Home?

While I’ve seamlessly transitioned back into some parts of being in America, other things hit me in the weirdest ways. For example, it seems like I never even parted from access to a car, carpeting, central air (!), familiar TV channels, and free laundry. Other things, though, have jumped out at me. The hip hop and rap on the radio stations, for example, when I was expecting to hear recycled American hits of the 90’s followed by some nice Yemenite music, maybe with a dose of European techno.

It seems almost laughable that I can hardly buy a few apples and oranges for less than ten bucks, let alone fruit and vegetables for an entire week. Unfortunately, the joke’s on me. My completely American frisbee games make me wistfully think of the Hebrish nonsense that passed for communication back in Be’er Sheva on Wednesday nights, playing on a sorry excuse for a grassy field but euphoric all the same.

In the grocery store today, right as I got in line, I realized I’d forgotten an item on my list. Without a second thought, I parked my cart in line and dashed back to the fruit section. On my way back, I found myself trying to remember if grocery store line etiquette permits a cart to hold place in line. Definitely holds up in Israel.

Still good to be home, but maybe in a bit of denial.

Home

Everything is the same. Even though I am sitting at a different desk this summer, familiar faces meet me in the coffee area, walking by on the way to meetings, in the printer room, in the elevator. “I recognize you from last summer,” they say, “welcome back!” It’s like I never left. I’ve slipped right back into the same routine with the same job in the same city, exactly the same as last summer.


The bustle in the train station is also the same, though the throngs of people weaving between platforms never cease to amaze me. Where are they all going! Where did they come from! Of course, I’m sure their destinations are no more glamorous than mine around 5:30 pm on a work day, but the magic is in the mystery. Everyone sharing the American life: commute, 9-5, commute, start over.


One thing that is not the same: The Boston Celtics! Fortunately, my office is a ten minute walk from yesterday’s parade route, and I stole away for twenty minutes yesterday to participate in the celebration of the much coveted NBA championship. Surrounded by fans decked out in basketball jerseys and smoking cigars, fluttering green and white confetti, and the euphoric ambiance of any Boston championship parade, it was impossible not to get caught up in the excitement. I cheered and clapped as basketball players and their families cruised by on Duck tour vehicles, despite the fact that I honestly didn’t recognize a single one (I have never been one for watching sports…). This is the Boston I’ve known: sports obsessed to a manic degree, full of every accent known to man in one neighborhood or another, horns honking, birds chirping, and unending road construction projects all the livelong day. Did I miss it, or did I miss understanding it?


I feel as though something should have changed! To leave is so jarring, but to come back and acknowledge that everyone and everything I see hasn’t changed a bit is equally unsettling. Of course I knew this was coming; it’s like graduating high school and being surprised that the school doesn’t shut down because you’re not there anymore. Not really surprised, just a poignant reaffirmation that I am one of many, remembering that my life changing event is exactly that – an event that changes my life only.


Being with my family and friends here at home has been amazing. I missed them in a way I didn’t know I could, having been away for five and a half months. I missed the easy comfort of watching tv with my sisters and the support of my parents’ presence. We’re all off to our separate places and plans this summer; every year our time together is more fleeting. I wonder why the fact that Boston is the same as ever is so strange to me, and yet the unchanged family routine I’ve come back to is so comforting. A week before I came home, my mom told me that we’d gotten a pet dog named Milty. I didn’t believe her one bit, since a fake pet dog is definitely her type of joke. But, when she held the phone up, I could hear barking and panting with Marielle cooing “Milty” somewhere in the background. I couldn’t believe it, how could they get a dog without me! Without even mentioning it!


When I got home, we sat in my room, surrounding our new family member, watching her expectantly as though she were about to do a back flip or start speaking English. Due to my jetlag, the next morning I was up at 6 and took her for a stroll around the neighborhood, which almost prematurely concluded when she tried to charge the newspaper delivery guy. I noticed her leash was looking a little raggedy and wondered why (what I assumed to be) a brand new leash would already be fraying.


After a few more clues in the form of slips by Marielle and my dad, I uncovered the truth: we were dog sitting for our family friends’ dog, Nala. Don’t ask me why I didn’t recognize her. Part of me was disappointed, for in the day and a half that I knew her as Milty, Nala and I had gotten along well, and I was also peeved that I fell for one of my mom’s pranks once again. But part of me was relieved that my family had not, ultimately, adopted a new member without so much as an email of notification.


I guess change is a volatile phenomenon; it’s confusing when it rears its head and equally perplexing when it’s nowhere to be found. Either way, it makes me question the present: Am I sure I even left Boston for half a year? Do those people an ocean away really exist? A year from today, will I be half wondering the same things about my reality right now?


So. If you’re wondering, yes, it’s great to be home, and yes, I had a wonderful experience, yes, I missed it here, yes, I miss it there, yes, I will go back some day, but no, I don’t know when or why.


Thanks for reading. I might keep writing here, since it’s somewhat therapeutic and fun for me to read over. Plus, the blog site is not (yet) blocked at work. But I got e-marcus.net, our family web space, blocked last summer by checking it too often after I forwarded my Gmail account over there, so I won’t be too optimistic. Fortunately, I’ve found a way around that this summer (crossing my fingers), so be in touch!


Love,
Ilana

Almost Home...

I can’t believe I’m going to be home in four days. Even though I’ve been mentally preparing for this since my classes ended two weeks ago, part of me is still in shock. One of the greatest things about travelling is the opportunity to simply speak to so many different people. At home, it’s so easy to sink back into the routine of seeing old friends, going to work, and hardly getting out to explore a new place or be exposed to new people.


Here, I’m the interesting one. Maybe it’s a little bit egotistical, but the attention people pay tourists is sort of addictive. Ooh, you’re from Boston? How far is that from New York? You know, I worked in Boston! Yeah, at the Natick Mall, selling lotions. What’s it like in Boston? Do you like it here? Why did you come here? When are you going back? Why so soon! When will you come back again?


I have no idea when I’ll come back again. This is one of the first times I’ve been here without have the slightest notion of when I’ll be back again. This is connected to the larger question of “What will I do with my life?” that I’d prefer not to explore at the moment.


In one year I’ll be graduating and I could go anywhere. Yes, my roots are in Boston, but this is exactly when I should be open-minded about what I’ll do and where I’ll do it. I could come back here to Israel, I could move to California (sorry Mommy), I could stay put in Boston. (I’m not really crazy about New York, which might have otherwise made the “potential future location” list.) The realm of possibilities is so gigantic it’s practically meaningless. A part of me wants to spend the next few years getting really good at a bunch of languages and then doing… something.


At least the next few months are basically set in stone. I’ll be working in Boston, playing lots of frisbee, and reuniting with my friends (whom I’ve sorely missed). It’ll be nice, terrific even, but part of me will pine for the freedom to hop on a train and travel up or down half the country, get off at a beach or wander around a market, talk to some people, then blog about it on the train ride home.

Musical Tunnelling

Imagine wading through about 1.5 feet of water in a narrow underground tunnel with minimal light and a few inches between you and the next person. Now, imagine the same thing while being sandwiched from the front by a bunch of rambunctious Israeli teenage boys and from the back by a chorus of Amish folk in suits, dresses, and bonnets, singing songs about Jesus, led by a tall man with a lantern. It is somewhat reminiscent of a twisted gold panning excursion in the Yukon in the 1900's.


However, this is where Avital and I found ourselves on Sunday in Jerusalem, exploring the ancient tunnels which served to bring water into the besieged City of David years ago. It took us at least an hour to snake from the opening to the tunnel to the pool at the other end. There were times when we had to duck in order to walk through and others when the top of the tunnel was feet (meters?) above us.


While the basic premise of walking through a chiseled stone tunnel made over 2000 years ago is in itself amazing, our company certainly added to the experience. It was suggested by site staff that we sing as we went through (as an hour wade through darkness and water can pass kind of slowly in silence), and almost immediately the Amish behind us began a slow harmonious praise to Jesus. It didn’t take long for the Israeli teens in front of us to break out in Hebrew pop songs in response. They then cycled through American hits, Israeli hits, Israeli folk songs, a few prayers, and a few renditions of Halleluyah, all of this over the steady Amazing Grace-like tunes coming from behind us. The Israelis even took requests and suggestions from me and Avital. (We were especially instrumental in filling in lyrics to songs like “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion, though it was confusing to hear a song from Lion King sung in Hebrew.) The combination of Christian prayer and Israeli enthusiasm (for lack of a better term) was overwhelming.


The whole thing just seemed so funny to me, and when we came out into the light at the end of the tunnel, one of the Amish women came over and said that she especially enjoyed one of the Halleluyah numbers we’d put on. I guess these entries are starting to get monotonous, but again, the message here is that these are the sorts of things I’ll miss.


One thing I’m not sure I’ll miss, though, is the Israeli who looks about 15 sitting across from me on the train, wearing a police uniform wielding a 3 foot long gun.



p.s. I've SCHEDULED another post to publish itself two days from now (cool huh?) since I might not be by a computer so check back soon :)