DISCLAIMER: This post was meant to be published Thursday, September 30, but due to unreliable internet connection (problem detailed below) and my recent encounters with nature, now is the best I could do:
Hello everyone! I hope all is well. Today is the end of Sukkot, and tomorrow is Simchat Torah; most of Israel is currently closing down for the holiday, which is the perfect reason for me to update all of you! I realize that my last post was on Sunday, so here is what has happened since:
On Monday, my roomies went to Latet early in the morning, so I was left in (what I though was) an empty apartment for the majority of the day. When I finally stumbled out of bed around 10, I groggily walked to the kitchen to make some breakfast and coffee. Before I crossed from the hallway where my bedroom is to the kitchen entry way, I was greeted "Eh, hello, eh." I literally jumped out of my skin. There was a man sitting on our couch, laptop open on the coffee table, waving at me and grinning. I had no idea where he had come from or what he was doing there. All I could think was, "Thank God I'm wearing actual pajamas right now." He continued: "I am eh, very sorry! I am here from, eh, how you say? Computer company! Yes, I am here to fix internet for you!" He kept apologizing that he didn't mean to scare me, and explained that he had been knocking on our door for about 10 minutes before using a key that maintenance had given him in case no one was home. Well, I had been home, but I was sleeping like a rock, and the air conditioning unit above my bed makes it impossible to hear anything happening in other rooms of the apartment. Anyway, he introduced himself as Gad (of course, I though to myself, Oh, nice to finally meet you, I've been waiting almost 19 years. You're tall and Israeli and you fix internet connections. Just as I pictured you) and after screaming into his phone for a while, told me he had to find his friend Moshe to fix the "eh, the eh, how you say? Router! Yes, the eh router!" I was getting ready to leave to drop off laundry and go about my day, so I offered him something to eat or drink (which he declined) and told him I would be back in a few hours. He replied: "Eh, I'm leaving also! I eh, go with you!" I thought, "Oh, where exactly are we going?" but then he clarified by telling me he would be back later in the day to fix the, eh, how you say? Router.
I returned to the apartment, Windexed every surface and mopped the floors, and was about to begin a blog entry when Gad knocked on the door. He came in, asking for a screwdriver. Do I LOOK like I have a screwdriver? Let me just pull one out of my purse. I'm sorry, I left my toolbox at home along with my wrench and bolt cutters. I told him, sadly, no, I did not have a screwdriver, only duct tape, aluminum foil and some Prigat mango juice. He did not understand my humor, so I dropped it, he called Moshe screaming again, and told me the router could not be fixed until another time, when he can, eh, use a, eh screwdriver to make it how you say? Work. So that was inconclusive. But I met Gad (teehee) and am now strongly considering investing in some tools to keep around the house.
In any event, Monday afternoon was beautification, Tel Aviv style! My roommate and I found a salon off Sheinkin Street, where we indulged in manicures, pedicures and the like. It was quite necessary (the woman who, unfortunately, got stuck doing my pedicure, wore a mask while fixing my feet. I knew they were bad, but apparently, even I underestimated the state of my heels. All better now!
After getting back from Tel Aviv, my friends and I decided to check out the Bat Yam Biennale. The Biennale (which literally means "biannual" in Italian) happens every two years and is a celebration of urban growth, improvement and art. Every time the festival happens, new projects are begun, like refurbishing parks, creating new recreation centers, or coming up with new ways for Bat Yam to be a more ecologically friendly city. The idea of biennale was originally a European one; the Paris Biennale is famously associated with art expositions that last for a few days and then are taken down. What's great about the Bat Yam Biennale festival is that the projects started during Biennale remain ongoing and live to see completion; they are not taken down after a few days. The festival itself was three days, on the beach (which messed up all bus routes quite well, so I spent a considerable amount of time finding my way from a collection of bizarre side streets back to the tayelet - the boardwalk along the beach) and so much fun!
On Tuesday morning, I got up early and spent the morning working at a local school (on my street, actually!) for children with special needs. The children at this school spend a full day there - from 8 AM to 6 PM or later, ranging in age from 6 to 20. In the spirit of the holidays, we did Sukkot-themed activities with them, including making fruit salad "eem dvash" (with honey), dancing to Israeli music (they were very enthusiastic about this) and making arts and crafts, including flower hats. At the end, a bunch of the kids stood up and thanked us in Hebrew, explaining how much fun they had, and they hoped we would come back. I certainly hope to volunteer there again!
Tuesday afternoon was a trip back to Cinema City to see (finally) Eat, Pray, Love, which was amazing, and made me thank myself for calming down my schwarma habit - Julia Roberts' character ends up needing larger pants due to too much Italian pastry and pizza. That cannot be me (just replace the Italian food with laffa and ice cream, and it could potentially be a problem).
That's the most exciting news from here - I am leaving on Friday morning for a tiyul (a trip) with our tsofim (scouts) to the Kinneret. We are going to the beach, camping out, and going on a water hike on Saturday morning! I can't wait!
More soon - and more pictures, when the internet cooperates and ehh, how you say? Works.
Lots of love,
Elana
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Pictures (of normal size, I hope)
The view of Jerusalem from the top of the youth hostel.
Me, with the "bead guy" in the shouk.
Pictured above: the Ben Gurion School, where I'll be volunteering. The kids put on a show about the three major holidays (Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Sukkot), and we were invited to watch!
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Saturday Night in the Big City
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
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
Friday, September 24, 2010
Love You from Jeru!
Hello everyone! I hope this post finds you well. I got home from Jerusalem yesterday, and it was another amazing trip to the Old City. My roomie and I left Wednesday morning, early (we got up at 7 AM to catch a bus... but not before we had coffee and breakfast, of course) and got in to Jerusalem for the Bezalel Art Festival. The Festival was situated on several small side streets and parks, which made for a very cute backdrop to the many stations filled with handmade goods. After much exploration, we hit Ben Yehudah for lunch at Moshiko for some of the BEST shwarma in Israel, and ate it in a sukkah! What's really cool about Sukkot in Israel is that not only do families build their sukkahs, but restaurants and even some shops build them as well, and invite their customers in for a meal, shopping, etc. Walking on Ben Yehudah, which, for those of you who have experienced it, is already craziness, only becomes more difficult when you are not only dodging people, but sukkahs! Luckily, there was no falling schach (the branches on top of the sukkah, which are pretty heavy) and I think all sukkah-related injuries were avoided. Phew.
Once we exhausted King George, Ben Yehudah, and the art festival, we decided to head back into the Old City to check into our hostel. The Citadel Youth Hostel is built into the walls of the Old City, behind the Jaffa Gate. The rooms and hallways were once all part of an elaborate tunnel system; now they house travelers like us. The room had one large bed (we shared it), a closet full of blankets (none of which are necessary in September in Jerusalem... it's not that cold yet) a sink, and a broken bedside fan. Bathrooms and showers are all community property. I stuck to washing my face and wore my flip flops everywhere (you taught me well, Mom). At all hours of the night, we heard church bells from the Christian quarter, screaming from the Arab shouk below, and of course, tourists trying to find their way in a variety of languages along the alleyway over which our lone window looked. To say it was an interrupted night of sleep would be inaccurate. More like a series of naps, each with a stranger wakeup call. And then around 5 AM, the imam started at the Dome of the Rock. While it certainly wasn't the most restful night, it wins in most multi-cultural and definitely most adventure-filled.
After finally surrendering to the children playing in the street (quite loudly) and the church bell/imam symphony, we wandered into the shouk for breakfast of bagelach (oval-shaped bread with sesame seeds - absolutely delicious) and freshly squeezed pomegranate juice. The biggest question was if we wanted sweet juice or tart; we learned that overripe pomegranates yield sweeter juice, while fresh ones are more sour. We opted for sweet. Total? 15 shekels for two juices and the bread. Deal of the century.
Once breakfast was over, we walked to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where it is believed that Jesus was resurrected. We walked around, climbing the impossibly narrow and steep stairs to get an overhead view of the people surrounding the Stone of Unction (where Jesus was, it is believed, prepared for burial), placing their valuables on the marble stone and blessing them. When we realized that every tour group in Israel was coming into the Church, we decided it would be an opportune time to leave, so we walked to a local park, outside of the Old City, for a Sukkot nap. Eventually, we went out for a late lunch (at the Focaccia Bar, highly recommended. It's non-kosher, so they serve shrimp and are open on all holidays and Shabbat. Score) and then walked back into the shouk (with our bargaining hats on) for some shopping. We visited my favorite bead store, and of course, found some incredible necklaces made from Bedouin beads, and stopped at the spice market for some dried fruit and almonds. If you're in the market for frankincense and myrrh, go visit this guy in the shouk - he has it. He didn't want us taking any pictures in his shop, and I'm pretty sure it's because frankincense and myrrh shouldn't be available for purchase (I mean, that stuff shows up in Shakespeare's plays, and look what happens to Romeo and Juliet after visiting the apothecary. Not a good scene). But, after making our way (quite successfully) through the market, tasting new juices (all of which we watched them squeeze for us, to order) and dodging the flailing lulavs (one of the four species, a frond of a date plant, which represents the human spine, along with the etrog, which looks like a lemon, and represents the heart), we picked up our bags from the hostel and began the journey back to Bat Yam.
Now, I need to explain something. Time in Israel works very differently from time in the United States. If you are told something will take ten minutes, expect it to take twenty. If someone tells you they will be at your house by 5 PM, they'll be there by 5:30 if you're lucky. We got to the Jerusalem Central Bus Station, and it was closed. It was supposed to reopen at 6:00 because buses began running around then. 6:05. 6:10. Around 6:15, they finally opened the doors and we made it through the elaborate metal detectors and security. We were trying to catch a 6:20 bus back to Tel Aviv. How we made it, I will never know, but we did. We changed buses in Tel Aviv and were en route to Bat Yam when we both realized we were starving. Our late treif lunch had been several hours ago, it was nearing 9 PM, and we needed food. Pizza. We needed pizza. Luckily, after some serious Google Blackberry searches, we came across Casa Del Papa Pizza, on Ben Gurion Street in Bat Yam. They delivered half an hour later (give or take ten minutes). I highly doubt dough with cheese and vegetables had ever tasted so delicious.
Today was Friday, so the markets off of Sheinkin Street in Tel Aviv were open. We got a late start, visited Super Katzenelson for a few essentials (I hadn't been there in over three days. The woman who owns the place was probably getting nervous) and then made our way to Sheinkin. We explored downtown Tel Aviv (the Sheinkin area is like the SoHo of Israel) and I came across pre-peeled garlic for the first time since moving here, (I was very excited, and of course, had to buy some). Later, we were lucky enough to be invited to our madricha's home for Shabbat dinner (our madricha, Ariel, is like our counselor/ supervisor while we're in Israel). We ate way too much, played a few too many rounds of cards, and here I am, updating you on the latest and greatest. It's been an eventful few days. Tomorrow is my first day as a Studio B dance student (I joined the studio as a visiting dancer, so every month I need to renew my membership) and I'm going to take a few classes. Wahoo!! I have missed dance SO much.
Class is early, and I don't want my new Israeli dance teachers thinking I have two left feet, so that's all for now. Pictures soon, I promise (they're off my camera, they just need to be put online!)
Lots of love,
Elana xox
Once we exhausted King George, Ben Yehudah, and the art festival, we decided to head back into the Old City to check into our hostel. The Citadel Youth Hostel is built into the walls of the Old City, behind the Jaffa Gate. The rooms and hallways were once all part of an elaborate tunnel system; now they house travelers like us. The room had one large bed (we shared it), a closet full of blankets (none of which are necessary in September in Jerusalem... it's not that cold yet) a sink, and a broken bedside fan. Bathrooms and showers are all community property. I stuck to washing my face and wore my flip flops everywhere (you taught me well, Mom). At all hours of the night, we heard church bells from the Christian quarter, screaming from the Arab shouk below, and of course, tourists trying to find their way in a variety of languages along the alleyway over which our lone window looked. To say it was an interrupted night of sleep would be inaccurate. More like a series of naps, each with a stranger wakeup call. And then around 5 AM, the imam started at the Dome of the Rock. While it certainly wasn't the most restful night, it wins in most multi-cultural and definitely most adventure-filled.
After finally surrendering to the children playing in the street (quite loudly) and the church bell/imam symphony, we wandered into the shouk for breakfast of bagelach (oval-shaped bread with sesame seeds - absolutely delicious) and freshly squeezed pomegranate juice. The biggest question was if we wanted sweet juice or tart; we learned that overripe pomegranates yield sweeter juice, while fresh ones are more sour. We opted for sweet. Total? 15 shekels for two juices and the bread. Deal of the century.
Once breakfast was over, we walked to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where it is believed that Jesus was resurrected. We walked around, climbing the impossibly narrow and steep stairs to get an overhead view of the people surrounding the Stone of Unction (where Jesus was, it is believed, prepared for burial), placing their valuables on the marble stone and blessing them. When we realized that every tour group in Israel was coming into the Church, we decided it would be an opportune time to leave, so we walked to a local park, outside of the Old City, for a Sukkot nap. Eventually, we went out for a late lunch (at the Focaccia Bar, highly recommended. It's non-kosher, so they serve shrimp and are open on all holidays and Shabbat. Score) and then walked back into the shouk (with our bargaining hats on) for some shopping. We visited my favorite bead store, and of course, found some incredible necklaces made from Bedouin beads, and stopped at the spice market for some dried fruit and almonds. If you're in the market for frankincense and myrrh, go visit this guy in the shouk - he has it. He didn't want us taking any pictures in his shop, and I'm pretty sure it's because frankincense and myrrh shouldn't be available for purchase (I mean, that stuff shows up in Shakespeare's plays, and look what happens to Romeo and Juliet after visiting the apothecary. Not a good scene). But, after making our way (quite successfully) through the market, tasting new juices (all of which we watched them squeeze for us, to order) and dodging the flailing lulavs (one of the four species, a frond of a date plant, which represents the human spine, along with the etrog, which looks like a lemon, and represents the heart), we picked up our bags from the hostel and began the journey back to Bat Yam.
Now, I need to explain something. Time in Israel works very differently from time in the United States. If you are told something will take ten minutes, expect it to take twenty. If someone tells you they will be at your house by 5 PM, they'll be there by 5:30 if you're lucky. We got to the Jerusalem Central Bus Station, and it was closed. It was supposed to reopen at 6:00 because buses began running around then. 6:05. 6:10. Around 6:15, they finally opened the doors and we made it through the elaborate metal detectors and security. We were trying to catch a 6:20 bus back to Tel Aviv. How we made it, I will never know, but we did. We changed buses in Tel Aviv and were en route to Bat Yam when we both realized we were starving. Our late treif lunch had been several hours ago, it was nearing 9 PM, and we needed food. Pizza. We needed pizza. Luckily, after some serious Google Blackberry searches, we came across Casa Del Papa Pizza, on Ben Gurion Street in Bat Yam. They delivered half an hour later (give or take ten minutes). I highly doubt dough with cheese and vegetables had ever tasted so delicious.
Today was Friday, so the markets off of Sheinkin Street in Tel Aviv were open. We got a late start, visited Super Katzenelson for a few essentials (I hadn't been there in over three days. The woman who owns the place was probably getting nervous) and then made our way to Sheinkin. We explored downtown Tel Aviv (the Sheinkin area is like the SoHo of Israel) and I came across pre-peeled garlic for the first time since moving here, (I was very excited, and of course, had to buy some). Later, we were lucky enough to be invited to our madricha's home for Shabbat dinner (our madricha, Ariel, is like our counselor/ supervisor while we're in Israel). We ate way too much, played a few too many rounds of cards, and here I am, updating you on the latest and greatest. It's been an eventful few days. Tomorrow is my first day as a Studio B dance student (I joined the studio as a visiting dancer, so every month I need to renew my membership) and I'm going to take a few classes. Wahoo!! I have missed dance SO much.
Class is early, and I don't want my new Israeli dance teachers thinking I have two left feet, so that's all for now. Pictures soon, I promise (they're off my camera, they just need to be put online!)
Lots of love,
Elana xox
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Up and Down, Side to Side
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
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
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
Sunday, September 5, 2010
End of Week One!
Shalom readers! Sunday begins the work week in Israel, so today is our final day of orientation before starting classes tomorrow. This morning was slightly overwhelming; we broke into groups for our Bat Yam community service initiatives. As of now, I will be working in an elementary school twice a week, teaching English. I can't wait! Afterward, we had a laffa break (laffa is now synonymous with lunch) and stopped at the Super Douche (where else?) to pick up some last minute groceries in order to cook dinner tonight. Since I decided to make chicken cacciatore for my apartment, we naturally needed some chicken breast.
To say there was a loss in communication would be an understatement. After waiting on line for what seemed like twenty minutes, it became my turn, and I asked for chicken breast. "You want WHAT?" The butcher was not amused, to say the least. He then handed me an entire chicken, bones and skin included. I shook my head, knowing that I had to get creative. In order to communicate more effectively, I pointed to the chicken, and then at my chest. The woman next to me waiting for her giblets or whatever found this hysterical. It was, I must say, a scene. "Oh! Schnitzel!" As it turns out, chicken breast, raw, fried, cacciatoried, or whatever, is called schnitzel. I walked out with my four schnitzels (schnitzelim?), boneless and skinless, and, I must say, I felt quite accomplished.
We're headed back for a final round of orientation and then it's into the kitchen for dinner preparation!
More later,
Elana xoxox
To say there was a loss in communication would be an understatement. After waiting on line for what seemed like twenty minutes, it became my turn, and I asked for chicken breast. "You want WHAT?" The butcher was not amused, to say the least. He then handed me an entire chicken, bones and skin included. I shook my head, knowing that I had to get creative. In order to communicate more effectively, I pointed to the chicken, and then at my chest. The woman next to me waiting for her giblets or whatever found this hysterical. It was, I must say, a scene. "Oh! Schnitzel!" As it turns out, chicken breast, raw, fried, cacciatoried, or whatever, is called schnitzel. I walked out with my four schnitzels (schnitzelim?), boneless and skinless, and, I must say, I felt quite accomplished.
We're headed back for a final round of orientation and then it's into the kitchen for dinner preparation!
More later,
Elana xoxox
Friday, September 3, 2010
Shabbat No. 1 - Israel Style
Shabbat Shalom from Israel! Today was a free day to sleep in and prepare for our first shabbat here. Although I had the option to sleep until 5 PM, I decided to wake up at a decent hour and go buy the necessary items for shabbat cooking. Here is a word of advice for those of you brave enough to attempt an Israeli super market - don't. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The super market to which I refer is actually called, I kid you not, Super Douche (pronounced in Hebrew soo-pare doosh). Yes, this is the store's formal name which appears on all shopping bags (we are collecting Super Douche bags - HA). No one in Israel finds this name funny, and they fail to understand why WE think it's funny. It is because we are Americans. Therefore, it is only one more reason for them to point at us, laugh, and make judgmental comments. I think the hilarity has already worn off, to be honest. Anyway, do not attempt the market on a Friday. Not at 9 AM, not at 4 PM, not ever on Friday. Why? Let me tell you why.
Walking into the store on a Friday around 11 AM is somewhat like entering a circus that is midway through and all the clowns and elephants and fire-eating folk are running around in their respective circles, except you fall into none of the aforementioned categories and are therefore dreadfully lost. Not only are you dreadfully lost, you are in serious and grave danger. Replace the clowns and elephants and fire-eating folk with angry Hebrew-spewing women with five children in tow, elderly Russian couples arguing over the necessity of a fifth bag of potatoes (the wife, as I have noticed, always wins this one. That fifth bag of potatoes ends up in the cart), and, my personal favorite, double-wide shopping carts. There must have been dozens of shoppers wielding not one, but two, extremely large and heavily loaded carts. Keep in mind, the wheels on these carts have the turning radius of a Barbie convertible (if you're lucky) and two of them only doubles the odds of an accident, fatality, or worse (worse than fatality is the inevitable boxing-in of the unsuspecting American by dual shopping carts, and with no escape, being forced to listen to the nonstop Hebrew screaming that ensues). In summary, I did not make many friends at the market, which is fine, because I found all essential items to make our side dish for the community shabbat dinner (we were in charge of potatoes). I then stood in line to pay for my six grocery items for 34 minutes. Yes, I timed it. Israel, unlike New Jersey Shop Rite, does not believe in express checkout lanes. Whether you have six items or sixty seven, are about to spend a thousand shekels or ten, you wait in one of twenty lines regardless. Finally, a woman saw me, pitied me, and let me go in front of her DWSC (double wide shopping carts). I paid and left, only to realize I had forgotten, in the hysteria, to buy baking soda for our apartment refrigerator. I guarantee the eventual purchase of that damn baking soda, but there is no way that transaction will take place on a Friday.
To reward myself for my patience and bravery, I walked upstairs (the market is actually in the local shopping mall) to the schwarma stand. For those that don't know, schwarma is one of two things: first, it is meat roasted on a spit for hours, then sliced thin and made into a sandwich (usually in pita bread) with hummus, Israeli salad, french fries and spicy sauce; and second, it is my favorite food. I have discovered, however, a new way to eat schwarma. It is called laffa. Laffa is an Israeli burrito, but because it's been made for thousands of years, and invented by Israel, it becomes, automatically, better, more correct and simply tastier than a burrito (this is not a personal reflection, just the local attitude). Anyway, ordering schwarma on laffa makes you sound infinitely more Israeli. However, in my Nike workout shorts and Rainbow flip flops, I was not fooling anyone. The guy behind the counter asked "What do you want and where in America you from?" I ordered my schwarma and told him I'm from New Jersey. He then, of all questions, asked the following: "Do you know Jerusalem pizza? I used to work there. Me and my brother," pointing to the younger looking version of himself at the other end of the counter, "we come back here after some time. Is nice, New Jersey, but Israel, much more nicer." I couldn't believe my ears. I had traveled thousands of miles to meet someone who worked at a pizza restaurant ten minutes from my house?! What are the odds?
The remainder of the day was somewhat unremarkable. We made the potatoes without setting off any fire alarms or smoke detectors, they were the first dish to go at dinner, and then spent the remainder of the night on the beach in Bat Yam, absorbing Israeli culture at its finest (or something like that).
So, in summary, avoid Super Douches on Fridays, but do buy the laffa and ask exactly via which US locations its handler is coming from, and, when all else fails, hit the beach and avoid trouble. It sounds much less difficult than it actually is. Especially because telling a cab driver I would like a napkin does not get me back to my apartment.
Much love and pictures soon!
Elana
Walking into the store on a Friday around 11 AM is somewhat like entering a circus that is midway through and all the clowns and elephants and fire-eating folk are running around in their respective circles, except you fall into none of the aforementioned categories and are therefore dreadfully lost. Not only are you dreadfully lost, you are in serious and grave danger. Replace the clowns and elephants and fire-eating folk with angry Hebrew-spewing women with five children in tow, elderly Russian couples arguing over the necessity of a fifth bag of potatoes (the wife, as I have noticed, always wins this one. That fifth bag of potatoes ends up in the cart), and, my personal favorite, double-wide shopping carts. There must have been dozens of shoppers wielding not one, but two, extremely large and heavily loaded carts. Keep in mind, the wheels on these carts have the turning radius of a Barbie convertible (if you're lucky) and two of them only doubles the odds of an accident, fatality, or worse (worse than fatality is the inevitable boxing-in of the unsuspecting American by dual shopping carts, and with no escape, being forced to listen to the nonstop Hebrew screaming that ensues). In summary, I did not make many friends at the market, which is fine, because I found all essential items to make our side dish for the community shabbat dinner (we were in charge of potatoes). I then stood in line to pay for my six grocery items for 34 minutes. Yes, I timed it. Israel, unlike New Jersey Shop Rite, does not believe in express checkout lanes. Whether you have six items or sixty seven, are about to spend a thousand shekels or ten, you wait in one of twenty lines regardless. Finally, a woman saw me, pitied me, and let me go in front of her DWSC (double wide shopping carts). I paid and left, only to realize I had forgotten, in the hysteria, to buy baking soda for our apartment refrigerator. I guarantee the eventual purchase of that damn baking soda, but there is no way that transaction will take place on a Friday.
To reward myself for my patience and bravery, I walked upstairs (the market is actually in the local shopping mall) to the schwarma stand. For those that don't know, schwarma is one of two things: first, it is meat roasted on a spit for hours, then sliced thin and made into a sandwich (usually in pita bread) with hummus, Israeli salad, french fries and spicy sauce; and second, it is my favorite food. I have discovered, however, a new way to eat schwarma. It is called laffa. Laffa is an Israeli burrito, but because it's been made for thousands of years, and invented by Israel, it becomes, automatically, better, more correct and simply tastier than a burrito (this is not a personal reflection, just the local attitude). Anyway, ordering schwarma on laffa makes you sound infinitely more Israeli. However, in my Nike workout shorts and Rainbow flip flops, I was not fooling anyone. The guy behind the counter asked "What do you want and where in America you from?" I ordered my schwarma and told him I'm from New Jersey. He then, of all questions, asked the following: "Do you know Jerusalem pizza? I used to work there. Me and my brother," pointing to the younger looking version of himself at the other end of the counter, "we come back here after some time. Is nice, New Jersey, but Israel, much more nicer." I couldn't believe my ears. I had traveled thousands of miles to meet someone who worked at a pizza restaurant ten minutes from my house?! What are the odds?
The remainder of the day was somewhat unremarkable. We made the potatoes without setting off any fire alarms or smoke detectors, they were the first dish to go at dinner, and then spent the remainder of the night on the beach in Bat Yam, absorbing Israeli culture at its finest (or something like that).
So, in summary, avoid Super Douches on Fridays, but do buy the laffa and ask exactly via which US locations its handler is coming from, and, when all else fails, hit the beach and avoid trouble. It sounds much less difficult than it actually is. Especially because telling a cab driver I would like a napkin does not get me back to my apartment.
Much love and pictures soon!
Elana
Welcome!
Hello everyone! I have embarked on a nine-month journey to Israel and Rwanda! It's been almost a week, and already, I've had my fair share of excitement. Within two hours of moving into my apartment outside of Tel Aviv, the entire place was blooded with bath water! Not the best way to begin a new chapter, but I can think of worse. It's been many days of orientation, what to do and what not to do (mostly what not to do) and how to survive as a "stupid" American in Israel.
In 9 months, I don't want to be an American in Israel. I want to be yet another girl who can pass for a local member of the Israeli community, who can speak the language without hesitation, and who can hold her own in a bargaining battle at the market (the last one is somewhat of a hybrid of the first two). I'm hoping that by the time I return home to begin college, I have become nearly fluent in Hebrew, I've made some incredible friends, and had some unforgettable experiences.
As soon as I have the pictures and anecdotes to share (not to mention the Internet access) I will post them here. I hope you enjoy!!
Love from Israel,
Elana
In 9 months, I don't want to be an American in Israel. I want to be yet another girl who can pass for a local member of the Israeli community, who can speak the language without hesitation, and who can hold her own in a bargaining battle at the market (the last one is somewhat of a hybrid of the first two). I'm hoping that by the time I return home to begin college, I have become nearly fluent in Hebrew, I've made some incredible friends, and had some unforgettable experiences.
As soon as I have the pictures and anecdotes to share (not to mention the Internet access) I will post them here. I hope you enjoy!!
Love from Israel,
Elana
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