People often forget that Israelis are Jews! The transition from rude to apple-pie can take place, literally, in the span of 2 seconds, revealing the true persona. The Israeli is a softy on the inside, with true emotions, soft emotions of a desire for friendship and acceptance. Ironically, the Israeli, for all his brash exterior, is in many ways much more genuine than the southerns I grew up around. If someone here gives you a compliment, asks you a personal question, or befriends you, you can know that they are being serious! How often do we say in America, "oh you should come over sometime for a cup of coffee,"? And how often is that actually what we want to happen, that we want that person to come into our house, sit on our sofa, and drink our coffee? I'd bet to say not that often. How often do we smile towards others' faces, and then cast daggers with our eyes towards their backs? Of course you will find an Israeli that will do this, but if they really didn't like you...trust me, you'd know. They simply wouldn't drop the shell of impenetrable armor! For all the anger on the outside, the Israeli is the most genuine and personal creature I've ever met.

So why the tough attitude? Why act like jerks in the first place? The question is, how can such a nice person be so mean?

Can you blame them? Name the top 3 or so hated countries in the world, at least in terms of negative media or outspoken opponents: Iran, North Korea, Israel. The other two change over time, but Israel will always remain. Moreover, you can identify the origins of all groups of modern Israelis and see why they have grown to be strong on the outside: Russians from the anti-religious, anti-minority communist Soviet Republic; Ethiopians chased from their homeland; Mizrachi Jews chased from Middle Eastern countries with the advent of Israel, even after enduring hundreds of years of minority oppression; European Jews fleeing the Holocaust. If your father, and your father's father, and your father's father's father, ad infinitum, were raised in such hostile environments you too would learn to be tough, to let insults, sneers, and attacks roll more easily off your back. A member of a minority cannot live day to day when each day they let the majority take advantage and abuse them. You have to be strong enough to say, "You can't bother me, because I know who I am on the inside." The Israeli is like the sabra fruit, in that the tough exterior only protects the true nature of the entity: the inside.

That being said, Israelis are no longer Jews living in Russia or Iraq. They are now living among their fellows. Even though the world constantly berates and unfairly singles out Israel (for example, the only refugee group in the U.N. to have its own definition of 'refugee' is the 'Palestinian' Arabs), Israelis are slow to accepting the fact that they do not need to be tough towards their fellow Jews! We aren't the people to be yelled at, to be brushed aside, to ignore! We are one in the same here, we are in the same battle. The same struggle for survival. This attitude problem, the lack of manners, etiquette, and nicety is a huge issue in this brand-new state.

Knowing all of this from too many experiences, where a sabra that retains his tough shell towards you will really not help you anymore than necessary (which means they do a lackluster job and cut corners), I greeted him with my name, a warm smile, and asked him how he was doing. He got quickly to work on the cable, but it turned out that some of our wiring was less than perfect. He went into a different room, and I stood wondering how I could extend a helping hand. What do I know of cable problems?

I did what any American, any Virginian, would do! I offered him a glass of water. He accepted. Instantly he was a different man. We talked about politics, my decision to move to Israel, thoughts on Israel and society -- all standard topics. But then he said something I've heard a few times since I've been here, and it always seems so incongruous to me. He described the attitude of the Westerner that moves to Israel for ideological reasons (me), and how they feel as if they have entered heaven. He said, "but this isn't Heaven! This place can be hell! The life here is hard: everything is expensive, everyone hates us, the government is ineffective in domestic matters, and Israelis are so rude."

It isn't that Israelis don't understand what they are, and that it isn't ideal to be so brash. The problem is that to change an inborn personality trait is one of the hardest things to ever do! A classic rabbi once said something along the lines of, "It is harder to change one part of our personality than to memorize the entire Torah." To change the Israeli abrasiveness is synonymous with changing our own desires for cars, houses, or high-profile jobs. It's just not that easy.

One of my greatest difficulties in coming to Israel, a difficulty shared by many Westerners, is letting my casual politeness subside for a moment to realize how to actually get something done around here. Raise your voice. Gesticulate. Do Not Budge. These are hard for a shy, soft-spoken, patient, tolerant, semi-southern kid to grasp!

Fortunately, the Western voice is being heard here more and more, and I've actually even read a few op-ed pieces in the biggest Israeli newspapers on the importance of manners and politeness. In addition, I was talking to someone from Nefesh B'Nefesh, and I mentioned how hard it is for me to act like a sabra, how hard it is to jump onto a bus without first allowing everyone else to pass. Long story made short, I was nearly chastised on thinking that just because I moved here I had to act so rudely. Essentially, whatever happened to "leading by example?" That's one of my goals here, to never really be so rude. This place is making me tougher, as I've always been sensitive to what others say and do, but not in any way that makes me less polite.


(Note: Don't think that Israelis walk around screaming at each other, pushing others off cliffs, and kicking people for looking at them. Israelis are human like any of us. Think of this persona as more of a New York too-hurried-to-be-nice type of thing...).