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 :)

Oops

Today on my way to the train station I passed a store and caught a glimpse of the sign. The name of the store was “Isratool.” I thought, hmm, is this a hardware store? I read the next line, I thought it said something about selling cats (in Hebrew, cat is chatool, which would explain the name of the store). The next line, however, threw me off: “One time use,” which basically amounts to “disposable.” Now, I know Israel has a problem with their cats, but a store selling them for one time use?? That’s just inhumane. However, once I re-read the store name, everything became clear. The word for “diapers” is just one letter off from the word for “cats” (diaper: chitool). I’ll miss these moments of pointless confusion.

Eye Opening

Since classes ended, had the opportunity to visit family friends and do some traveling, which has been really great so far. I spent the past few days in Tel Aviv where I went swimming at the beach (Be’er Sheva needs one of those) and wandered around the open air market and artists’ fair. But the greatest afternoon was spent pretending to be blind.

In Holon, the city immediately south of Tel Aviv, the Children’s Museum is hosting an exhibit called “Diolog B’Chashica,” or Dialog in the Dark. The exhibit has made appearances all over the world, but Israel and another country (I forget which) are the only ones where the exhibit is semi-permanent.

My friend Avital and I showed up and the woman selling tickets offered us a tour in English, which we accepted. We were provided with walking sticks for sensing obstacles in our path, and with that, were told to enter a dark hallway with one hand on the wall, one hand brushing the stick on the ground, walking toward the sound of our guide’s voice. Entering complete and utter darkness is strange. My eyes and brain kept searching for light but to no avail. I think my head was even making up some light to keep me sane, but I really couldn’t see a thing. Normally, groups of fifteen are led through the dark maze of rooms, but for me and Avital, it was a private tour in English. Not a bad deal at all, since the rooms aren’t so big and in all that darkness, people often become dizzy or claustrophobic.

Fortunately, the voice of our guide, Meir, was very comforting and his instructions were clear. We spent the next hour or so wandering through a garden complete with cricketing crickets, trees, grass, and a small waterfall, then a hunter’s apartment (where we felt objects in the room and guessed what they were, including a goat’s skull!), and we even went on a short boat ride, where we felt the letters on the back of the boat and discovered that its name is Hannah. Our destination was an open air market where we felt through some fruits and vegetables, pedaled on a stationary bicycle, and discovered a car. Next was an empty room where we lay on the ground and listened to different music, feeling the base vibrating our bodies through the floor. Finally, we were directed to a small café, where we could buy some snacks at the bar and then sit down at a table. We were told at the start of the exhibit to bring a few coins in with us, and it was entertaining guessing which coins we were pulling out (despite my lesser familiarity with Israeli coins as compared to quarters, nickels, and dimes, it wasn’t as challenging as I expected it to be).

As we ate our snacks, we had the chance to ask Meir any questions we’d been pondering as we wandered through a world of darkness. We learned that he’d been blind from birth, having been born prematurely when medical technology wasn’t exactly what it is today. He did one of his degrees in the States, which is why his English was so good. It turns out that Braille is international and is used for many different alphabets (the guttural letter “chet” in Hebrew is written using three “English” Braille letters, t-h-e). Finally, as the tour came to an end, he asked us if we wanted to see him, or if we wanted him to remain a mystery. I hesitated for a second, pondering the idea of leaving the smooth, comforting voice in the dark forever, just as he would remember ours. We decided to see him, and we emerged from blindness, light sneaking around the corridor.

I don’t know how I was expecting Meir to look. I guess from the confidence he exuded guiding us through darkness, I thought he would be a commanding presence, wide shoulders, arms crossed, dark glasses, something like that. But he was a regular guy, gesturing with his hands, quick smiles flitting across his face every few seconds as we expressed our appreciation and bade him farewell. He hadn’t been using a walking stick at all. He said he views his blindness as a technical disability, one of many the human species experiences, and that he thinks ignorance and stupidity are more debilitating than blindness anyway.

It was a little scary and stifling, having no visual sense of space. The walking stick definitely helped, though I kicked Avital while getting off the bicycle and jabbed her with the stick a few times as well.

If anyone makes it to the Tel Aviv area, definitely stop by this exhibit, it’ll change the way you see blindness.

Pesach!

Pesach this year was definitely a new experience for me. One of my mom’s best friends growing up, Pam, flew out to Israel to spend Pesach with her daughter, Arielle, who is on a gap year in Israel program based in Be’er Sheva. They graciously invited me to spend the first few days of Pesach with them on Kibbutz Ma’abarot, near Netanya, where Pam’s boyfriend Ilan grew up (I know, how everyone is related is confusing. Imagine me trying to introduce myself and explain my connection to the family all weekend…)

Arielle, Pam, Arielle’s friend Lauren, and I almost missed our train since I hadn’t anticipated the crazy long security line due to holiday travel, but fortunately we made it on. We weren’t fortunate enough to find seats however, and we spent the bulk of the ride leaning on our bags right by the door to the car. We were not alone. About eight soldiers were packed around us cheerfully blasting mp3’s out of their cellphones, also sprawled on the floor amidst hiking packs. They were good company – one told me about his brother’s post-army trip to South America, where he bought a donkey and fed it carrots. The things you learn…

Eventually, we arrived at our stop and Ilan picked us up. Our two stops on the way to the kibbutz in the rental car included a lunch break at a falafel joint in Netanya (hard boiled egg in a falafel and pita is surprisingly good). The falafel making guy was a machine, it was impossible to stop him. Hence, we ended up with some awfully unidentifiable ingredients in our sandwiches, but they were good! So no questions!

The second stop was at a small river by the kibbutz known for its soft shelled tuftles. These things were huge – pretty sweet as far as turtles go. (Stay tuned for a future entry about my desert turtle escapade a while ago, haven’t gotten it down in writing yet, but it was awesome.)

Finally we arrived at the kibbutz, which is absolutely gorgeous. Green and flowers everywhere, ripe fruits waiting to be plucked off trees, small ponds and fountains scattered around the community. Garden of Eden wannabe, easily the most beautiful kibbutz I’ve ever seen. I spent a good chunk of the weekend studying for my computer science final, though a good chunk of “studying” was really taking in the gorgeous surroundings and chilling with Ilan’s great niece, Yarden.

Yarden is a funny kid. As a nine year old, it took her a while to acknowledge my presence at all, but I guess my sister Marielle trained me well since she finally decided I was interesting enough to talk to, and once she opened her mouth, she didn’t stop talking for two days straight. She told me about all kinds of things about the cool kids and the uncool kids, how it is rare to be both popular and [gasp] nice, and how obviously, she is a cool kid. It was kind of sad to see how someone so young has such an ingrained and nuanced grasp on social hierarchy, but funny to hear such a familiar construct explained by a kid more than ten years younger than me, and in Hebrew, to boot.

Me and Yarden at the Seder

The Pesach Seder itself was also far removed from anything I’d ever experienced before. Actually, no. Imagine a cross between your typical elementary school milestone play, and a meal. That’s what the Seder was like. Kibbutz youth of different ages sang and danced, older kibbutz members performed as well, and some of the Haggada reading was call and response. Not what I’m used to, and didn’t feel exactly like Pesach, but the gefilte fish was SO GOOD. It was made of carp grown on the kibbutz, and yeah, I know gefilte fish is really hit or miss with most people, but if you’re into it, a trip to this kibbutz during Pesach just might be worth it. The Seder was followed by dessert and Israeli dancing outside the dining hall. How nice to discover the dances I learned in Jewish school and camp aren’t the choreography creations of American Jews, as some may suspect. They exist in Israel too! Woohoo!

After the Seder at the kibbutz, Pam, Yarden, Ilan, Ilan’s son Alon, and I (Ilan, Alon, and Ilana in one room was basically disastrous; Pam would ask one of us a question, and we’d all simultaneously answer) drove over to Ilan’s sister’s house in Netanya to drop in on the end of their seder. We got there around 12:30 AM (!) and by the time we left around 3, I was about to pass out. I had a really nice time there though; Ilan’s nieces and nephews are around my age and the group of us talked for a while then played some Hebrew and English songs on guitar.

The rest of the night and weekend wound down quickly after that, and before I knew it, I was on my way to Tel Aviv to play in a frisbee tournament! More to come…