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.

Israel is a Movie, or other OR songs aren't good

In the past three years, since I caught the international travel bug with the Duke wrestling team on a romp through Poland and the Baltic countries (a trip full of stories as of yet untold, which may offer fertile soil when I'm in a dull patch like now), I've visited most of the countries in Europe, Montreal twice, Morocco once (for my only African trip), and the exotic climes of Nashville, TN. I've also lived (i.e. stayed longer than a week) in Madrid, Moscow, and now Israel.

As such, I'm a proponent of a post-national world, a place where our identities are culturally based but looser, and where our freedoms involve traveling. That's a fairly privileged, middle-class, young American male perspective, I agree. I'm not going to get into the details of any world view here, because I haven't thought one out and because it's not that interesting. Listen to parts of "Imagine" and you might get an idea of where I'm going.

But I did all that listing not to say what I was a proponent of, and not to brag (as fun as that is), but to share my experience with living abroad. Since I'm in Israel, I can say a few specific things about being a stranger in a land that is in many ways strange, and in many ways familiar.

For example, I've been approached for directions quite a few times. I get approached in other countries, yes; I tend to be an approachable sort. But, there's also the fact that I'm Jewish and look like it, which means I'm not such a strange figure in Israel. An obvious point, but still interesting; I've received a lot of practice in saying "Ani lo medeber ivrit."


I've said that Russian is something of the #4 language here, but in some instances it comes into play where English won't help. When trying to sort out all the issues with my cell phone (which I've still not sorted, because although Israel was apparently where the cell phone was invented, it was also where they invented all the possible obstacles to using one normally), I found that the operators on the helpline for Pelephone spoke Hebrew, Arabic, or Russian. I had a lot of practice speaking with a lot of Svetas or Yanas about why I had no money on my phone and how I didn't understand how much a text cost. My thinking is that most people who know English know Hebrew (and perhaps vice versa), whereas there's a significant percentage of Russians who know neither and need the specific help.

Here may also be the place to point out that I haven't yet found a freestyle wrestling club. Or more exactly, I went to a club and found judo, and that coach, a short fat Russian guy in his 50s who smokes, told me that there was a freestyle wrestling club in the same area, Bat Yam, a southern part of Tel Aviv. The problem is that the freestyle wrestling club coach is involved with the mafia, or so the story goes. Best to stay away from that...

While I'm on judo, I'd like to say that half the judoists at that practice (about 10 guys) were Russian or spoke Russian, and that if I do return to a practice as I plan on Thursday, I may end up with a fast friend in Timorbek. Timorbek is an Uzbek, a burly dark-skinned fellow who, after helping me out to get ready for practice and what not, had the following conversation with my a couple of times.
"You know, Da..what's your name again?"
"Daniel."
"Danil, you know? I took 2nd in the world in sambo."
"Oh yeah?"
"Thank you for you congratulations."
"Yeah, congrats."
"Not bad, huh?"
"Nope."

The second time we had the conversation, I remembered to congratulate him before he thanked me. I then dropped him off in Tel Aviv on my way home, a car ride which involved him saying that as wrestlers we should be friends, and that life isn't good without a girl. But he could not remember his cell phone number. Nor the name of the kid I practiced with. Timorbek isn't the sharpest fellow, it seems. But a nice guy.


Right, back on topic now. About being a foreigner. There are certain cultural things that we run into as Americans that are difficult to deal with, as a matter of our upbringing. Customer service is not a priority here; take the cellphone business, where some of the Russian ladies on the phone were kind and helpful, and others did all but call me an idiot when sending me to a kiosk to refill my phone. Or that our internet randomly cuts out with no way of asking for help. People are friendly here, but only if you're in a social setting that does not involve transactions. Actually, it just seems that way to us; a smile and patience will usually be rewarded.

Another thing is the bargaining thing here. When you go to a store and make a big purchase, supposedly you should ask, "What can you do for me?" The price is never a fixed item. The markets especially depend on bargaining, as they do most everywhere. We as Americans (myself included) hate that.

The counter to that, I've decided, is the American system of tipping, an odd concept that Steve Buscemi's character dissected in Resevoir Dogs (the only scene of a Tarantino movie I've ever seen). We're accustomed to giving 15-20% for tips, which is all nice and grand....except waiters/waitresses in the states get paid much less, with salaries built around tips. Let's just cut the crap and pay what should be owed, no? That would be the Israeli attitude, I think, and while I don't wholly agree (after all, I loved tips as a delivery driver), it's something to think about when we bitch about the bargaining.

I should add that whenever you make a large purchase (say over $75 worth), you will be offered to pay that in separate payments. They're very big on credit here, it seems, something I hope I won't adapt to.

For all the strangeness that one might face in Israel or anywhere else, at the end of the day, we return to our rooms, where our internet is usually working, and we're wired and well-connected, as the Hold Steady saying goes. Globalization and technology don't necessarily make the world smaller, but they make it all easier to handle and adjust to. Culture shock isn't quite the same when I can still keep my fantasy baseball team updated every day, and when I have millions of emails and comments to deal with about my previous blog posting and so forth. I don't shock easy as is, but these cushions take away much of the potential. Something is lost in that comfort.


But then we return to the beach, where the teachers gather after Fridays (or the occasional rough Thursday) for drinks and company. The air is calm and warm, the water warmer, the sun fading over the Mediterranean, the waves thrashing, and the sound of foreign tongues surrounds us. Every time I'm on the beach, especially at nighttime, it feels like I'm in a movie. I'll walk back from that bar to our local beach, a 15-minute walk or so, and see families cooking and camping out, or groups of 12-15 girls with lanterns in a circle, or a football team kicking a ball around and training (ok, that's usually before dusk, but indulge me), and it all falls on me as unreality.

It's a step away from this computerized, modern reality though, and a step back towards something more primal and emotional, and in the end something realer. Even with all the cushions and the strangeness, what living away from home does best is take us to a new place where we are forced to accept the reality, to appreciate it and adapt to it. And it's in those movie scenes that I feel most at home, as far away as I might be.

No, I don't do those things!

I've held this posting for a couple of days, both to give time for people to read the previous post and to give time to myself to come to terms with the events described below. Don't worry, I didn't do anything really bad, or anything that the president of the united states must have to do sometimes (which doesn't really mean anything good, but whatever).
In the past, my propensity for going along with the flow and listening to people has led to interesting stories, both good and bad. I'm never afraid to test my boundaries, you could say, and I do it all for your entertainment. So, I'd tell you to try to withhold judgment on this one, but I didn't really do anything wrong. As a warning, graphic elements are suggested, though not depicted. And I wouldn't recommend trying this at home. Or anywhere else. Unless you're into that sort of thing.
As an added point, I'd like to say that one of my fellow new teachers here says that the first time she saw me, she thought, "Que fofo!", which means "What a cutie!" in Portuguese. So my charms are broad and still directed at the right targets.

Things started innocently enough; it was a nice Sunday, so I went to the beach. I didn't feel like dealing with the lifeguards and their restrictions, so I headed north. I had done a little bit of exploring up there, where the shores get rockier and the populations sparser, but nothing in depth. I figured a nice quiet beach where I could swim as much as I wanted would be perfect.

As I drifted below the ruins of Apollonia, the shores took on hiking terrain. I had to weave my way through huge rocks and chunks of stone that once belonged to the wall of a fortress. I very rarely call something unbelievable, but this walk along the sea was unbelievable. Walking amongst these ancient ruins, the sea, and the occasional sunbather or fisherman was a transportative experience.

Which may have been why I didn't blink too much when I saw the old, nude dude. He had a hat on, but otherwise was bare-assed and face down on a rock. I had been warned that there was a nudist beach up these parts, and that it was, like most nudist beaches, populated by those who would best serve society by remaining nude on their own terms.

Now, I've in recent times more and more become a private nudist. Hippie-dippy thoughts about how we're more natural that way pervade in my thinking, and so I act on it, occasionally, when nobody's around. On the other hand, I was getting really tired of looking in the mirror and seeing a tan torso and paper white thighs. And just about nobody was around (there was some other dude in the water). And it was Sunday, so surely nobody else would show up. Right? So why not?

Anyway, things started out fine. I started off on my belly, resting up a little bit; it was a long hike, after all. Then, for fear of burning my back and other rear areas, I turned around. I pulled out my...book and started reading. I was in the middle of a very long chapter, and after reading and sweating for a little bit, I decided I'd try to finish the chapter, then go for a swim, then dry off, dress, and go home.

Things were fine, and with applications and reapplications of sun tan lotion, I felt fine. I was still working on Norwegian Wood, which has its spicier moments, but I managed to control myself well while reading.

As I was there, a guy walked by me. He had sunglasses and a backpack, and was dressed in a black t-shirt and black shorts. He walked by me from north to south, and then again from south to north. I paid him little mind, but what little mind I paid him told me that he had paid me more mind. But whatever, I wasn't going to worry about it, I was just doing my thing, nose in a book and nothing in anything else.

Then with about five pages left in my chapter, I looked up to find him asking me something in Hebrew. He was a tall guy with spiky black hair and sunglasses. He asked me whatever he asked me, and my first response, mumbled slightly, was to say "Я не гомик", or roughly translated, I'm not gay. Then, when I realized he didn't understand me, I said "anglit o russit." And in English, he asked me what time it was.

Satisfied with my response (it was 3:55), he sat down next to me. He was from Tel Aviv, worked in marketing, and really liked the water at this beach. And the fact that it was a nude beach. And he was really surprised so few people were there. "It's Sunday," I said.
"Yes, but it's August, everyone is on vacation," he responded.

Despite all this, I didn't completely freak out or figure him out. After all, there's that homoerotic but still heterosexual European and Middle Eastern quality of manhood that affords frank discussion and camaraderie without any sexual tones. For example, a judoist might offer to wrestle me in his boxer briefs, or two friends in Morocco might walk down the street hand in hand, or two Georgian men might kiss on the cheek when they greet each other. No problems there. Also, I didn't want to jump to conclusions. And I didn't want to be overly rude, and to tell the truth, he didn't bother me that much. In fact, mostly, he annoyed me because this was time alone for me to read and relax, and now I had to talk to someone.

But whatever. We talked a little bit, I finished my chapter, and then went in the water. And he joined me, leading the way, actually. Or rather, I kept him in front of me, for peace of mind.

The water where we were had plenty of rocks in it, so it was tricky walking to get to sand deep enough to submerge even the lower half of one's body. There was the added complication that I wanted to keep my distance from this guy, just in case he tried anything. He swam a little bit more vigorously and said a few times how nice the water was, but other than that, no particulars.

Still, I was uncomfortable with the whole thing, and after five unsatisfying minutes, I walked out. He followed me out, and we went to our respective backpacks. The difference was that he then came back over to mine, where he found me putting on my spandex.

"Oh, I thought you were staying," he said. "You don't do those things?"

"No," I answered. "It was nice meeting you, though." And I threw my beach towel and book into my backpack and walked away with a final wave. He exited stage right, I stage left, and that was it.

The old dude with the hat was still there, tanning. I meanwhile laughed to myself, trying to deal with how shook up I felt over the whole thing. A lesson lived, a lesson learned, I hope. Maybe tanning salons aren't so bad...

Stories from a city Saturday

Rather than go straight narration for my first day alone in Tel Aviv, here are three brief stories and many photos I garnered from my walking around.
A brief explanation beforehand: I live in Nof Yam, a small section of Herziliya Pituach, itself the seaside portion of the city Herziliya. On the whole, the city is a convenient adjunct to the Tel Aviv area, with beach access and a reasonable restaurant/night scene. It's no Tel Aviv, of course, but the city is 15-20 minutes away when there's no traffic, as was the case yesterday.
Ok, now the stories.

The Many Faceless


On Berkowitz St., right behind the art complex in Tel Aviv center (where the Museum, Performing Arts Center, and Opera House sit side by side), stand the faceless statues. A group of two, a group of three, and then one on his own, at the vertex of the sidewalk. The statues stand on plain brown metal pillars. Their faces are blank, their hands are in their pockets or behind their backs, and their clothes are drab. They don't suggest silence and conformity; they insist on it.
There are many ways to interpret what a set of art like this might mean. We are forever doomed to search for meaning, and the easiest one, considering the statues' location and their silence, is to say that these people stand for the faceless, nameless people who stayed silent during the Holocaust, allowing the Jews and the gays and the gypsies and everyone else to go straight to the camps, straight to their doom.
A person with a broader understanding of history might expand on this. This could just as easily be a symbol for all the privileged Western European Jews who shunned their provincial Eastern coreligionists in the early 20th century, during the pogroms. It could be a broader statement on our tendency to allow genocide to occur everywhere, from Darfur to Armenia. Those from a different political orientation might say it marks the Jews' mistreatment of the Palestinians since Israel has been established. The further complication that the statues stand near a Japanese and Swiss flag, among others, leads to more potentialities.


These are all fine suggestions, and perhaps one or more is correct. But I prefer to rise above the allegorical leanings of those possible explanations, and beyond the strict political interpretations.


As I see it, these faceless statues stand for all of us. They stand for all the times we have not taken a chance, have not followed through on an opportunity. The times we let love slip through our grasps because the situation wasn't quite right, the times we let a friendship go away because of a silly slip or a persistent pride, the times we misspoke or misunderstood and lost something that could have been preserved. The times we try to fit in because it's easier or because we're afraid, the times we allow someone else to suffer because that's easier then stepping in and supporting him.
Each time something like this happens, we lose our face. We lose who we are, we lose our essence. We become one of the masses, someone just like everybody else. Our hands are in our pockets because we don't know what to do with them. We wash our faces of the problem and watch as it passes us by, and then we say, "But what could I do?" and move on.

We're all faceless. Nobody can avoid losing their face in their lifetime. To be human is to be faceless.

And yet, as humans striving to be more, doomed to search for meaning, we seek to recover. We endlessly search for our faces, for our essence, for the I that I and only I can be. Not always are we aware of this search, and awareness doesn't really aid in the finding. And we'll never recover our face; not completely, not in this life. Still, we seek.
So these statues serve to remind us that we are all the same, all stripped of our essence by our own actions and failures. Still we stand there, hands in our pockets, wondering how to get it all back. And the world moves on.

My Sarona

Just south of Kaplan St., a major road in the center of Tel Aviv, sounds a peaceful song of dissonance. West of three skyscrapers that form the Azirelli Center, a commercial and business landmark along the Ayalon freeway, are three blocks of two story beige mud-brick houses. They are surrounded by green grass and trees in full summer glory, with open squares for couples to sit together in, or for young children to run about in. There are benches and tables to sit at, with maps of the city serving as the table designs.

A few signposts in English explain that this was once home of a winery or wine refinery, but otherwise whatever indications there are for the name of this region are in Hebrew. Fortunately, a look at the map explains that this is Hakirya, and a search on the internet eventually leads to a wikipedia article on Sarona. Once a settlement for Templers (who, per wikipedia, appear to be Christians who don't believe Christ was the son of God but just a really good guy), the area was preserved even after the Templers were kicked out around WWII and Israeli independence; apparently the Templers, founded in Germany, had ties to the Third Reich. Positive ties.

In the eternal irony of history, that settlement now offers an oasis within the largest and most modern city in the only Jewish nation (Brooklyn has yet to declare its independence, as far as I know). Everywhere in Tel Aviv there are exciting juxtapositions between cold, intimidating modernity and comforting, outdated history. Hakirya can envelop the visitor so that he forgets that there is a big road meters away, or that the skyline surrounding is full of towers. When walking in it, it's unclear whether the area is an Arab village, a college student enclave, or just a general area of escape. Its serenity and beauty shines, however, by remaining simple and calling back to all the things that are lost or soon will be lost. It's the sort of place all the best cities need, and Tel Aviv has it in abundance.

A City of Mélanges

One of the new teachers in our school, who is married to an Israeli and has been here before, made the point that in Israel, you see more variety in car brands. Along with Honda, the occasional Ford, and Toyota, you get Peugeot, Fiat, Citron, Smart Cars, and a bunch of others I can't recall. (He also made the point that all his friends who visit him here, male or female, ask about how Israeli women's breast sizes are so large. Also an interesting observation.)

Similarly, walking in Tel Aviv will lead you to a bunch of different languages. Hebrew and Arabic, Russian and English, sure, of course. I also stumbled across a French language shul off of Trumpeldor St. Mishkin's Place, a Russian restaurant on Ben Yehuda, had the menu written in English and Russian, but then said they spoke Spanish and French there. Italian signs popped up. The grocery store sold things in Ukranian. Cafes boasting Yemenite, Ethiopian, or Libyan cuisine are not uncommon. Even within languages there were a variety; I heard all sorts of different English accents, for example. And not to return to it too much, but the one book I've read that brings up Tel Aviv in the action is The Savage Detectives, a book written by a Chilean, where the action in Tel Aviv revolves around Mexicans and Mexican Jews.

Take my dining experience last night as an example. I wanted to make it all the way to Neve Tzedek, hearing that they would have some artsy cafes open even on Shabbat. I thought I might be able to avoid eating a major dinner. My stomach asserted otherwise, and still a little north of the district, I decided I would eat soon.
After some dithering on Ben Yehuda, as I pondered walking to my car to make sure blue and white curbs did indeed mean free, tow-safe parking, I decided to turn back south towards Neve Tzedek. And then after doubling back through a dilapidated housing complex, I stopped at a restaurant that boasted of a "True Eastern Cuisine", in Russian, while displaying the menu in English.
A man of dark skin sat at an outside table, alone. I walked inside and said, "Shalom" to the man behind the counter, also of olive color with a neat gray haircut. "Yes, please," he said. "Filafel," I said.
He went to work and prepared the pita for me, asking me whether I wanted this or that ingredient to be included. His family - a mother with two girls - sat at a table on the raised dining area to my right, and the younger girl kept coming to him, saying "Abba, abba". He made my pita, fielded her questions, and kept an eye on the TV, where the Jamaican 100-meter Olympic Champ wrapped himself up in a Jamaican flag.
I returned outside and saw a girl about my age sitting with the man at their table. She was American, judging by her accent in English, and chatting up the man while smoking a cigarette. They were strangers to each other, I think, and she the initiator for their conversation. I took notes on my day in my notebook as I ate, also glancing over at them occasionally. Meanwhile I watched Mishkin's Place across the street from us, wondering if the old couple and the waitress who served them were actually Russian, like they looked, or if I just thought that based on the circumstances.
Once finished with my fine falafel, I went inside to put my dishes away. I had already asked the restaurant owner where Neve Tzedek was - to our south, as I thought - and I thanked him on my way out.
The girl, noticing my English, perhaps decided I would be a better conversational partner. "I like your shirt," she said of my notorious designer, skeleton design white T. "Thank you," I said without missing a beat, perhaps coldly in turning away her conversational parry, as I headed south.


On the way to Neve Tzedek I found the Russian Embassy, or so I believe, which explains the slightly higher frequency of Russian signs on Ben Yehuda. From there I walked about 15 minutes to get into the Neve Tzedek region, at which point I settled on the closest, most advertised cafe I could find.
Unclear on whether it was a cafe or a restaurant, and how to order, I went inside to the bar. There, a girl my age in light brown dreadlocks gave me an English menu. She spoke good, British-accented English, though she spoke Hebrew as well, leading me to believe she was Israeli. She gave me the menu, I ordered tea and a Fanta, and once she confirmed I wanted it for here and not takeaway, she sent me to a table.

I sat at a table outside and took a few more notes. A waitress brought me a glass of hot water, a glass with ice in it, a 350 ml glass bottle of orange Fanta, and a tray with various tea options. I took a Japanese green and let it soak, and I finished my notes.
Next to me were two guys in their early 30s comparing arm tattoos. They spoke in English, but both were clearly not native speakers, and at times they would elide into another language, which I didn't hear too well but I would guess was Hebrew. It reminded me of Friday night on the beach in Herziliya with teachers, where one of them spoke with a girl who offered us free massages (working for tips) in a mix of Hebrew and English, easily flitting back and forth between the two.
I pulled out my book, Murakami's Norwegian Wood, and immersed myself in his Tokyo and careless sex. At the same time, the guys continued on the debate of forearm versus biceps,
and a couple sat at another table (later that night, in Herziliya with other teachers, I found out from our waitress that yesterday was a "love holiday", akin to Valentine's Day). I couldn't hear what they spoke in, but very little would have surprised me.

A Few Stray Cats
Tel Aviv, or maybe broader Israel, is known for having a lot of stray cats around. Here were a few I saw.

The first one, outside the tranquil and most righteously named Dan Family Park, near the art complex.

This one thought he could hide from me. Not from my lens, at least. Also, note the wheel of the car at the right of the picture.

You noted the wheel, right? Good. That's the car this cat is under.

This cat was actually afraid of my lens, and quick enough to hide from it. So, another faceless creature with which to end the post.

What do you mean, we're not moving and it has to do with Russia?

Last night I joined a few other teachers to celebrate someone's birthday. They got me at 7 or so, and in a two car caravan we drove to Neve Tzedek, a hip artsy neighborhood in Tel Aviv. We had left late and anticipated Thursday night traffic, and so were nervous about the 12-person reservation at the restaurant. Still, we figured the 20 minutes of typical driving would maybe double.
Well it took us 20 minutes...to get through a set of lights on the border of the city. And another 20 minutes or so before that. And a few more sets of 20. In sum, it took us an hour and a half. (Don't check my math, since it's only implied and math tutoring starts Monday).
That's all well and good, but there was an unusual disturbance: as we drove down the beach road in Tel Aviv, deciding that would be the most direct route to Neve Tzedek (and scenic, taking us by the Old port area that is newly revitalized, and near Jaffa, the original settlement in the area), we continued to drag ass. Not our fault, of course, as there were hordes of cars dragging ass in front of us. Well, maybe partly our fault, because our driver, the kindly Kevin, would allow cars from side streets to go in front of us, a grand gesture completely foreign to Israeli driving mores, where you as soon let a guy go in front of you as you slow down entering a roundabout, or never. But the few cars we let go in front of us slowed us down minimally, so really, it wasn't our fault.
As we neared the U.S. Embassy, situated across from the beach and next to Mike's Place, an American sports bar, we saw a bunch of people on the side of the road. They were making noise and carrying signs and flags, the flags white with a red cross, and then four smaller crosses in the corners. As the people passed by us and we by the people, we started reading the signs.
In English, Russian, and Georgian, they were signs protesting the war. Specifically, they were Georgians (or Georgian Jews, I suppose, or even Georgian Israelis) demanding that the Russians leave, that the Americans intervene, that Medvedev become president (alluding to the likelihood that Putin is still behind everything), and that we acknowledge that Putin=Hitler (or Gitler; Russian and probably Georgian turn H sounds to G). Of course, listening to the radio station Reka ("The River", a Russian station in Israel), I heard that the same comparisons were being made in Moscow, about Saakshivilii. Seems to me that, using the ol' transitivity rule, that Saakshivilii=Putin, and that we might be dealing with a huge case of schizophrenia, and somebody get Borges on the phone.

On a serious tangent, this war is atrocious if not surprising. I am no better informed than anybody about this (Friday night, when my internet was still balky about certain websites, I got a gchat request from a friend for perspective on the war between Russia and Georgia. "Oh, there's a war now?" I said). I harbor distrust for both governments involved, as well as for the U.S. administration as they heavyhandedly try to make their impact. Also, the behavior here from Russia and the U.S. over the general principle is somewhat contrary to their stances over Kosovo (in that case the U.S. supported the autonomy of a breakaway ethnicity, Russia opposed; here it's the reverse, roughly speaking), suggesting that realpolitik > principles.
I have talked to someone in Moscow who, when not disgusted with politics and people in general, reports great anger at Saakshivilii, and the U.S. for supporting him, which suggests that Russia is getting one side of the story. Seeing that Condoleeza Rice isn't meeting with Russia and that McCain is making bold remarks about Georgia on his mind suggests that another side is playing there. Israel holds an interesting place in this as many immigrants here are from Russia and Georgia. For example, when talking about the Israeli wrestling team, people often point out that they're all Georgians or Russians.
Which brings me to the other personal touch I have with this. When I wrestled at CSKA, I became friendly with a few Ossetians, both South and North I believe, and some Georgians. I remember an owl-eyed kid named Bekah, who left because he had to serve in the Georgian army, and Ossetski Lev, a wide-grinning fellow whose full name was Ludwig. There was a Muslim kid from Georgia who insisted he wasn't Georgian. That area, the Caucauses, is a mix of a ton of nationalities (and a pair of religions: Islam and Russian Orthodox), and at times their differences erupt - Dagestan isn't the safest place, Chechnya had its war day, etc.
As was pointed out to me in a lecture by an American professor at Tel Aviv University when talking about the Middle East, the decline of empires and rise of self-rule makes it difficult to assess who deserves rule, and everybody wants a piece. That is to say, during the Soviet Union, Georgia and Ossetia and all these other nations and nationalities were subsumed in part of the larger country. They were equal in their misery, so to speak. Now, with unclear national boundaries and the supposed freedom to choose where they stand, these countries and peoples are obviously struggling. So while I don't have enough knowledge or facts on this situation, and I think that both sides are in the wrong here and assessments are hard to make, the war is inevitable. And inevitably crappy.

Just like Tel Aviv traffic, which finally receded after we passed the protest. We finally made it to the restaurant, where our table was still reserved, and had a jolly evening. Though the puff pastry stuffed with liver, onions, and pear sauce was a bad choice. Seriously, I blame the pear sauce.

The traffic's abatement was temporary, however: the ride home took about 40 minutes. That, at least, was the double time period.

So the nature of traffic is pretty bad here, though of course it's pretty bad in New York, or Sao Paolo, or Moscow. What about inevitable things particular to Israel?

Security
Everybody wonders about whether it's safe here. "Don't get blown up" I heard not a few times, or "Don't blow us up!" which was a bit of a confused sentiment. The news says bad things happen all the time, that ceasefires are temporary, illusory agreements, and that the whole country is in danger.
Which it is, probably, to some degree. But day to day life is pretty safe, beyond the threat of Israeli drivers. Arab minorities and Jewish majorities live together in peace, from what I've noticed to date, and the existential threat felt on the geopolitical level doesn't really enter into your thoughts. Especially when lounging on the beach is involved.

There are a couple notable exceptions, though. Security becomes a natural part of life, to a higher degree than it would be in the U.S. or Europe.

When we drive to school, we have to pass through a gate to enter and to leave. A security sticker affixed to our car allows us in. Nothing too fancy, but an added check.

There's a different check when you go to park at the mall. As you descend into the underground parking lot, a queue forms at the entrance. One car at a time enters the parking lot, after a security guard gives the ok. The guard gives the ok only after checking your trunk to "make sure" nothing fishy is going on. I'm told there's very little that they do to check, just a quick eyeball. Also, sometimes they'll ask you if you're carrying a gun on you. Your word is bond there, unless you're visibly packing.

Related to these security concerns is the national predilection to overreact. For example, in between Herziliya Pituach (the beach part of the city Herziliya that I more or less live in) and Herziliya proper is a set of train tracks. Since I have consciously tried to go into Herziliya, starting last weekend on foot, I have not once crossed these train tracks without having to stop and wait for a train to go by.

A high frequency of trains going through Herziliya? Maybe. But more significant is that the gates come down at least a full 90 seconds before the train is in sight. Apparently, once in recent times a car waiting for the train to pass got rear ended straight onto the tracks, and those in the car were subsequently killed by the oncoming train. So now, the 90 seconds of wait time is a mandatory facet, with an attendant who sits in a booth with a cell phone, ready to call the train if there's any sort of problem. And once the train at last passes, they raise the gates and the traffic flushes through the tracks.

This same sort of reactionary philosophy (and really, with a country full of Jewish parents, what would you expect?) is apparently why they're so restrictive about swimming space these days at the beach; a few weeks ago, a couple people drowned due to storms deep in the Mediterranean or something. So now we get to know our neighbors and their tighty-whitey "swim suits" a little too well. (As an addendum, I was told yesterday that there are people who water the grass in their tighty-whiteys around here, or even ride a bike around. Mmm.)


Weekends
Today is Friday, which is of course the start of the Shabbat, at sundown. In Israel, it's the weekend. A little inconvenient when we work on an American work week, except that Sunday, a work day in this country, is a free day for us. Empty beach, public transportation, and I assume less crowded streets in Tel Aviv.
So, this is my weekend to explore Tel Aviv. Pictures, stories, and amusement will be here soon, I hope. Oh, and school starts Monday. Hmm...


But before you go, some pictures from the beach I live five minutes from! Yeah.

The old mosque next to our beach, known as Sidnya Ali. Once a place where the Phoenician raiders would store their loot. History is everywhere here, eh?

Walking down to the sunset and the water. It was very nice to swim at this time. What else would it be?

No questions, no words.

Initial Impressions In Irreverent Israeli Indents

So if you'll recall the post "This Place Kinda Souks...", you'll see that I already established the freedom on my blog to talk about places and experiences outside of Europe. You will further find on the heading above these words a change in Blog title. It was necessary, and it was time.


Having spent about 5 and a half days in Israel, I've already come up on a batch of things to do and tales to tell. Mainly, they're related to these foreign concepts of "having a job" and "working with others." Foreign for me, that is, and probably familiar to you. So while I may marvel at waking up to an alarm clock set before 9 in the morning, or talking with more than five different people over the span of a day, you won't find it so interesting.

Instead, I'll talk about Hebrew, by way of French. You see, the first time I went to Montreal was in the fall of '05. I was fresh off the first excitement of traveling from that summer in Eastern Europe, and the prospects of exploring thrilled me. I got in my recently purchased Honda Civic and drove the 4+ hours across the border and into Quebec.

All was well and good, except that I failed to appreciate the fact that the official language in Montreal and Quebec isn't English. Of course, I knew French was the official language. I just didn't think about what that meant: that all the signs would be in French, and that most of the people would speak French. Most spoke English too, but somehow that didn't matter. I went into shell shock, called home with fear in my voice, and only calmed down when I met somebody in a sports bar who had at some point wrestled at Duke. And I still left the city Saturday night instead of Sunday afternoon.

While everyone, or almost everyone, speaks English in Israel, they do it as a second language. In fact, in English and Russian I have the #2 and #4 languages covered in the country (with Arabic a co #2), and so I shouldn't have any trouble with language barriers. In theory.

In practice, many signs and reading materials are only in Hebrew, a language I can sort of guess at from 8 years of Hebrew school; by guess at, I mean I know the letters but am hamstrung by the lack of vowel signs that we used in my youth, so if I know how a word sounds already, I can "read" it. Not much help.

Also, people speak Hebrew first, which leads to the always mildly humiliating even if completely understandable moment when you have to ask if they speak English. I have learned how to say I don't speak Hebrew, though I can only write it in transliterated English: Ani lo medeber ivrit. This helps, but only a little.

Then there's my cell phone, a nice piece of work that completely befuddled me for a day and a half with its eternal Hebrew-language options, until I finally compared with another new teacher's phone, already switched into English, to take care of the change. Which still left a Hebrew-language display of whatever network I'm on. And if I try to make certain phone calls, I get Hebrew on the other end telling me that this won't do. I think. And I'm not sure what company my cell phone is with, or what everything costs, and so on.

But enough of that. In the week I've been here, I've also encountered Tel Aviv (well, not really, but it's close by); Jerusalem (great for the 4+ hours we were there, except for the commodified Western Wall, but I'll save those thoughts for a future Jerusalem visit/post); work; and the weather - very nice though not any hotter than a hot Boston summer day. The difference is that there's no variation or thunderstorms; it's 90 degrees Fahrenheit and sunny every day, at least so far. I was hoping it'd be miserably hot, if just because that portends for a nicer October. But we'll see.

The coolest, most worthwhile thing I've encountered so far? The beach. And so, without further ado...

Down on the Beach
To get to the beach, I exit my 3rd floor apartment, walk down the stairs, and turn left. Immediately, I hit the main beach road, Golda Meir St. I walk about 20 meters and turn right on Yigal Yadin, the street that runs to the beach. It's a small asphalt road, leading to a parking lot and the Mediterranean. There's a slight uphill and right hand turn at the end of the street, and while the steady stash of crashing waves is audible as you walk, there is almost no sea to see. The most impressive visual feature on the approach is an old, unused mosque that overlooks the landscape.
Then you get over the crest and go down to the sea, and well...

Mind you I haven't taken my camera to the beach yet. Once I do, this picture will be much better. Yeah.

On the left is a tall, sandy brown bluff, the sort of overlook that would serve as a great setting for a movie finale, where the two antagonists throw down, until one crashes to the beach below. On the right the mosque's tower is still visible as I descend. The sea is now visible, the mighty Mediterranean.
The beach itself is small, with no more than twenty meters space from the edge of the sand to the water. There are five gazebos in a line at our beach, providing shade for those who foolishly decide a year or two increase in life span is worth more than a nice tan. A lifeguard's tower aspires to the bluffs on the right, though it comes nowhere close to their height or majesty.
So looking out at the sea is rightfully beautiful, but so is looking away from it. Those cliffs reveal layers of sand and stone, like something out of a Magic School Bus book, teaching about sedimentary rocks. There is the mosque, there are large buildings further to the south, and a little bit to the north there's some sort of housing structure built into the cliff. Add in sunny skies with littered clouds and a few assorted hang gliders, and it's all something to see.

There are a few intriguing differences about the beach here, compared to other beaches I've been to. First of all, a few judgments based on two hours or so: this is the closest I've ever lived to a beach, and this is the best beach I've ever been to. I'm not a typical beachgoer, but this was really pleasant. The water, for example, is clear and warm, so that there's no need to plunge in and adjust to the temperature. I waded out to the strong waves (there were many surfers out there today) and soaked in the splashes with nary a shudder. Actually, there were some whistle-induced flinches, but I'll get to that.

Also, while everybody says this, it bears repeating that this is indeed the land of milk and honey. That is; the people here are beautiful. Yes, I include the males; though I'm not checking them out particularly, they strike me as handsome dudes. Or almost as handsome as me, anyway.

Israelis, we were warned, tend to be more permissive about standards for acceptable clothing. Actually, there wasn't anything crazy from most of the guys there, dressed in long bathing shorts, and the women were in bathing suits, same as anywhere. But whether from European or Russian influences, there were a few men, mostly middle-aged or up, in thongs and the like. One old guy was in just tightie-whiteys, which became quite transparent as he bathed. Mmm.

Needless to say, when in Rome, so I hiked my spandex up just a little bit. Mmm.

The way the beach and swimming works is also a little strange. For one, the already limited beach space is restricted by barbed wire fences a few meters away from the cliffs. "Danger, Landslide" read one of the two types of signs posted along the beach. The other one says "No Swimming Allowed". Whether due to fear of undertows, crazy tides, or jellyfish, the authorities rule out much of the coastline around our beach from swimming. Black flags are posted periodically along the shore, marking not the band or anarchy but no swim zones. Each beach I stopped at today (that is, two of them) had an area marked out by red flags where one could swim. And black flags stretching farther out were the absolute boundaries.

To enforce these rules, the lifeguards blew whistles. Once their subjects' attention was earned, the lifeguards would gesture. If necessary, they'd get on the speaker system and announce their concerns. Since I don't really get the rules yet, and can't understand Hebrew, I was frightened every time I heard the whistle blow, until finally I realized they weren't going to arrest me for walking along the surf. I think.

So those were the limits to the beach trip. Considering the cleanliness, warmth, and company that the beach provided, those limits are trivial. And maybe if I sneak over there at night, the limits and company will be gone, and I'll be free to frolic in the sand and surf as I please. Which is to say, if I ever become a full-fledged nudist, Israel will have played its part. And on that note, I'm signing off.

I plan to post frequently if not regularly. And I am now experimenting with posting these "notes" on facebook. Ugh, I know, but I like readers, or the potential of having readers. So welcome!

An Experience, A Life

The following conversation would be typical for me if I actually talked to people:

"Where have you been?"

"I was in Spain for two months."

"Oh, awesome! What were you doing there?"

"Not much. Bumming around, teaching English, traveling."

"Where were you in Spain?"

"Madrid, mostly."

"So, what's it like to live in Spain?"

And...STOP dialogue!

Ok, so maybe that dialogue never happens. But it's not hard to imagine. I lived in Madrid for a span of 56 days, nearly two months, and while I only spent about 40 of those days in the city, that should be enough time to get to know Madrid. To get a feel for a city. An understanding.

So I have an understanding. I can say what it's like to live in Madrid. But with qualifications; I know what it's like to live in Madrid when you speak almost no Spanish, don't have to worry about money because of what you've earned or been given previously, teach English for kicks, live in the central strip of the city (from my metro stop, Arguelles, as the NW point until Lavapies in the SW, Retiro and the Paseos in the SE, and the northern part of the paseos in the NE, with excursions to Vincente Calderon further south and the University further North), and associate mostly with expats of one type or another.

What's it like? It's nice. I enjoyed it, and got what I wanted out of the experience - a little spare cash, a little "work" experience, plenty of artistic inspiration, time spent with Ben, a few new acquaintances, a base of Spanish, stories to tell. But what I got out of it is different from what others get out of it.

For example, when you catalog the visitors to Madrid, especially the American ones, there are four main types.

Tourist - Self-explanatory. Usually older, because it takes us time to age out of the desire to be hip, as well as the self-awareness to avoid doing touristy things. Also, fanny packs make more sense on the other side of 35. Seeks out bullfights if they have time.

Student Abroad - College juniors, hungry to live abroad and take easy classes. They mostly go to bars with one another and relish in the late nights that are common to Madrid, enjoy their time terribly much, especially when they speak on the phone to their parents and on facebook posts to their friends. Falls in love with bullfights. When they return to the states, they are forever changed, doomed to a life of reminiscing over their fantastic semester in Madrid.

Expat - Artistic inclinations, most likely in his/her 20's and post-graduate stage, eager to shed their nationality and embrace either Spain itself or an identity of internationalism, which is to say, no identity at all. The type of people who set up literature clubs or fastidiously avoid American fast food places. A desire to perfect Spanish, so as to blend in all the better. No bullfights.

People who don't give a... - They're in Madrid for an indefinite amount of time. They speak good enough Spanish, but aren't practicing at home or anything. They might have a Spanish lover/significant other. If they want to get a good beer, they go to an Irish pub. They watch football, American football, whenever they get a chance. At this point, they're too lazy to travel. They don't care about bullfights, but will go if they get a free ticket.

So those are the four categories. They're not hard and fast; you'll see people drift from 3 to 4, 2 to 3, and so forth. 2 has condescension for 1 though they're quite close in nature, while 3 condescends to 2 except when they have social interaction that might lead to pleasing rewards. 3 used to be the Hemingway-type, which of course means yes to bullfights. And there are drifters - I'd characterize myself as an advanced 2, with hints of both 4 and 1. In Moscow I was more a 3 type (which may have been why I didn't observe the dichotomy of Americans in the city. I met something like 2 of them).

All these people come away with their own experience of Madrid. Some find it exotic, others peaceful, others a great party city. A way to specify this phenomenon: when I came to Madrid for 3-4 days in 2006, I came away with two big things about the city: the night life was crazy, and the siesta was very interesting. This based on living in a hostel where everybody went out a lot and where we ate dinner late. The short story I wrote out of that experience is a fairly cynical piece on alienation.

Now I see Madrid as follows: a busy, modern city that still has a good grasp on an easygoing life. The siesta is mostly a non-factor; the night life is utterly inessential if that's not what you're into (as I am not). The day does unfold at a slower, later pace; dinner will not come before 8 unless you force it, and if you plan to go out, there's no need to leave the apartment before 9:30. Going out without any intentions of staying up late leaves you at home at 2:30. Everybody smokes in bars. The food is very good, especially the gazpachos and the croquetas. Flamenco is really cool, though it's not quite a part of every day culture. And no, I didn't go to a bull fight, mostly out of disinterest, but also lack of time.

Madrid is a cool place. It's big enough that chances are, you'll find the opportunity to do the things you like to do, or run into people who can help you out in that search. The pace and the size allow for the quiet and the freedom that make it feel small. As Jordan Baker said, large parties are so intimate.

So that's my time in Madrid. On the one hand, I'd be comfortable returning to Madrid, because it is a cool city. On the other hand, I can check it off on my list of places to live in. I don't need to go back there, but I wouldn't mind it if the situation set up right.

And this blog is out, until I get to Israel in August. To my 6 readers, thanks for your time. Enjoy the summer. And L'Chaim, I guess.