This was supposed to be a party...Oh, wait...

Call this an odds and ends post and then let's get on with it, shall we? Today's pictures are brought to you by the hills en route and near Jerusalem, right before my camera went on the fritz as we drove to the Old City, or as we say, "Right on time."


Party Party
Being as I and my roommate live in a fairly large apartment, one with an ample living room that has two separate couch seating areas, a long dining table, and a full kitchen, and being as we don't use all that space very often, we decided that the being in the apartment needed to grow. So we threw a party.

Now, for all my antisocial traits, I have had a little bit of success with past parties. In fact, most anybody reading this here blog has likely been at one or another, whether in Massachusetts or in North Carolina. And if you weren't there, you missed out.

This party took place Saturday night, which is as previously mentioned a weeknight out here (so the party had something in common with almost every party I've thrown). A small gathering of 10-15 teachers and school personnel made for lots of catty remarks about students and potential inter-department showdowns. But, thanks to the ready presence of homemade sangria, potato salad, and foods people actually liked, we had other fun things happen. Such as...

- One of my bosses decided that we needed a little bit of help around the house. To be expected, considering that we're men in our 20s who don't really care about how clean we are. At least not that much; we did tidy up before the party, but nothing out of the ordinary. So what was expected was that something in our apartment might not be quite up to snuff. No major issues, just little messes here and there.

Our boss disagreed. From my vantage point at the end of the table closer to my roommate's bedroom, I noticed her bustling about quite a bit, with regular stops to the cleaning supplies closet we had more or less ignored (I checked it the next day; I found an iron and toilet paper). Finally, she gave me the "come hither" finger gesture. From there she led me to the bathroom. Specifically, to my toilet.

There I found that all the dull stains on the porcelain had more or less dissipated. She had taken to the task with bleach and an iron will, and all of a sudden we had a clean kitchen sink, I had a clean toilet, and I learned a great tip for how to get blueberry or strawberry pie stains out (not that I like either of those foods, but the thought is nice, no?) Soon her help became a running amusement, as she noticed our quite-neglected plants and decided the neglect should end there. Which it did. Only, it picked up again the next day.

It was quite a time, actually, and every so often she would motion to me to come over again and explain her latest act and the reasoning behind it. Meanwhile, as each successive guest learned about what was going on, each successive guest made a, "I'm going to have a party at my house next!" joke. The sort of shared humor and experience that builds a community and makes parties worthwhile.


- We had an Israeli boyfriend of one of the new teachers talking politics in the wee hours with a couple of our more politically astute new teachers. As teachers at our school at least have a wide range of political views, from the current president is the devil to the current democratic candidate is the messiah, with a little leeway in the middle, and as Israelis can tend to lean towards the republican candidate a little bit more, it was an interesting debate. Or rather, it was interesting to see that it was happening. As the debate was in English, the unfair edge went to the Americans.

Somewhat before this debate, by the way, we got yelled at about the noise. Door goes closed, speakers for my sweet party playlist go off, party goes on.

- Did I mention there was potato salad, two (slightly) different types of red sangria, and a large bowl of white sangria? That might explain...

- We finished the night with a silly card game. "Apples to Apples" it's called. Each player is dealt five red cards with nouns on them, some proper, some common. One player (the player rotates) draws a green card that has an adjective or a descriptive phrase. The other players submit a red card they think best suits the green card drawn. The idea is that there will be some funny juxtapositions when, for example, a green card of "Hot and Heavy" draws a red card of "My memories".

Not too complicated of a game though, right?

I say this because one of my lovely colleagues, in fact one of my two or three favorite people involved with the school, struggled with this concept. She struggled with this concept for two reasons: 1. She has a tendency to make mountains out of the proverbial molehill. 2. She had her fair share of sangria, or wine, or beer, or the gross liquor somebody else brought. This affected her despite the fact that she has often bragged on her ability to throw 'em back and tolerate pain killers and the like, to the point where she says she can't get knocked out in the dentist's office.
Regardless, any good party needs a performance like this. She slogged through the game, adding to our collective knowledge of the game, since after all, when you have to teach something, the process allows you to understand it better. Later, she gave me the most intimidating, "I really care about you," speech I've ever had in my life, considering I did nothing wrong to spur it on. And she left her forks. And couldn't remember how she got home. You see? That's how to throw a party.


A First Guest
Also at this party and assisting in its preparation and ultimate success was Dan Fox. Fresh off the Birthright trip, he and a friend stayed at our place, in that ample living room, for a while. His friend left on Wednesday night, and though Dan made efforts to get out of town that night as well (though Lord knows why when he could stay with me), he stuck around until Sunday night.

Besides doing a fine job as visitor, lounger, and party helper, Dan also filled a key role in buying challah on Friday. Challah, the lumpy sweet Jewish bread, is only made/sold in the stores here on Thursdays and Fridays. I always forget on Thursdays to buy it. The Friday before this, I ran to the store after getting dropped off at home (by that same colleague/friend mentioned two paragraphs up, actually), to just make it before the store closed at 4. I bought a loaf and, along with my roommate, we nearly finished the thing that night. This time around, Dan kindly bought us three loaves; two for the party, and one to eat straightaway. The loaves were not a hit at the party, but they did provide me with the carb part of my lunch today, so that's cool.

The other thing Dan did was accompany me to wrestling practice. Boris loved him, though it wasn't clear if Boris realized Dan was an actual, good wrestler or not. Probably because Dan was incapable of athletic gymnastic movements beyond the diving forward roll.

Anyway, on his last night in town, Dan went with me to a practice, with the plan to go straight to the airport from there. As fans of general hygiene and not getting anymore ringworm (though my number is at arba or hamesh these days), we showered after practice. Which led to the following...

Our Man showered in the small toilet/shower stall. It was lit, but not extraordinarily well - it was in the basement of an athletic complex in Israel.
As our man lathered himself up in Selsun Blue, he heard some giggling. Obviously, with a park and a bunch of other sports going on around him, he could expect that youths would be merry. He proceeded to lather and rinse.
As he lathered and rinsed certain areas, he noticed the giggling increased in volume. He also noticed that there was light coming into the shower area from a slatted window. Could there be a connection between the giggling and the light? Nah. But as he turned off the water and bent over to pick up the Selsun Blue container, he did notice that the giggling was female in nature.
In the locker room next to the shower stall, he consulted with his friend. Could it be? "I don't know, dude, I think it might be."
Our Man, getting a kick out of this situation, made sure to go through a long, careful drying process. After all, no one wants to get their clothes wet when driving to the airport in humid Tel Aviv nighttime weather. And to find out whether whatever was going on behind that window (there was one in the locker room as well) was related or unrelated to his actions was also on his mind.
And so, as Our Man and his friend conversed in English, and Our Man dressed, he began to hear words from above that sounded like, "Go, Jeff!" Quite confusing considering no Jeffs were around.
But just as Our Man was ready to leave, the giggling from above coalesced to a question. "Hey, gorgeous," went the cries, dotted by, "What's your name, gorgeous?" Our Man, after a moment's thought, responded, "You guessed it, well done!"

Unfortunately, his friend gave the more correct, less interesting answer, "Dan." And they left, never to run into those gigglers.


Around the ol' Office
There's also a job I'm doing here. If you don't know it, I "teach" at the American International School here. As the intern teacher, I T.A. in a couple of classes (so far the highlight has been teaching the Senior Project class about citing sources, since AIS's school website links to Duke's, and teaching the AP US History class about the Revolutionary War battles, which I muddled a little bit but mostly got right), co-teach a class on Study Skills (a subject I'm less than passionate about, so imagine how 9th graders feel on it), and sit around a lot.

Ok, technically I'm the tutor, which means I make myself available for students who want help in class. Business is slow. The highlight of the business is that I made a sign for my computer that says, "The Tutor is IN" in Lucy fashion. That draws a chuckle from just about everybody. But very little business. Fortunately, I'm not paid by the client.

Four other things to note about school -
1. Most of my students call me "Mr. Schwarznegger," and then feel really clever about it. Sigh. One calls me "Superdude", actually, which is somewhat different.
2. My soccer players have figured out my secret - I'm not very good at the sport. Still, I do push ups with claps behind my backs and beat them in a lot of the sprinting, so I maintain their respect.
3. There was a big fight that rumbled into one of my colleague's classrooms (actually, also the same colleague who amused during the Apples to Apples game - sometimes she is dealt with actual mountains), and it featured one student strangling another. Sounded pretty funny, anyway.
4. Despite the fact that the strangler is on our soccer team, the squad as a whole has proven my long held prejudice - soccer players are generally pretty wimpy. Oh well.


That's all for this blog! But in the weeks to come there's plenty of excitement - a school field trip to go rappeling near the Dead Sea, a five-day weekend for Rosh Hashana that I might use to go to Jordan, a certain stop sooner or later in Jerusalem, and potentially more guests, more parties, and certainly more excitement and stories to tell! Stay tuned, and thanks for reading!
[ /shtick]

Another Basement, Another Neck Bridge

The whole thing started, as just about everything does these days, with a Google search. "Israel Wrestling" was my initial term. Through a little bit of searching and winnowing, I got to the Israeli Wrestling Federation page. There I had to weave my way through English and then Russian options, whilst ignoring all the Hebrew on the right. Eventually, I came away with a phone number, an address, and an email address.

Still mired in the states (this first search was back in June or July), I found only the last item pertinent. I sat on the info until the appropriate time. About two weeks before my arrival in the promised land, I sent an email, written first in Russian. I then translated it into English, leaving in the clunkier phrases for effect, e.g. "I was hoping to know if you could help me find a club to train at," or "I would be most thankful". I received a response in email, we went back in forth, and they gave me the phone number again and told me to call when I arrived.

Again, once I got to Israel I did the wise thing and waited. A little more than a week in, I gave them a call. A woman answered. She was kind, and she gave me two phone numbers. One was to a guy named Leo in Bat Yam, and one to a guy named Sergei (I thought) in Ashdod. I would say Bat Yam:Tel Aviv as Brookline:Boston, right down to the large presence of Russians. Ashdod is a little while away, so I thought I'd leave that on the back burner.

I've talked about Bat Yam already; it was the judo club. My experience wrestling in a bunch of random places - dating to my high school summers when my brother would take me to police stations, barns, and unused factories for workouts - has taught me to be prepared for anything. So when I went to the practice the first time and found out it was a judo practice, I was surprised, but not at all shocked.

I went to one practice. It was fine. Still, between the hassle and traffic in getting there, the other things I had to do, and the lack of interest I have in judo itself, I didn't make it back for a couple of weeks.

Upon my return, I met a game of Russian basketball. Russian basketball is what we called it at Duke anyway: it's basically rugby with basketball hoops. The big variation here was that no one could hold onto the ball, so each step had to be followed by a pass. In a way, this was closer to basketball than the Duke version; dribbling not allowed, tackling and general physicality allowed. Also, we all stunk at basketball.

I went to that second practice to work out, but more so to consult with Lior the coach. He is the fat guy who cusses out his kids and smokes cigarettes. Also the director of the freestyle team in Israel. Me and Lior, gonna be good friends.

All he told me, really, was yes, going to the mafia guy is a bad idea; yes, going to see the federation in person is a good idea; no, if you end up getting Israel citizenship, you won't have to give up the rest of your life to the army. Just a few months. Hmmm.

So this past Sunday I went to the federation. It's located in the concourse of a soccer stadium in a northern district of Tel Aviv, relatively close to where I live. I drove in, parked at the wrong place, drove away to look a little farther down the street, then tried the soccer stadium on the rebound. I asked the first guy I saw inside if he spoke English or Russian, and then if he could show me to the wrestling office. Voila.

There I met Adi and Itsi. Itsi was a bald dude in his late 30s who didn't speak much English, and no Russian. Adi was a slightly younger woman who spoke no Russian but plenty of English. So we had a little chat about me and my prospects with the IWF. The big negative garnered from the discussion was that I can't enter the National Championship without Israeli citizenship; something about wanting your national championship to be for your nationals. I mean, whatever. We're looking to see if my visa will be enough.

The big positive garnered was a confirmation on the club in Ashdod - the dude's name is Firgor, not Sergei, but they're one of the big 4 clubs in freestyle in the country - and a new number for a greco club in Tel Aviv. I thought I'd expand my net of styles I'd be willing to work out in, and the level of greco here is higher than freestyle. As Adi explained, "Our greco program has been going for 25 years, while our freestyle has only been going for 10." And by program, I think she meant acceptance of Russian and Georgian Jews.

So the new greco club coach's name was Berhay they said, though he also went by Boris. "He's a good coach. That's a good club," they told me. They also gave me a location, Bet yanim, which was somewhere in the southern half of Tel Aviv, but closer than Bat Yam. And they told me he spoke Russian, not English.

This time I didn't do as much waiting. I got home, shopped along the way, and then decided to supplement my shopping by walking to the local supermarket. On the way, I gave ol' Boris a call. I explained who I was, asked him about his club, and he said, "Sure, we have a practice today, come on down." Unready for this, I agreed. We hung up. I returned to my shopping. It was 2:20.

At about 3:20, I gave Boris a call again. I couldn't understand what he had been saying about where his club was located, so I figured I'd try again while sitting in front of an Israel emap. He explained it again, but seemed a little surprised I couldn't catch it the first time, as if my knowledge of Russian was to blame for not making out the Hebrew names he hacked off over a shoddy cell phone connection. In any case, we sat there until I figured out that Kabir was spelled with an "i" and not an "e", and that Ha Tikvah was actually a section in Tel Aviv. I pinpointed the place, thanked him, and promised to be at practice by 6.

Back in February when I was at the job fair to find a job teaching for this year, the head of the organization hosting talked about the turning point in an interview when the school you're interviewing with begins to sell you on them, rather than you selling them on you. I didn't really notice that turning point in my interview, but somehow I got the job anyway.

The turning point with Boris came at 4:49, when he called me back. He wanted to make sure I would find my way there and make sure I was coming. "We'll have a good team, you compete with us, don't worry." I'm not going to practice tonight, I told him. "Of course not, no problem! It's good to meet, to talk, just come." So it was settled.

My plans for arrival changed slightly when I received a phone call. Former teammate and still friend Dan Fox, as well as a friend of his had just arrived in Tel Aviv, shockingly ahead of schedule at the Central Bus Station. So I flipped the order of my plans and drove in to find them. Finding the bus station was in itself a mess - not dissimilar to Boston, Tel Aviv has signs directing you towards the bus station but then ceases to give you the details when you get very close. Fortunately, some dude on the street directed me, in Russian, to the station, and when I drove by the corner where Dan and friend waited, I heard the familiar "Hey, Shorty!" call. I pulled into the taxi and buses row and added my companions.

Once we found our way out of the balagan around the bus station, we made our way across the major highway (the Ayalon) and into Ha Tikvah. The club was pretty close to the bus station, so even with a few bad turns we got there in short order.

Walking by the local stadium, we found a sign for a judo club (Boris suggested there would be one) and some dudes sitting outside of a building that could have been our spot. We approached and spoke to them.
"Medeber anglit o russit?"
"English a little."
"We're looking for a wrestling club."
"Wrestling?"
"Boris. We're looking for Boris."
"Oh, Boris! He's right over there," and the guy gave us the directions. It appeared Boris was big around these parts.

We went by a little soccer field, down stairs, and into another building. Turning right down a narrow hallway in the basement, we found our pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; a blue mat and this fellow, sans trophy:


I never know what to expect from phone calls with these coaches. Lior was more your typical hardnosed wrestling coach, though quite soft-bellied. Boris looked like a wrestler - wide shoulders, a slight hunch in his back. When I walked into the room though, he wasted no time in getting to the greetings, giving me an awkward hug. Apparently that's how they treat top recruits; who said Israelis are cold?

For my first practice on a wrestling mat since July, I got the kid-gloves treatment. "Take a rest, don't do this drill," he told me during one of the neck warm-up exercises. "We don't want you waking up tomorrow and hurting everywhere, thinking, "Why should I wrestle?" Not wanting to disagree, and eager to trust the Russian training methods (i.e. being out of shape and lazy), I sat out that exercise.

Once the warm-ups stopped, I began to wrestle with Boris's son, Alex. Alex was an Israel National Team member in Greco, and had about 5 KG on me. Unlike his dad, he spoke English, which led to a mixture of Russian and English instruction as he explained I should step in on the underhook and not sit on my crappy lat-drop. "That's the only move I have!" I explained to him. Ahh, greco.

After 10 minutes of "push-push" (lazy live) with Alex, I was released to get a drink. Then I went with one of the newer wrestlers as they drilled getting off their back. I went live with this new guy too, and threw him around a little bit, if threw him around suggests avoiding his throws and getting many one-point takedowns.

The highlight of the first workout came when Boris himself came over to roll with me. Boris is a 2-time world champion...in the veterans level. He's also 50, I believe. And he was quite impressed with my freestyle wrestling. As he should have been, because when we went freestyle, I took him down six ways to Sunday. It's unclear whether he wasn't trying, wasn't in practice at freestyle anymore, or was just old. But he was impressed, regardless.

And so after practice he told me, "Don't go anywhere else to wrestle, or do judo, or karate, or anything, just work out here." Before I could respond, he added, "I've signed you up for our club anyway." Settled.

He did say that I might be able to practice for free, as long as I can compete for the club. So I'm a signed and pledged member of Bet Yanim. Go BY! Yeah? No? Well, it's good to fit in somewhere.

Postscript: That practice was on Tuesday. By Wednesday I had spotted at least 3 cases of ringworm on my person. Mmm.

Many Languages in Little World

You see it often in international sport. Most especially something popular and universal, like basketball or, say, soccer. Take the European soccer leagues. Teams are conglomerates of players from up to five different continents, and within that they represent a wide variety of nations and languages. Players need to communicate amongst themselves, coaches need to communicate to players, and most essentially, everybody has to bitch at the referees. So what language do they do this in?

I've had four practices now as assistant coach of the boys' varsity team here at AIS, and I've picked up on a few things. First of all, if the head coach and a number of key vocal players are from England, the team is most certainly not a soccer team but a football team. And if they're unproven, then they "have the makings of being a real football team". You want to play it out the back of the pitch. You don't play the game with speed but with pace; you don't kick the ball hard but put pace on the ball or play it with a little bit of pace; you don't sit on the bench if you're left out, you pace. (Ok, maybe not.)

Then it's just a matter of what languages you have in common. Two Israelis on the team might yell Hebrew to each other when they call for the ball. A kid might mutter "maricon" under his breath, and then joke with his Mexican teammate about the dull agility drills their assistant coach put them through. If a striker is from Mongolia, he might hear some instructions in Russian and take to them.

Of course, the lingua franca these days is English. Until China finishes getting its act in gear and dominates the world, the international language will be in our favor, especially when at an American school. (In fact, that probably won't change even after China takes over). Even when our school goes to play Arabic or Palestinian schools (as part of the Peace League), we're more likely to communicate to them through English than common knowledge of Arabic or Hebrew. The other big advance that might render English meaningless is telepathy, or the singularity, but we're not counting on that.

There are also all the common phrases we know in other languages. The coach might lead the count in Spanish, and if a Spanish player tackles an Italian, it's not hard to imagine them getting into it without any common language, just from similar vocab. (Another fictional proposal, since Spanish players don't tackle, and Italian players don't get into it so much as roll on the ground).

And of course, the language of gestures is a rich and varied one that can bridge many gaps. One wonders how Dutch coaches are so successful in Russia, but football is football, right? I mean, unless it's soccer. The fact that half the things said in judo practice are in Hebrew, and the other half are in Russian that I can't hear well because when I'm in practice, I become much stupider, doesn't really keep me from aping everybody else and getting a rough idea of the techniques we're practicing. And if Russian wrestling coaches were to come to the U.S., they'd be just as successful in communicating with the American wrestlers of all types. Like the time the Russian coach at Harvard asked one of the wrestlers at the Fargo camp, an Asian, if he was Chinese.
"No, Japanese," the wrestler answered.
"Konichiwa!" the coach said, and then he rammed a forearm into the back of the kid's head. Classic communication.

In the end, football (of either kind) is just sport. Masturbatory exercises that aren't worth the emotion and the intelligence that they elicit from the greater population as spectators, while also good exercise and focusing tools for participants. And it's far from me to find interest in the theory of sport as societal microcosm.

The interesting thing about being at an International school, as evidenced in the class room or on the football pitch, is seeing both the importance of identity and the irrelevance of nationality. Of course Americans are going to have a step closer in feeling to other Americans, and it's not quite productive when a British fullback on our team calls the Mongolian striker "Mongolian" rather than by name.

The fact that students coexist between all these nationalities - the football team represents Mexico, U.S., England, Cyprus, Mongolia, India, Canada, and Israel - is a piece of proof in the idea that we'll soon be beyond nationality. It's a faint hope, sure, and this school is an exception. But the commonality between all these kids, besides football and English, or whatever other languages they share, is that they're kids, and people.

Or to put it another way; every time I'm abroad, I'm tempted to, upon hearing the question "Where are you from?", say Russia, or that I don't understand English. Partly, that's because I can be a little brat about things. More though, is the desire to not be pinned down or identified. Identity is of course important and malleable and necessary, but perhaps that's just the self-identity, the inner core of who we are. I don't need you to know what I think of myself, or where I'm from, or what I believe, or anything further. Or if I do, I'll share it. In whatever language you like. (Except Finnish. Because it's confusing.)


My first guest of the year is expected sometime in the next few days, so the humorous narrative output is likely to pick up again. Though no nude activities, I hope.