Here are the top five events since Yom Kippur:
1. Classes and volunteering resumed for a total of three days. They are now on hold until October 3 due to Sukkot. One more holiday and I think I will have a total of 30 minutes of volunteer time while living in Bat Yam. However, today my group had our meeting at a local elementary school where we will be teaching English to fifth and sixth grade students. We met with the principal and the English teacher; what I find crazy is that the students, and we, are instructed to call the teachers by their first names. No "Mrs" or "Ms," but "Carmella" and "Larissa" and "Tzippi." Something tells me if I ever tried that in school, things would not turn out well. After our meeting (they were quite impressed by our Powerpoint presentation; I mean, the background on the slides DID match the theme of our lesson plans, so I'm pretty sure that sealed the deal) we were invited to stay for a "ceremony" about the three holidays (Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Sukkot). This was not a normal assembly. Every student, at one point, either sang a song, did a dance with his or her grade, performed a memorized poem or skit, or did a combination of several. It was adorable, and quite impressive. The principal introduced us at the beginning of the meeting (pre-song and dance festivities) and a hundred wide eyes turned around to see the six American girls sitting at the back; you would have thought we were the lions at the zoo - the most awesome of attractions. Too bad we were a combination of tired, sweaty, unkempt and once again, sweaty. I think they were all slightly disappointed. In any case, we start working in classrooms at the beginning of next month; there are about 24 kids per class, so we will be sufficiently outnumbered. It will certainly be a challenge!
2. My apartment has acquired a shower curtain. The shower no longer closely resembles Noah's ark. I will not miss the flash flood of water that was always on the floor of the bathroom; the days of risking breaking my neck simply by stepping out of the tub have ended. I am not sad about this.
3. Our oven no longer works. It seems as though while Ofer and Omer (I am going to assume the maintenance guys who came to install our shower curtain were named Ofer and Omer. This is generally a safe bet) were putting up our shower curtain, they managed to leave us with only one working outlet in the kitchen (there are at least six outlets in the kitchen) and a defunct oven. How this occurred, I could not tell you. Granted, our apartment is not a big place, but there is no way installing a shower curtain should ever tango with oven function. Anyway, good luck making dinner sans oven. I did it, but it was not simple. I decided (before realizing our oven was useless) to make teriyaki salmon for the four of us for dinner. Well, after a solid hour of marinating the fish and sauteing some onions, I went to turn on the broiler. No luck. I thought it was the outlet. So, one of my roommates helped me move the oven (it's free-standing, so we were able to wiggle it away from the wall) into, of all places, the living room, where there are several outlets. After moving it across the apartment and plugging it in, only to realize that the oven itself was broken, I had some choice words. But I was also intent on having salmon for dinner. We returned the oven to its rightful spot, and I plugged in our burner (it's really a hotplate with two coils that can be moved based on available space and working outlets. Thank God our burner isn't on our oven, because then we'd have had sashimi). I ended up cooking and reheating the salmon, the onions, and made some chicken in case the salmon tasted like feet (it could have been a disaster) on the single burner, some rice, and of course, Israeli salad, and we had a delicious meal! When the going gets tough, the tough use their wimpy hot plates! In retrospect, we could have built a fire outside. But I'm pretty sure the Russian lady who lives downstairs would not have liked that.
4. Finally, Israeli dance class happened! The teacher's name is Marvin, he's a classically trained dancer from the States who made Aliyah several years ago. In an hour's time, we learned three Israeli dances (one line dance, and two that are done in a circle). How to differentiate the steps? In the line dance, there is a lot of vertical (up and down) motion, while in the circle, you move from side to side. Do not get me started on the whole direction-switching fandango. Some people are just not meant to dance in close proximity to others. Ever. But no one got (too) hurt and it ended up being a great time. If you're ever given the opportunity to learn Israeli dance, try it! But make sure to bring lots of water and, depending upon who your dance partner(s) are, a helmet.
5. I am going back to Jerusalem tomorrow with my roommate to explore an art festival happening in honor of Sukkot. The festival is all day tomorrow; we are spending the night in the Old City at a youth hostel and will return Thursday night, when the buses begin running again. I'm sure the next few days will be yet another adventure! Wish me luck!
I PROMISE to post pictures when I return from Jerusalem!
Thanks for reading, lots of love,
Elana xoxox
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Yom Kippur in Yerushalayim!
Hello everyone and Shana Tova! The past week has been completely overwhelming. I had a full four days of classes and volunteering- planning meetings, completing lengthy homework assignments and already studying for quizzes! For Yom Kippur, two of my friends and I journeyed to Jerusalem (approximately two hours on two different buses). After checking in to our hotel, we ate WAY too much pre- Kol Nidre and then walked to the American synagogue.
What's interesting about the American synagogue is that it's actually called Moreshet Yisrael ("moreshet" means "settlements," and is therefore interpreted as "Israel Settlements" for people who had originally come from Western countries to Israel and needed a synagogue). The building where the synagogue now sits was originally a church, and several decades ago, was transformed into a synagogue by a group of rabbis. Before services on Friday night, we met a woman (she looked about 95 years old) whose husband was one of the rabbis who founded the synagogue. She told us that she comes to shul because it reminds her of him. There was a unanimous "awww" from the three of us. Then there was the usher, Jane. I was told by Arlene, one of the synagogue office managers, who had helped me secure tickets for Yom Kippur services days before, to find Jane the usher and give her the money for our tickets. I had pictured Jane as a middle-aged woman who would have been able to walk up and down the aisles of the sanctuary with ease. But no. I think Jane and Teddy Herzl were pen pals. She is one of the most adorable, lively women I have ever had the chance to meet, hobbling around the synagogue, greeting everyone, and telling me in particular (during mincha services this afternoon, no less) that she would give me a "nosh," if she could ("Sorry, honey, still no snacks for a little while!" So cute).
We made it through Kol Nidre and then began wandering through Jerusalem. The craziest part of spending Yom Kippur in Jerusalem is that the entire city shuts down. The only cars on the street are the MADA vehicles (Magen David Adom, the EMTs of Israel) and pedestrians (my friends and I included) walk through the middle of the roads. At one point, we decided to lay down on Hesod Street (one of the major roads of Jerusalem) and watched the traffic lights blink yellow and the stars come out. We even saw Jupiter! At no other time (and probably no other place in the world) could three teenage girls safely lie down in the middle of a normally busy street, silly from sleep depravation and needing a distraction from quick on-set thirst. We later found Gilad Shalit's family who keep a tent on one of Jerusalem's side streets, surrounded by posters and flags from innumerable countries signed by supporters. His family sits under an enlarged picture of him, with what looks like a scoreboard, but the numbers displayed do not denote the score of a soccer game, but his days in captivity. Thus far, it has been over four years.
After falling asleep quite early, we woke up, threw on new white shirts and plain skirts (everyone wears white on Yom Kippur, especially in Jerusalem, to symbolize a clean slate for the upcoming year) to walk to the Kotel. On Yom Kippur, no one showers or washes, puts on makeup or perfume, or indulges in luxuries like leather goods and technology. We left our cell phones and cameras in the hotel room, skipped usual makeup and beauty routines, and began walking. It was about a thirty minute walk from the hotel to the Wall, through the Old City and the shouk (which was open, despite the holiday). Our trip through the market made me think - we passed fellow Kotel-goers, decked out in white and carrying tallit (prayer shawls), Greek Orthodox in long black robes, who walked in groups toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, store owners screaming at one another in rapid Arabic - Jerusalem is home for so many religions, for so many practices and traditions. If what I experienced in the shouk, however brief, could be real all the time, peacefully coexisting isn't impossible. Just loud.
When we finally arrived at the Wall, I was shocked to see how empty the women's side was. For those of you who are familiar with the Kotel, it is divided rather unevenly, favoring the men by granting them nearly twice the space women have. However, on the day of Yom Kippur, when one would expect it to be exceedingly crowded, we found it quiet. My roommate and I walked directly up the to the Wall, no pushing or "slicha"-ing ("slicha" means "excuse me" in Hebrew) required. After spending some time at the Kotel, we "(literally) ran into some friends who stayed at a youth hostel (on the roof of it, to be totally honest) in the Old City. We climbed the nearly endless, winding stairs to where they had spent the night, and could see all of Jerusalem, into the desert and beyond the city, from the hostel's roof.
Eventually, we began walking back toward the hotel and the American synagogue; I attended evening and Neilah services, we heard the shofar blast (at approximately 6:35, but who was counting?) and broke the fast with way too much babkah and tuna fish at the hotel. On the bus ride back to Bat Yam, I found myself thinking about the rabbi's sermon the night before. Rabbi Frank had discussed the decisions we make as Jews. He mentioned a Jewish football coach (who is a friend of his, apparently) who, some years, must decide between coaching a game and attending Kol Nidre. The choice itself does not make him more or less Jewish, or even a good or bad Jew, but sticking to the decision and living with its consequences are the true measures of character in this situation. Deciding to fast is a great first step, but maintaining the fast and what it represents is what makes Yom Kippur a truly Jewish experience. In one of my new classes, Business Ethics and Judaism (the irony does not escape me) my teacher told us about his first encounter with true poverty. He was approached by a man in the street who wanted one of the sandwiches my teacher had been holding. After sparing a sandwich, my teacher watched as the beggar broke the sandwich in half, pocketing the piece he would save for his next meal. That is yachatz (breaking bread - this is why we break the middle matzah on Passover, to remind ourselves of true poverty and hardship, not just for the Afikomen). Making the decision to give this man a sandwich was one thing, but then having to understand his situation by watching him break the food in half and save it for God only knows when is something else entirely. Deciding to help someone is wonderful, but deciding to understand them and their perils, and acting on those convictions? That takes much more.
I decided to spend a year in Israel, but actually coming here and having the experiences I am fortunate enough to have required so much more. I realized, on this rather long bus ride to Bat Yam, that making decisions is a somewhat passive activity - it is acting on these decisions, acting to make them real and of course, getting the most out of what we do.
This year, I have decided to make an impact on the Bat Yam community. I have decided to learn Hebrew. I have decided to make new friends, to travel around Israel, to live in Africa for a month, to feel comfortable in new cultures and new situations. Deciding all of these things was easy. Doing them, living them, and appreciating them? That all sounds much more difficult.
More when I've had some sleep!
Layla tov,
Elana
What's interesting about the American synagogue is that it's actually called Moreshet Yisrael ("moreshet" means "settlements," and is therefore interpreted as "Israel Settlements" for people who had originally come from Western countries to Israel and needed a synagogue). The building where the synagogue now sits was originally a church, and several decades ago, was transformed into a synagogue by a group of rabbis. Before services on Friday night, we met a woman (she looked about 95 years old) whose husband was one of the rabbis who founded the synagogue. She told us that she comes to shul because it reminds her of him. There was a unanimous "awww" from the three of us. Then there was the usher, Jane. I was told by Arlene, one of the synagogue office managers, who had helped me secure tickets for Yom Kippur services days before, to find Jane the usher and give her the money for our tickets. I had pictured Jane as a middle-aged woman who would have been able to walk up and down the aisles of the sanctuary with ease. But no. I think Jane and Teddy Herzl were pen pals. She is one of the most adorable, lively women I have ever had the chance to meet, hobbling around the synagogue, greeting everyone, and telling me in particular (during mincha services this afternoon, no less) that she would give me a "nosh," if she could ("Sorry, honey, still no snacks for a little while!" So cute).
We made it through Kol Nidre and then began wandering through Jerusalem. The craziest part of spending Yom Kippur in Jerusalem is that the entire city shuts down. The only cars on the street are the MADA vehicles (Magen David Adom, the EMTs of Israel) and pedestrians (my friends and I included) walk through the middle of the roads. At one point, we decided to lay down on Hesod Street (one of the major roads of Jerusalem) and watched the traffic lights blink yellow and the stars come out. We even saw Jupiter! At no other time (and probably no other place in the world) could three teenage girls safely lie down in the middle of a normally busy street, silly from sleep depravation and needing a distraction from quick on-set thirst. We later found Gilad Shalit's family who keep a tent on one of Jerusalem's side streets, surrounded by posters and flags from innumerable countries signed by supporters. His family sits under an enlarged picture of him, with what looks like a scoreboard, but the numbers displayed do not denote the score of a soccer game, but his days in captivity. Thus far, it has been over four years.
After falling asleep quite early, we woke up, threw on new white shirts and plain skirts (everyone wears white on Yom Kippur, especially in Jerusalem, to symbolize a clean slate for the upcoming year) to walk to the Kotel. On Yom Kippur, no one showers or washes, puts on makeup or perfume, or indulges in luxuries like leather goods and technology. We left our cell phones and cameras in the hotel room, skipped usual makeup and beauty routines, and began walking. It was about a thirty minute walk from the hotel to the Wall, through the Old City and the shouk (which was open, despite the holiday). Our trip through the market made me think - we passed fellow Kotel-goers, decked out in white and carrying tallit (prayer shawls), Greek Orthodox in long black robes, who walked in groups toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, store owners screaming at one another in rapid Arabic - Jerusalem is home for so many religions, for so many practices and traditions. If what I experienced in the shouk, however brief, could be real all the time, peacefully coexisting isn't impossible. Just loud.
When we finally arrived at the Wall, I was shocked to see how empty the women's side was. For those of you who are familiar with the Kotel, it is divided rather unevenly, favoring the men by granting them nearly twice the space women have. However, on the day of Yom Kippur, when one would expect it to be exceedingly crowded, we found it quiet. My roommate and I walked directly up the to the Wall, no pushing or "slicha"-ing ("slicha" means "excuse me" in Hebrew) required. After spending some time at the Kotel, we "(literally) ran into some friends who stayed at a youth hostel (on the roof of it, to be totally honest) in the Old City. We climbed the nearly endless, winding stairs to where they had spent the night, and could see all of Jerusalem, into the desert and beyond the city, from the hostel's roof.
Eventually, we began walking back toward the hotel and the American synagogue; I attended evening and Neilah services, we heard the shofar blast (at approximately 6:35, but who was counting?) and broke the fast with way too much babkah and tuna fish at the hotel. On the bus ride back to Bat Yam, I found myself thinking about the rabbi's sermon the night before. Rabbi Frank had discussed the decisions we make as Jews. He mentioned a Jewish football coach (who is a friend of his, apparently) who, some years, must decide between coaching a game and attending Kol Nidre. The choice itself does not make him more or less Jewish, or even a good or bad Jew, but sticking to the decision and living with its consequences are the true measures of character in this situation. Deciding to fast is a great first step, but maintaining the fast and what it represents is what makes Yom Kippur a truly Jewish experience. In one of my new classes, Business Ethics and Judaism (the irony does not escape me) my teacher told us about his first encounter with true poverty. He was approached by a man in the street who wanted one of the sandwiches my teacher had been holding. After sparing a sandwich, my teacher watched as the beggar broke the sandwich in half, pocketing the piece he would save for his next meal. That is yachatz (breaking bread - this is why we break the middle matzah on Passover, to remind ourselves of true poverty and hardship, not just for the Afikomen). Making the decision to give this man a sandwich was one thing, but then having to understand his situation by watching him break the food in half and save it for God only knows when is something else entirely. Deciding to help someone is wonderful, but deciding to understand them and their perils, and acting on those convictions? That takes much more.
I decided to spend a year in Israel, but actually coming here and having the experiences I am fortunate enough to have required so much more. I realized, on this rather long bus ride to Bat Yam, that making decisions is a somewhat passive activity - it is acting on these decisions, acting to make them real and of course, getting the most out of what we do.
This year, I have decided to make an impact on the Bat Yam community. I have decided to learn Hebrew. I have decided to make new friends, to travel around Israel, to live in Africa for a month, to feel comfortable in new cultures and new situations. Deciding all of these things was easy. Doing them, living them, and appreciating them? That all sounds much more difficult.
More when I've had some sleep!
Layla tov,
Elana
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
The Chess Game
Walking back to my apartment from the shouk (open air market in Tel Aviv) today, I passed two older men sitting at a table in the local park, playing what seemed to be a very intense game of chess. I overheard them arguing in Hebrew, back and forth at an unbelievably rapid pace, motioning violently to the board. However, they did, I noticed, take a second to stop and tip their fishing hats my way, muttering "shalom" and continuing their debate. This scene, however short and perhaps insignificant at the time, caused me to realize how quickly time passes. I was rushing home to make a quick dinner and get to a night class on time, but these two elderly men, both of whom clearly had much invested in their game but know nothing about me, took the time to greet me as I scurried along the tree-lined path toward the main road.
I spent today, after a volunteering meeting in the morning, at the Shouk Hacarmel on Nachalat Benyamin street in Tel Aviv. This particular market is only open on Tuesdays and Fridays, and features jewelry and handmade goods by Israeli artists. My friends and I, completely overwhelmed, walked for hours along the winding side streets, stopping to examine necklaces and earrings and artwork. I wanted to miss nothing; rushing around could only lead to neglected tables of goodies, and that would be tragic. I slowly realized, between oohing and ahhing at every vendor's table, that Israel hasn't always been like this. In fact, it hasn't always been, period. When the two men playing chess in the park were my age, I doubt Israel had become a country yet (judging by the looks of them, I doubt World War II had even started). They didn't have the opportunity to study at an ulpan here, to volunteer in local neighborhoods, to shop at the weekly shouk. They didn't take their lives into their hands by getting into taxi cabs driven by road-raging Israelis, spend the High Holy Days in Jerusalem or buy chicken at Super Douche. I know they couldn't blog about any of it, either. I am blessed and challenged with all of these experiences, and I know that time will pass faster than I can sing the Alef Bet, but I also know that I plan to take advantage of every moment, of every opportunity to meet new people and try new things. And next time, I will introduce myself to the men in the park playing chess.
Speaking of trying new things... yesterday, a friend and I ventured to find a salon in Bat Yam. First of all, let me explain something. Very few people here speak English. That is not true for all of Israel, but in this neighborhood, English is considered a third (or nonexistent) language. In most places, street signs are listed in Hebrew and translated into English and Arabic. Here, signs, advertisements, and labels are in Hebrew and translated to Russian. English (angleet, in Hebrew) is a rarity. Anyway, we found a local salon (in the Bat Yam mall, of course!) which offers all necessary beautification services. Their English is okay (kacha kacha), my manicure was decent, and the prices are more than reasonable. Ella, who works at the salon and was unlucky enough to get saddled with me yesterday, knows few English words, but has promised me to help improve my Hebrew if I help her with her English. I told her that as long as she continues to help me look kept, I will teach her all English she wants to learn.
As of now, I believe to have mentioned the latest highlights. I made some spaghetti bolognese for dinner (complete with garlic bread), and am about to finish studying for my Hebrew progress assessment tomorrow morning! Wish me luck!
More later, with pictures!
Elana xo
I spent today, after a volunteering meeting in the morning, at the Shouk Hacarmel on Nachalat Benyamin street in Tel Aviv. This particular market is only open on Tuesdays and Fridays, and features jewelry and handmade goods by Israeli artists. My friends and I, completely overwhelmed, walked for hours along the winding side streets, stopping to examine necklaces and earrings and artwork. I wanted to miss nothing; rushing around could only lead to neglected tables of goodies, and that would be tragic. I slowly realized, between oohing and ahhing at every vendor's table, that Israel hasn't always been like this. In fact, it hasn't always been, period. When the two men playing chess in the park were my age, I doubt Israel had become a country yet (judging by the looks of them, I doubt World War II had even started). They didn't have the opportunity to study at an ulpan here, to volunteer in local neighborhoods, to shop at the weekly shouk. They didn't take their lives into their hands by getting into taxi cabs driven by road-raging Israelis, spend the High Holy Days in Jerusalem or buy chicken at Super Douche. I know they couldn't blog about any of it, either. I am blessed and challenged with all of these experiences, and I know that time will pass faster than I can sing the Alef Bet, but I also know that I plan to take advantage of every moment, of every opportunity to meet new people and try new things. And next time, I will introduce myself to the men in the park playing chess.
Speaking of trying new things... yesterday, a friend and I ventured to find a salon in Bat Yam. First of all, let me explain something. Very few people here speak English. That is not true for all of Israel, but in this neighborhood, English is considered a third (or nonexistent) language. In most places, street signs are listed in Hebrew and translated into English and Arabic. Here, signs, advertisements, and labels are in Hebrew and translated to Russian. English (angleet, in Hebrew) is a rarity. Anyway, we found a local salon (in the Bat Yam mall, of course!) which offers all necessary beautification services. Their English is okay (kacha kacha), my manicure was decent, and the prices are more than reasonable. Ella, who works at the salon and was unlucky enough to get saddled with me yesterday, knows few English words, but has promised me to help improve my Hebrew if I help her with her English. I told her that as long as she continues to help me look kept, I will teach her all English she wants to learn.
As of now, I believe to have mentioned the latest highlights. I made some spaghetti bolognese for dinner (complete with garlic bread), and am about to finish studying for my Hebrew progress assessment tomorrow morning! Wish me luck!
More later, with pictures!
Elana xo
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Dirty, Sexy Laundry... and a Garlic Press
Hello from Bat Yam, readers! Israel fell back an hour last night, so gaining an hour of sleep was awesome! I woke up this morning and my roommate and I went to Super Douche to restock our cabinets and fridge after the holiday. We discovered, I believe, the ultimate time to conquer Super Douche - 8:30 AM on a Sunday when most people are at work. We loaded up on juice, milk, cans of tomatoes and olives, and eggs. Two hundred shekels later (about $50... for fifteen bags of groceries. I love Israel) we began walking back to the apartment, which is not even three blocks away. However, we were so laden down with bags, and concentrating on keeping the eggs intact, we were moving at a sluggish pace. Finally, once at the traffic corner to cross back to Katzenelson street, we (stupidly) allowed a wave of relief to wash over us... only to realize that one of the bags had broken and a can of diced tomatoes was rolling into oncoming traffic. Unsure of what to do, we looked at each other, and then at the cars coming toward us. Luckily, traffic was light enough so I could climb to the other side of the sidewalk, stretch out my leg and roll the can toward us with my foot (thank God for all those years of dance). We repacked our groceries and got home as fast as possible.
In case our morning adventure wasn't exciting enough, I realized that my clothing supply was dwindling, and my laundry pile had grown exponentially. It was time, unfortunately, to do laundry. Unfortunately for us, this required quite a shlep from our apartment to the nearest laundromat. That's the other issue: there is not a "real" laundromat nearby, and by "real" I mean loading coins into machines and waiting for your clothes to stop spinning. Instead, we drop off our laundry and go back to pick it up in two days. Not a bad deal, since it requires little effort on our part, with the exception of the shlepping to and from. So, I packed all my dirty clothes and towels into my obnoxiously pink (complete with a gigantic white peace sign) laundry bag, and we began the trek to the laundromat. To say we got a few odd looks would be an understatement. Four American girls, sweating and complaining (in English) and looking lost with fifty pounds of laundry (each) - we were not exactly discreet. Upon arriving at the correct store front (this took a while because we were told to go to the corner of Eli Cohen and Razi'El, but there is more than one Eli Cohen street. Couldn't they have been slightly more creative?), we were greeted with a cloud of cigarette smoke, dropped our laundry bags (literally) and were told to write our names on slips of paper, which were promptly stapled to our respective bags. Apparently, our laundry will be weighed and we will be charged by the kilo. I can almost guarantee that this will be anything but a cheap expenditure. On the other hand, clean clothes are priceless...
After dropping off our laundry, we explored the small strip of shops surrounding the laundromat, and lo and behold, we stumbled upon a home improvement store! And they spoke English! Until a few hours ago, we were in desperate need of a can opener (good luck having pickles with your Israeli salad when you can't open the pickle can), but we found one! Not only a can opener, I am now free of garlic chopping tediousness because we purchased a garlic press (wahoo!) and, to truly complete the houseware trifecta, we found a lemon juicer! I cannot tell you how excited this all made me. And, our total came to 50 shekels. I could not get a garlic press, let alone can opener and lemon juicer, for $10 at home. To say our excursion was a success would be like saying Michael Phelps can kind of swim. Complete understatement.
Tonight we're hitting Sheinkin Street (downtown Tel Aviv) to shop, have dinner, and visit Dragon Tattoo, where I plan on having the Sistine Chapel ceiling, in its entirety, tattooed on my back (JUST KIDDING! Calm down, Mom). But we are going there... for piercings, NOT ink!
More pictures and updates soon.
Lots of love,
Elana
In case our morning adventure wasn't exciting enough, I realized that my clothing supply was dwindling, and my laundry pile had grown exponentially. It was time, unfortunately, to do laundry. Unfortunately for us, this required quite a shlep from our apartment to the nearest laundromat. That's the other issue: there is not a "real" laundromat nearby, and by "real" I mean loading coins into machines and waiting for your clothes to stop spinning. Instead, we drop off our laundry and go back to pick it up in two days. Not a bad deal, since it requires little effort on our part, with the exception of the shlepping to and from. So, I packed all my dirty clothes and towels into my obnoxiously pink (complete with a gigantic white peace sign) laundry bag, and we began the trek to the laundromat. To say we got a few odd looks would be an understatement. Four American girls, sweating and complaining (in English) and looking lost with fifty pounds of laundry (each) - we were not exactly discreet. Upon arriving at the correct store front (this took a while because we were told to go to the corner of Eli Cohen and Razi'El, but there is more than one Eli Cohen street. Couldn't they have been slightly more creative?), we were greeted with a cloud of cigarette smoke, dropped our laundry bags (literally) and were told to write our names on slips of paper, which were promptly stapled to our respective bags. Apparently, our laundry will be weighed and we will be charged by the kilo. I can almost guarantee that this will be anything but a cheap expenditure. On the other hand, clean clothes are priceless...
After dropping off our laundry, we explored the small strip of shops surrounding the laundromat, and lo and behold, we stumbled upon a home improvement store! And they spoke English! Until a few hours ago, we were in desperate need of a can opener (good luck having pickles with your Israeli salad when you can't open the pickle can), but we found one! Not only a can opener, I am now free of garlic chopping tediousness because we purchased a garlic press (wahoo!) and, to truly complete the houseware trifecta, we found a lemon juicer! I cannot tell you how excited this all made me. And, our total came to 50 shekels. I could not get a garlic press, let alone can opener and lemon juicer, for $10 at home. To say our excursion was a success would be like saying Michael Phelps can kind of swim. Complete understatement.
Tonight we're hitting Sheinkin Street (downtown Tel Aviv) to shop, have dinner, and visit Dragon Tattoo, where I plan on having the Sistine Chapel ceiling, in its entirety, tattooed on my back (JUST KIDDING! Calm down, Mom). But we are going there... for piercings, NOT ink!
More pictures and updates soon.
Lots of love,
Elana
Friday, September 10, 2010
The (rather humid) winds of change
As Rosh Hashanah comes to a close and Israel prepares for Yom Kippur, I find myself somewhat conflicted. The best way to settle internal conflict? Have shrimp for lunch.
I was fortunate enough to spend an amazing Rosh Hashanah with my family friend Michal her children, Ronny and Gil, and their extended family. My friends and I were welcomed with open arms and delicious food; to say I was full would be the understatement of the century. Luckily, we were spared the fish heads - it is customary in Israel to serve fish heads at Rosh Hashanah dinner to represent beginning the year at the "head" and not the "tail" - but enjoyed gefilte fish and even tried some chopped chicken liver, filled our plates with Israeli salad and pot roast, potatoes of every kind and chicken with apples. It was an incredible meal and I am so thankful to have spent the holiday with such warm, welcoming people!
I would be lying, however, if I didn't recognize the details that make Rosh Hashanah at home in New Jersey so special to me and my family. Ever since I was young, I truly believed that my grandfather's "medicine" was J&B scotch. I was (and I hope still am) in charge of pouring him a "dose" on the rocks, with water and lemon. I'm sure someone administered his necessary dosage this year, but it wasn't me. I missed making gefilte fish with my mom and Bubbie, correcting the pieces that turn out too large and of course, taste testing every batch (and then proceeding to argue about whether or not we should add salt). I missed running from the kitchen to the dining room table, shuttling food to mouths that are certainly not hungry, since the soup and fish have kept everyone chewing. It's the small stuff like this that makes me realize the changes I am facing and, in turn, the challenges of living in a foreign place. Things are certainly not the same, but different isn't bad... just... different.
Since we have several days off for the holiday and then shabbat, we elected to spend Thursday night in Tel Aviv. We explored new spots, including Mike's Place, which is famous for catering to Americans. The wait staff speaks perfect English, the menus are in English, the live music is all recognizable and bands sing American songs, and (this is the best part) they serve bacon! No, I did not indulge (bacon at 1 AM isn't always the smartest idea) but in case I ever need a quick fix, I know where to go.
In keeping with this theme of treif, today I visited one of my closest friends and favorite people, Dafna, with whom I stayed while in Israel several summers ago. We had big plans to venture into Tel Aviv, but due to the holiday, everything was closed. Instead, Dafna took me to the new Cinema City in Rishon LeZion, the largest movie theater complex in the Middle East. It boasts 26 movie theaters, endless shops, restaurants and bars. After watching Inception with Hebrew subtitles (imagining Leonardo DiCaprio speaking Hebrew makes him infinitely hotter than his Titanic days... even if he has aged a bit since) we checked out the mall's Giraffe restaurant. The Asian fusion menu listed sushi and noodles, meat and fish, and most notably... shrimp! Squid ink pasta with seafood has yet to taste so good.
So, Rosh Hashanah was both traditional and new (traditional in the form of dinner and family gatherings, new in the form of treif for lunch), but altogether, amazing. While it's true that I currently have a laundry pile that rivals Everest (yes Mom, it all fit into my laundry bag, it's not on my floor), a grocery list that needs attention, and Hebrew pronunciations to practice (and perfect, I hope), I know it's the beginning of a new year filled with positive change and new opportunities. I know I will get lost, make mistakes and miss what I know to be the safe, secluded bubble of home, but I also know that in a few weeks, I will be a laundromat professional, a Level 1 Hebrew-speaking student, and I might even get to have more than a three-word conversation with the lady who owns Super Katzenelson across the street. And as soon as all that happens, you'll be some of the first to know!
Hugs and kisses,
Elana xox
I was fortunate enough to spend an amazing Rosh Hashanah with my family friend Michal her children, Ronny and Gil, and their extended family. My friends and I were welcomed with open arms and delicious food; to say I was full would be the understatement of the century. Luckily, we were spared the fish heads - it is customary in Israel to serve fish heads at Rosh Hashanah dinner to represent beginning the year at the "head" and not the "tail" - but enjoyed gefilte fish and even tried some chopped chicken liver, filled our plates with Israeli salad and pot roast, potatoes of every kind and chicken with apples. It was an incredible meal and I am so thankful to have spent the holiday with such warm, welcoming people!
I would be lying, however, if I didn't recognize the details that make Rosh Hashanah at home in New Jersey so special to me and my family. Ever since I was young, I truly believed that my grandfather's "medicine" was J&B scotch. I was (and I hope still am) in charge of pouring him a "dose" on the rocks, with water and lemon. I'm sure someone administered his necessary dosage this year, but it wasn't me. I missed making gefilte fish with my mom and Bubbie, correcting the pieces that turn out too large and of course, taste testing every batch (and then proceeding to argue about whether or not we should add salt). I missed running from the kitchen to the dining room table, shuttling food to mouths that are certainly not hungry, since the soup and fish have kept everyone chewing. It's the small stuff like this that makes me realize the changes I am facing and, in turn, the challenges of living in a foreign place. Things are certainly not the same, but different isn't bad... just... different.
Since we have several days off for the holiday and then shabbat, we elected to spend Thursday night in Tel Aviv. We explored new spots, including Mike's Place, which is famous for catering to Americans. The wait staff speaks perfect English, the menus are in English, the live music is all recognizable and bands sing American songs, and (this is the best part) they serve bacon! No, I did not indulge (bacon at 1 AM isn't always the smartest idea) but in case I ever need a quick fix, I know where to go.
In keeping with this theme of treif, today I visited one of my closest friends and favorite people, Dafna, with whom I stayed while in Israel several summers ago. We had big plans to venture into Tel Aviv, but due to the holiday, everything was closed. Instead, Dafna took me to the new Cinema City in Rishon LeZion, the largest movie theater complex in the Middle East. It boasts 26 movie theaters, endless shops, restaurants and bars. After watching Inception with Hebrew subtitles (imagining Leonardo DiCaprio speaking Hebrew makes him infinitely hotter than his Titanic days... even if he has aged a bit since) we checked out the mall's Giraffe restaurant. The Asian fusion menu listed sushi and noodles, meat and fish, and most notably... shrimp! Squid ink pasta with seafood has yet to taste so good.
So, Rosh Hashanah was both traditional and new (traditional in the form of dinner and family gatherings, new in the form of treif for lunch), but altogether, amazing. While it's true that I currently have a laundry pile that rivals Everest (yes Mom, it all fit into my laundry bag, it's not on my floor), a grocery list that needs attention, and Hebrew pronunciations to practice (and perfect, I hope), I know it's the beginning of a new year filled with positive change and new opportunities. I know I will get lost, make mistakes and miss what I know to be the safe, secluded bubble of home, but I also know that in a few weeks, I will be a laundromat professional, a Level 1 Hebrew-speaking student, and I might even get to have more than a three-word conversation with the lady who owns Super Katzenelson across the street. And as soon as all that happens, you'll be some of the first to know!
Hugs and kisses,
Elana xox
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Shana Tova!
went to the bus stop on time, as directed, and waited. Got a mango juice from the corner store, and waited. Sat on the park bench and practiced my new Hebrew to myself, schizophrenic as that is, and waited. About a half hour later, someone showed up only to tell me that since I was the only one at that particular time interested in seeing the gym and possibly joining, we weren't going to make the trip. Disappointed, I started walking back toward my apartment. However, a few moments later, inspiration hit - I'm going to cook dinner, I thought! We had chicken at home, and all I needed was some limes, tortilla wraps and veggies, and voila, chicken fajitas! Instead of shlepping back to Super Douche (we had been there once already earlier in the day, and I try to limit myself to once-daily visits) I decided to explore the local storefronts. Not far from our apartment is the local bank, connected to a produce store, several Russian specialty food marts, a sidewalk array of dusty pots and pans and aluminum trays (all very cheap, and of course, cash only) and a lone falafel place (everything 5 shekel!).
I searched for limes, but they are hard to find here. There is a very unique, if somewhat strange hybrid fruit of a clementine and a lime. They're green but shaped like small oranges and smell of citrus. I almost invested in a bag-full when I realized I would not have lime chicken, I would have limentine chicken. Not the desired outcome whatsoever. Figuring that I had to settle for lemony chicken, I walked back toward home, stopping into the small market across the street from my apartment just to see if limes were even a possibility, let alone available for purchase. Owned by an older woman (I think she's from Ethiopia, but between my Hebrew and her English, we haven't gotten that far yet), the market is called "Super Katzenelson" - screw you, Super Douche! Katzenelson is the name of our street, and as far as I can tell, this little store is the only semblance of civilization on the block; the rest are apartment buildings with fading paint and dogs that I swear want to maul me. Anyway, I walk into the modest produce section of Super Katzenelson, and lo and behold, limes! I bought about ten of them, hugged the woman behind the counter, wishing everyone in the store a Shana Tova, and skipped back across the street to make dinner.
It was, overall, a successful night of eating, exploring and, well, adventures (for lack of a better word). In the short time I've been here, I've learned that responsibility is key, communication is essential, and that looking out for one another is imperative. I hope this new year is about friendship and opportunities based on all the above, and, of course, lots of laughter. Having the ability to laugh at some crazy situation improves everything. Plus, doctors think that laughing more makes you live longer, and I don't normally like (or listen to) doctors. But that piece of advice, I might just take that one.
Happy New Year, readers! Love (and limes) from Bat Yam,
Elana
I searched for limes, but they are hard to find here. There is a very unique, if somewhat strange hybrid fruit of a clementine and a lime. They're green but shaped like small oranges and smell of citrus. I almost invested in a bag-full when I realized I would not have lime chicken, I would have limentine chicken. Not the desired outcome whatsoever. Figuring that I had to settle for lemony chicken, I walked back toward home, stopping into the small market across the street from my apartment just to see if limes were even a possibility, let alone available for purchase. Owned by an older woman (I think she's from Ethiopia, but between my Hebrew and her English, we haven't gotten that far yet), the market is called "Super Katzenelson" - screw you, Super Douche! Katzenelson is the name of our street, and as far as I can tell, this little store is the only semblance of civilization on the block; the rest are apartment buildings with fading paint and dogs that I swear want to maul me. Anyway, I walk into the modest produce section of Super Katzenelson, and lo and behold, limes! I bought about ten of them, hugged the woman behind the counter, wishing everyone in the store a Shana Tova, and skipped back across the street to make dinner.
It was, overall, a successful night of eating, exploring and, well, adventures (for lack of a better word). In the short time I've been here, I've learned that responsibility is key, communication is essential, and that looking out for one another is imperative. I hope this new year is about friendship and opportunities based on all the above, and, of course, lots of laughter. Having the ability to laugh at some crazy situation improves everything. Plus, doctors think that laughing more makes you live longer, and I don't normally like (or listen to) doctors. But that piece of advice, I might just take that one.
Happy New Year, readers! Love (and limes) from Bat Yam,
Elana
Monday, September 6, 2010
He is Who and Who is He and He is She and She is He and I'm... Confused
It's been eight days of walking everywhere, sweating my ass off, and drinking my weight in water, so I haven't really missed the gym, but my brain has missed its exercise! Luckily, today was my first day of ulpan (Hebrew and Zionism classes). At 9 AM, I started with Zionism, taught by Benjy, an English professor (not teaching English, he actually IS English. His accent is fabulous). We discussed the importance of Israel, a brief history of Zionism, and were only interrupted once by raucous local students who share the building with us. The aforementioned student (if you can call him that) opened our closed door (it had been closed for a reason), ran in, and began screaming in Hebrew. Apparently, Benjy gave it right back to him, pointing to the hallway from which this unwelcome intruder had arrived, and after a rapid fire exchange, the student retreated toward the door. Unfortunately, his idiot friends locked him in by sliding a bench against the door and refused to return the furniture to its rightful place. The entire situation was mayhem; not to mention, it had fire hazard written all over it. After about five minutes and some persuasion, the hell-raisers allowed their comrade back outside, and class resumed. There is certainly never a lack of excitement. I only wish I had had Hebrew class first, so maybe I could have understood some of (what I'm sure was) this guy's most eloquent language choices. However, I highly doubt his vocabulary words are taught on the first day of ulpan. Or ever.
After a twenty minute break for lunch (we discovered a schnitzel and hot dog stand right around the corner from the ulpan building. The man behind the counter calls me "Los Angeles." Too bad I'm from New Jersey. This disparity might sway my allegiances permanently to the schwarma place in the mall. At least they know the difference; they call me "Jersey") I entered Level 1 Hebrew. My teacher is Tzippi. She is from Holon. I am pretty positive she taught Ben Gurion. But make no mistakes, Tzippi does not mess around. We started with vowels and personal pronouns, script writing and introductions (in Hebrew, of course!). As it turns out, Hebrew pronouns make those in English look simple, and English grammar is not generally easy. For example, assuming I want to talk about a guy named Joe. I would say "who," the pronoun for "he." If I'm talking about my roommate Talya, I would say "he." So, 'he' is 'who' and 'who' is 'he' and 'she' is 'he' and 'he' is 'she.' Got it? I think I might - I did that sans notebook! Cab drivers and store owners of Israel watch out - Elana is learning Hebrew!
In other news, our apartment is now quite cozy. With the help of the Golf home store (in the mall, above Super Douche and adjacent to our go-to bakery stand) we invested in a Pyrex (very necessary), plush blankets, bath mats and extra pillows. We don't quite rival the Ritz Carlton, but I think we're getting close. Last night, in celebration of our new furnishings, I made chicken cacciatore with pasta for dinner. One of my roommates made Israeli salad (an unlikely combo, I know, but given our current location, much more appropriate than normal, boring American salad!) and we also made some garlic bread. After the crazies with whom I live finished taking pictures of our food (I won't lie, I took one too) we devoured it. Delicious, if I do say so myself.
Gotta run - an hour until an activity led by the tsofim at the ulpan, and I smell like a nasty combination of hummus and public transportation.
More later from a less schvitzy me!
xoxox,
Elana
After a twenty minute break for lunch (we discovered a schnitzel and hot dog stand right around the corner from the ulpan building. The man behind the counter calls me "Los Angeles." Too bad I'm from New Jersey. This disparity might sway my allegiances permanently to the schwarma place in the mall. At least they know the difference; they call me "Jersey") I entered Level 1 Hebrew. My teacher is Tzippi. She is from Holon. I am pretty positive she taught Ben Gurion. But make no mistakes, Tzippi does not mess around. We started with vowels and personal pronouns, script writing and introductions (in Hebrew, of course!). As it turns out, Hebrew pronouns make those in English look simple, and English grammar is not generally easy. For example, assuming I want to talk about a guy named Joe. I would say "who," the pronoun for "he." If I'm talking about my roommate Talya, I would say "he." So, 'he' is 'who' and 'who' is 'he' and 'she' is 'he' and 'he' is 'she.' Got it? I think I might - I did that sans notebook! Cab drivers and store owners of Israel watch out - Elana is learning Hebrew!
In other news, our apartment is now quite cozy. With the help of the Golf home store (in the mall, above Super Douche and adjacent to our go-to bakery stand) we invested in a Pyrex (very necessary), plush blankets, bath mats and extra pillows. We don't quite rival the Ritz Carlton, but I think we're getting close. Last night, in celebration of our new furnishings, I made chicken cacciatore with pasta for dinner. One of my roommates made Israeli salad (an unlikely combo, I know, but given our current location, much more appropriate than normal, boring American salad!) and we also made some garlic bread. After the crazies with whom I live finished taking pictures of our food (I won't lie, I took one too) we devoured it. Delicious, if I do say so myself.
Gotta run - an hour until an activity led by the tsofim at the ulpan, and I smell like a nasty combination of hummus and public transportation.
More later from a less schvitzy me!
xoxox,
Elana
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