Goodbye, BY

Once again, I find myself apologizing for lack of blog posts. Well, I've been a LITTLE busy. Here's what's been up:

Last week was my birthday (yay for 19!) and my parents came to visit me. We hut up the Douche (yes, they both made it out in one piece, but I had to teach them the "Slicha and push" technique in order to spend less than two hours in the produce section) and of course, Home Center, where all home goods and needs are met, just in no particular order or organization. They came with me to volunteering to meet my kids, and since it was my final day at Ben Gurion school, my students made me goodbye cards and wouldn't let me get out the door. They don't understand why I need to move (quite honestly, neither do I, other than it's what I'm scheduled to do) and only want to know if I'm coming back. I told them I would do my best to visit.

After visiting the school where I work, the college where I take classes and showing them around Tel Aviv and the most exciting parts of Bat Yam, my parents helped me prepare a Thanksgiving meal for me and my friends! My dad chopped vegetables and my mom sauteed (she also cleaned the place from floor to ceiling). A trip to the Douche returned 7 kilos of "hodo" (turkey) but not in the form of whole, bones and skin bird; turkey breast only. Cooking it became interesting, but not nearly as much of an adventure as the pumpkin pie. My mom and I found what we thought resembled pie crust in the frozen pastry section of the supermarket, lined a pie tin and made a pumpkin pie. After sticking it in the oven for about 20 minutes, we checked on it, and my mom, with a petrified look on her face, said, "Elana, I don't really think we got pie crust. This is, um, puffing. Pies shouldn't puff." Indeed, we hadn't bought pie crust. We got puff pastry dough. Ooops. Nonetheless, the pie was saved, and after some time playing with the oven temperature and moving the pie around, it didn't end up being a complete disaster.

On Friday night, our tsofim threw us prom, Israeli style, in Tel Aviv. Beforehand, I invited a bunch of my friends for "pre-prom" leftovers (those 7 kilos of turkey might have been overkill). Prom was, to say the least, eventful. An open bar, thirsty American teenagers who still haven't learned their limits and a reason to celebrate combined in what can only be described as mayhem. Naturally, around 3am, it seemed like a good idea to go to Benedict's for breakfast. Yum.

So now, it's my last full day in Bat Yam. I'm sitting among suitcases and bare walls, an empty refrigerator and cleaned-out closets. The apartment is nearly restored to the state in which we found it. A little while ago I returned from picking up my laundry one last time. Generally, I'd try to flag down a cab to take me from the one side of the city where the laundry place is back to my apartment. However, today, I decided to walk, laundry bag in hand. As I trekked back through the city to Katzenelson street, I found myself noticing all the little things that make Bat Yam special to me. The kitty count reaching 20 before turning a corner (that is, 20 cats on one block. No repeats) Women walking to the Douche with their wheeling grocery bags (really, it's plaid and otherwise unfortunately patterned luggage with a handle and oversized wheels for easy navigation to and from the market). Children running through the street, screaming, dodging cars that are exceeding speed limits by about 50 kilometers. I also noticed that I barely broke a sweat, unlike three months ago when simply breathing made me start schvitzing like a farm animal. I walked past the mall, home of the Douche and schwarma stand, up Yoseftal street that runs all the way to the beach, where we spent our first weekends when it wasn't too cold to sit out in a bathing suit. I listened to the bickering and shouting around me, shocked at how much I understood. I saw the cat lady feeding stale bread to the neighborhood kitties behind the library. And then, as I reached my front steps, I glanced at the Super Katzenelson, where I've had to run for emergency milk, extra cheese, a piece of fruit, or an ice cream pick-me-up more times than I can count. It was then that my eyes started to well and I realized that I really am leaving this place. This place that has become my home. I know that Arad will be new and challenging, but I don't feel quite ready to pack up and go. Just as I've learned the bus system, the short cuts and all the ins and outs of Bat Yam and Tel Aviv, I'm reloading my suitcases (they're heavier now) and heading south. There is no way for me to know exactly what awaits, but I know there won't be a Douche, a Super Katzenelson, a finicky oven or the students of Ben Gurion School in Arad. I may find their equivalents, but I know it won't be the same. It feels like only yesterday I was moving in, flooding the apartment due to lack of shower plumbing, and getting lost everywhere I went. Time has flown by. I know that these three months are unique and special in and of themselves, and I know I will never forget the people, the places and the crazy memories I've made here.

Thank you, Bat Yam, for teaching me so much about Israel and about myself. I know I'll be back. And next time, I'm bringing a meat thermometer. You can't find those here.

More from Arad in a few days,

Elana