If you are considering going to see a movie on a Saturday night in this country, don't. Never, under any circumstances, should you act on that idea. Bake a cake. Go to the beach. Knit a sweater (that's too hot to wear in Israel) but do not, ever, go see a movie on a Saturday night. Let me tell you why. Almost everything closes Friday in the late afternoon for Shabbat, remains closed all day Saturday, and reopens Saturday night. Cinema City is no exception to this rule. Everybody and their Uncle Ofer goes to Cinema City on Saturday night to see a movie. Well, I didn't know this, and neither did my roommate. So, like idiots (dumb Americans), we went to try and see Eat, Pray, Love last night. Major mistake. We got to the complex, and not only was it swarming with people, the line for movie tickets bent around at least twenty deep. It was madness. I was pushed and shoved in every direction, by people twice my size and four times my age (lines are not really an Israeli thing. Neither is patience. Hmm) When I finally got to the front of the line, I was informed that the 9 PM show had sold out (thank you, Shabbat, and thank you, lack of Fandango. You really don't appreciate the small stuff till it's gone. Or till it's all in Hebrew) and we could only see the midnight movie. I had to wake up early for volunteering, so midnight was not happening. In any case, we went to our favorite Thai restaurant for dinner and the manager gave us dessert on the house (apple pie with vanilla ice cream, naturally. Between the English menus and simply by being ourselves, we radiate American-ness, so why shouldn't our dessert be American, too? Go figure). We are hoping to see the movie later this week, but it won't be on a Saturday. You could not get me to Cinema City with a ten foot pole on a Saturday. No thank you.
This morning I woke up extra early to spend the day volunteering at one of Israel's largest aid facilities, Latet. Latet is an incredibly large warehouse that operates as a human needs food pantry. Donations are shipped and delivered to the warehouse (it's about 45 minutes away from Bat Yam) in boxes of assorted canned goods and non-perishable foods. Volunteers (i.e. us) then unpack all the donations, sort them, and repack them in official Latet boxes (organized by food type, number, and weight) to be given to those in need. We were told to meet at a central point in Bat Yam, bring snacks and water, and prepare for a long day. That was it. No other specifications. Upon arriving, the guy running the warehouse saw our shoes and shook his head disapprovingly. We were wearing sandals. Everyone in Israel wears sandals. You wear sneakers for one of two reasons: 1) you're exercising, or 2) you're a tourist. We weren't doing the first and we're trying to avoid the second, so flip flops have become a permanent outfit staple of mine. However, we couldn't wear sandals to work in the warehouse, but we had schlepped to the food bank, ready to volunteer, so we had to figure something out. Luckily, there is a large sporting goods store a few blocks from Latet, so our group leader Eyal took us to purchase some shoes, on Year Course's dime, not our own. The store window is papered with recognizable name brands: Converse, Adidas, Nike. Unfortunately, none of these were in the cards for us. Eyal made a point of telling the woman behind the counter we needed cheap, closed-toe shoes. Sure enough, she came up with a solution: water shoes. Yes, water shoes. Ugly, hot, blue water shoes that run in odd European sizes and cost 50 shekel a pair, less if you buy in bulk (which we did). So, I spent today packing and unpacking canned goods, oil, and rice in blue water shoes two sizes too big for my feet. I understood why they were so cheap when I took them off on the bus ride home: my feet had turned blue. From the shoes. Oh, excellent. But apart from the shoes (which we were laughing about after an hour) volunteering at Latet was awesome. It was hot, sweaty and tiring, but awesome. I think I packed six hundred or so bags of rice, hundreds of bottles of oil, and tons of salt, flour and canned goods. We were working with a group of Israeli soldiers who have recently started their army training and need to fulfill community service requirements, so they got a kick out of us trying to read the Hebrew labels on everything (when they stopped laughing, they helped us). It was a fantastic experience - I'll post pictures when I can!
After Latet, I ventured to Super Douche (oy) to purchase enough chicken to feed forty hungry girls. One of the girls' apartments hosted a pot luck dinner tonight, and every apartment had to bring a dish. We were in charge of chicken because my cacciatore was, apparently, a success. So, three kilos of chicken (almost seven pounds), seven large onions, garlic, oregano, two cartons of mushrooms and two cans of tomatoes later, we had cacciatore. Two aluminum tins of it. And there were barely leftovers. Only once the first batch was gone did I realize I forgot the olives. Sorry, Mom. Not only did each apartment have to cook, we all had to dress up in a theme. Since we knew it would be a night of walking all around Bat Yam, carrying chicken cacciatore through town (that's something they don't see very often - mobile chicken cacciatore. Or cacciatore in general), we opted for comfort: we were a slumber party and all showed up dressed in our pajamas! One apartment dressed up as ninjas, the hosting apartment got creative with their plastic Super Douche bags and were "super douches" and another group came as superheroes. It was quite the party.
That's been the last 36 hours, but to backtrack a little further, I finally went to dance class this past Saturday! I joined a studio in Tel Aviv called Studio B (it's the Israel equivalent to Broadway Dance or Steps... major New York studios) and with my membership, I can take any advanced class I want! On Saturday, I woke up early and went to advanced ballet. I later learned that one of the girls in the class had spent the summer in New York at Juilliard. She was the best one there. But all told, I felt pretty comfortable with the level, the teacher and the other dancers there. Granted, it was all in Hebrew (but all ballet terminology is in French, so I understood 80% of what happened) but I held my own. Luckily, I can count to eight in Hebrew (dancers only need to know how to count to eight. Not even ten, just eight) and although I was the youngest one in the class, I was certainly not the least trained. No dance teacher of mine has ever, until now, said "Shabbat Shalom," instructed me to tuck in my "toussik" (butt) or told me not to flex my foot by screaming "lo chazarah!" ("flex" in Hebrew, from what I gathered, is "chazarah," like "chazarai," or "clutter"). When we began combinations across the floor, I understood we were beginning at the corner when I heard "pinot," as in the song about Haman's three-cornered hat we sing on Purim (shalosh pinot = three corners). Thank you, Hebrew school. Who ever thought a song about Haman's silly hat would make me look like less of an idiot in ballet class? Not me, that's for sure.
Those are all the most interesting tidbits for now. My friends and I went to the American bar, Mike's Place, to watch the Giants lose, so that was a disappointment, and now the only thing left to do is get some sleep. I think that's my next logical move: pajamas. But not to eat dinner (I could not eat another thing if you asked me to), to finally go to bed.
Good night from Bat Yam, more soon,
Elana xoxox
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