Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Sunday, August 12, 2007
retired!
So, this is going to be my last post. It was a tough decision to make, but I figured that blogs are pretty lame, especially when nobody reads them. However, blogs that are read by the masses are infinitely more awesome, so I’ve accepted a 10 million dollar contract to do a blog for the Jerusalem Post. Yeah, it’s a right wing newspaper, but you can trust that this is my way of infiltrating their readership with liberal, atheist propaganda. You can also trust that my title, “Journey Into Zionism,” wasn’t my creation. Not to mention the fact that I’m leaving Israel in a month.
Oh, and a link to the site? Maybe later.
Oh, and a link to the site? Maybe later.
Friday, August 03, 2007
i'm going hooome
I walk past the president’s house on my way to work every morning, a fact that I try to boast about as much as possible. My uncle responded by cheerfully informing me that the Hebrew word for “the president” is coincidentally the same as the word for “my rapist.” I’m not one to point fingers, but it seems that Father Hebrew, Mr. Ben Yehuda himself, had a bit of an interesting sense of humor, or at least some kind of clairvoyance. Yeah, my Hebrew conversational skills just reached a new level of sophistication.
With this new information at hand, I marched back to the office responsible for my imprisonment, El Al Airlines, in order to argue my case once again. Alas, I was told for the fifth time that my ticket does indeed expire on August 14, and, try as I might, no public tantrum or devious maneuver involving lies about fatally ill relatives can get me out of it. Their best offer was a morning flight on August 8th, and, without divulging too many details, that just wasn’t gonna work for me.
[Note: Many of you have asked for a more informative explanation. I mean, if you guys want evidence of rational decision-making, you’ve come to the wrong place, but you should know that I don’t let anyone tell me what to do, including El Al Airlines.]
I thought about setting up a PayPal account so all my loyal readers could donate to the cause, but then I remembered, umm, what loyal readers? So I set to work on finding an affordable plane ticket, working on a budget of roughly a handful of agarot and a pocketful of dreams. I was pleased to discover that this sum grants me the possibility of a layover in such exotic locations as Athens, Amman, Istanbul, and Kiev. I almost had an itinerary reserved through a Greek airline, when I remembered that there’s no reason to endure the physically demanding process of changing planes when I can actually stay seated in one place for the entire trip. And that’s when I found Israir.
Rumor on the street has it that Israir’s planes are made out of recycled Fanta bottles and duct tape, but you didn’t hear it from me. Hey, you get what you pay for, which is evidently a much smaller amount when you’re soulless and willing to fly on either September 11th or Yom Kippur. At that point it was a toss up, considering I’m going to hell either way, but I might as well travel on a day when all the duty free shops will be open for business. Nine-eleven it is.
With this new information at hand, I marched back to the office responsible for my imprisonment, El Al Airlines, in order to argue my case once again. Alas, I was told for the fifth time that my ticket does indeed expire on August 14, and, try as I might, no public tantrum or devious maneuver involving lies about fatally ill relatives can get me out of it. Their best offer was a morning flight on August 8th, and, without divulging too many details, that just wasn’t gonna work for me.
[Note: Many of you have asked for a more informative explanation. I mean, if you guys want evidence of rational decision-making, you’ve come to the wrong place, but you should know that I don’t let anyone tell me what to do, including El Al Airlines.]
I thought about setting up a PayPal account so all my loyal readers could donate to the cause, but then I remembered, umm, what loyal readers? So I set to work on finding an affordable plane ticket, working on a budget of roughly a handful of agarot and a pocketful of dreams. I was pleased to discover that this sum grants me the possibility of a layover in such exotic locations as Athens, Amman, Istanbul, and Kiev. I almost had an itinerary reserved through a Greek airline, when I remembered that there’s no reason to endure the physically demanding process of changing planes when I can actually stay seated in one place for the entire trip. And that’s when I found Israir.
Rumor on the street has it that Israir’s planes are made out of recycled Fanta bottles and duct tape, but you didn’t hear it from me. Hey, you get what you pay for, which is evidently a much smaller amount when you’re soulless and willing to fly on either September 11th or Yom Kippur. At that point it was a toss up, considering I’m going to hell either way, but I might as well travel on a day when all the duty free shops will be open for business. Nine-eleven it is.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Go on, don't be cheap! It's only 20 shekels!
I received an urgent message last week from the director of Young Judaea summer programs. The bulk of it was comprised of a buttload of British blah blah but I’ll summarize the important points for you.
“Shana! Come quick! Hats, and lots of them! We need YOU! Sell! Charity! Blimey!”
Even though my chanichim flew home three weeks ago, my original employment contract was kind of “open ended” such that I would be at their beck and call for the rest of the summer, and besides that, I’ve been told that the Maccabia Games is like totally the best ever. So I packed my YJ staff shirts, a swimsuit, and my sleeping bag, and headed up to the southeast shore of the Kinneret for two days of extreme awesomeness. The Maccabia Games is this little tradition involving an Olympic-style color war between the various tour groups of Young Judaea and the British sister movement, FZY. The competitions range from ruach (spirit) to football (soccer) to obesity (tug of war), and the team with the most points gets some kind of plastic trophy and eternal bragging rights. It’s another tradition to sell hats to the participants at an inflated price, the proceeds going to charity. As soon as I saw the hats, it was clear why they called me in – they definitely needed a expert salesperson, or at least someone highly attractive, to unload something that unsightly.
They set up a table for me in the shade to conduct business. I must have had the same conversation a million times.
Jew: Free hats?
Shana: No, 20 shekels… but it’s for charity?
Jew: What charity?
Shana: Sick kids, I think.
Jew: Oh… I’ll come back.
Sounds promising, but trust me, they never came back. I sold nine hats the first morning and only one the next day, for a barely respectable sum of 200 shekels. And where did that money go? Let’s see. The original envelope containing 180 shek was promptly lost in the office by one of the highly competent directors, perhaps because all that suffocating air conditioning interfered with their motor skills. The 20 shekels (roughly $5) from the second day was rushed to the organization of choice: Haddassa’s fund for a medical clown in the pediatric ward. In other words, my hard-earned tzadaka went straight into the pocket of some pedophile trained in the arts of improvisation and picking on cancer patients. I’m glad my services were so useful.
However, I do feel that the experience wasn’t a total loss, as there is much to be learned from the British folk: For example, that an oversized t-shirt can be made infinitely more flattering by cutting it down to the approximate surface area of a shoulder pad. And although the pre-competition stretch routine of a cigarette and a quicky with the current flavor of the week may not take in any trophies, it sure makes you look like a winner. In addition, I’ve learned that there’s a pretty good reason why Young Judaea policy requires that kids swim with their shirts on, and it’s not so they leave Israel with a farmer tan, nor is it so I have yet another reason to tease them. Refer to my shoulders if you can’t figure it out.
“Shana! Come quick! Hats, and lots of them! We need YOU! Sell! Charity! Blimey!”
Even though my chanichim flew home three weeks ago, my original employment contract was kind of “open ended” such that I would be at their beck and call for the rest of the summer, and besides that, I’ve been told that the Maccabia Games is like totally the best ever. So I packed my YJ staff shirts, a swimsuit, and my sleeping bag, and headed up to the southeast shore of the Kinneret for two days of extreme awesomeness. The Maccabia Games is this little tradition involving an Olympic-style color war between the various tour groups of Young Judaea and the British sister movement, FZY. The competitions range from ruach (spirit) to football (soccer) to obesity (tug of war), and the team with the most points gets some kind of plastic trophy and eternal bragging rights. It’s another tradition to sell hats to the participants at an inflated price, the proceeds going to charity. As soon as I saw the hats, it was clear why they called me in – they definitely needed a expert salesperson, or at least someone highly attractive, to unload something that unsightly.
They set up a table for me in the shade to conduct business. I must have had the same conversation a million times.
Jew: Free hats?
Shana: No, 20 shekels… but it’s for charity?
Jew: What charity?
Shana: Sick kids, I think.
Jew: Oh… I’ll come back.
Sounds promising, but trust me, they never came back. I sold nine hats the first morning and only one the next day, for a barely respectable sum of 200 shekels. And where did that money go? Let’s see. The original envelope containing 180 shek was promptly lost in the office by one of the highly competent directors, perhaps because all that suffocating air conditioning interfered with their motor skills. The 20 shekels (roughly $5) from the second day was rushed to the organization of choice: Haddassa’s fund for a medical clown in the pediatric ward. In other words, my hard-earned tzadaka went straight into the pocket of some pedophile trained in the arts of improvisation and picking on cancer patients. I’m glad my services were so useful.
However, I do feel that the experience wasn’t a total loss, as there is much to be learned from the British folk: For example, that an oversized t-shirt can be made infinitely more flattering by cutting it down to the approximate surface area of a shoulder pad. And although the pre-competition stretch routine of a cigarette and a quicky with the current flavor of the week may not take in any trophies, it sure makes you look like a winner. In addition, I’ve learned that there’s a pretty good reason why Young Judaea policy requires that kids swim with their shirts on, and it’s not so they leave Israel with a farmer tan, nor is it so I have yet another reason to tease them. Refer to my shoulders if you can’t figure it out.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
tisha b'av, my new favorite holiday
By now it should be pretty obvious to you that we Jews are indeed the “Chosen People,” considering that not only do we have our own secret language, but we also have our own calendar. Yesterday corresponded with “Tisha B’Av,” or the ninth of, umm, Av. Evidently, not one, but two temples were destroyed on this day in history (first by the Babylonians in 586 BCE and the second by the Romans in 70 CE), as well as quite a lot of other tragedies involving spies, exiles, and revolt. In fact, last summer’s Hezbollah-sponsored firework show was still going strong at this time of year. And consider Israel’s disengagement from the occupied territories (which most of my neighbors would unanimously agree was quite the unfortunate catastrophe) – it began on August 15, 2005, or the 10th of Av. Mere coincidences? I think not. This is clearly like Friday the 13th times a million.
Besides waiting around for disaster to strike, there are a number of modern-day ways of celebrating Tisha B’Av, most of them intended to limit enjoyment and invoke feelings of sorrow and repentance because we all know that one Yom Kippur just isn’t enough. Below is a partial list of prohibitions:
1. Food and drink, including water
2. Shower, bath, bidet, etc.
3. Lotion and other skin products
4. Leather apparel
5. Any form of physical affection
And my personal form of participation:
1. Doesn’t fit into my diet.
2. Do you even know me? I showered twice.
3. Like I’m going to walk around in public without deodorant.
4. Do Crocs count as leather?
5. I mean…
A friend of mine reminded me that one of the other traditions is that you don’t eat meat in the week leading up to the pestival. Did I comply? The simple answer is yes, mostly because the only items containing meat in my repertoire of meals happen to be sandwiches and eggs, neither of which I’ve had the opportunity to prepare in the last seven days. Incidentally, many people also believe that the messiah will be born on Tisha B’Av.
Although I currently do not possess any babies of my own and I hope to remain childless for the majority of my cognitive, adult life, I’m growing increasingly aware that my ovarian clock is ticking away. Additionally, if I want a fair shot at producing the next messiah, I’ve got to be married by, oh, Rosh Hashanah, Sukkot at the latest.
So I did what any self-respecting girl would do in my situation. I headed to the kotel, or the “Wailing Wall” as it is so endearingly nicknamed, because what better way to spend the saddest day of the year than to go find yourself a Jewish husband?
I told my uncle about my plan.
“Uh, make sure you dress modestly,” he replied with a cautionary groan like a foghorn.
In Israel, modesty is a euphemism for religious, so I knew exactly what to wear: my tried and true frum skirt. The boys on Ketura couldn’t resist me in this little number in spite of the fact that it only goes a couple inches below my knees, but hey, that’s what leggings are for.
I arrived at the kotel around noon and found a nice, accessible area in the middle, where I stood in my most inviting pose, legs spread shoulder-width apart and hands on my hips. After about five minutes of waiting and not so much as a phone number, I knew that I had to be more proactive. Now, I’m not exactly an expert on picking up guys… ha, I can’t even write that while keeping a straight face. Let’s try this again. Now, I may be an expert on picking up guys, but the religious ones completely baffle me – besides being intimidating as all hell, they’re completely immune to my best lines.
I frantically ran through some ideas in my head. “Atah medaberet anglit? (You speak English?)” No, that’ll never work, everyone here is American. “My lips are tired, mind if I rest them on yours?” Blast! They’re all shomer negiyah, no touchy! I was left with only one option: prayer.
I cautiously approached the wall, the right side of course. The entrance was crowded with a herd of creepy panhandlers, one of whom waved a Tupperware of gold coins in the air. “Please, bavakasha, agarot!” she shrieked again and again. I fished through my bag for a ten-agarot piece (roughly 2.5 US cents) and extended it to her, before quickly reeling my arm back in when I realized she wasn’t handing out red bracelets. I mean, how did she expect to earn the big money without rewarding me with some kind of treasure?
There was no empty spot along the wall on account of it being a holy day and all, so I stood by the mechitzah (divider) between the two genders’ sides; I figured, G-d probably can’t hear prayers from our end of the wall, so the best I can do is position myself near a male minyan. Over the buzz of women crying and wailing, I could just pick up a nearby man carrying on about something in Hebrew. I inched closer to the noise, hovering less than an arm’s distance from my potential baby-daddy.
After finally losing interest, I wavered around for a few more minutes, desperately trying to think of something to do with myself. I didn’t even have a siddur (prayer book) with me – in fact, the only reading material in my bag was “Parkinson’s Law or the Pursuit of Progress.” That obviously wouldn’t do, so I looked to my peers for ideas. Most of them were engaged in some kind of woodpecker motion, bending over repeatedly toward the wall and moaning here and there. I turned to my left and noticed a mother with what appeared to be a small boy of about six or seven years; I then realized that I could never get any praying accomplished, what with a member of the opposite sex present. I crept backward toward the exit, occasionally checking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t about to trip over a beggar.
I waited a few more minutes in the courtyard area to give G-d a chance to answer my requests, but alas, I received a grand total of zero marriage proposals. I blame my misfortune in large part on the fact that after walking at a brisk pace to the Old City in 5000-degree heat, I was sweatier than a bar mitzvah boy in a three-piece-suit. In addition, I’d estimate that roughly ninety percent of the people present were tourists, plus some douchebag had built an extending mechitzah through the courtyard so as to further separate the genders; it kind of ruined the people-watching element of the Western Wall.
Upon leaving, I once again found myself in an area dominated by signs written in Arabic and women in Muslim head coverings. I didn’t really know where I was, but I continued walking straight until I finally reached an opening, which I recognized as the Damascus Gate – uncharted territory for my kind. I exited and took a deep breath of freedom, and started on my long walk home.
Suddenly, a handsome fellow approached me. “Do you know how to get to the Jewish area of town?” he asked me in the original English, with desperation and a slight crack in his voice. Being the good citizen that I am, I escorted him back to America, I mean Jaffa Street. Alright, so he was prematurely balding, and he had a little bit of a hunchback, and on top of that he’s a law student from the Midwest; I still maintain that he is physical proof that there is a g-d, or at least that He loves me enough to bestow upon me a husband.
BTW, I did my research.
Besides waiting around for disaster to strike, there are a number of modern-day ways of celebrating Tisha B’Av, most of them intended to limit enjoyment and invoke feelings of sorrow and repentance because we all know that one Yom Kippur just isn’t enough. Below is a partial list of prohibitions:
1. Food and drink, including water
2. Shower, bath, bidet, etc.
3. Lotion and other skin products
4. Leather apparel
5. Any form of physical affection
And my personal form of participation:
1. Doesn’t fit into my diet.
2. Do you even know me? I showered twice.
3. Like I’m going to walk around in public without deodorant.
4. Do Crocs count as leather?
5. I mean…
A friend of mine reminded me that one of the other traditions is that you don’t eat meat in the week leading up to the pestival. Did I comply? The simple answer is yes, mostly because the only items containing meat in my repertoire of meals happen to be sandwiches and eggs, neither of which I’ve had the opportunity to prepare in the last seven days. Incidentally, many people also believe that the messiah will be born on Tisha B’Av.
Although I currently do not possess any babies of my own and I hope to remain childless for the majority of my cognitive, adult life, I’m growing increasingly aware that my ovarian clock is ticking away. Additionally, if I want a fair shot at producing the next messiah, I’ve got to be married by, oh, Rosh Hashanah, Sukkot at the latest.
So I did what any self-respecting girl would do in my situation. I headed to the kotel, or the “Wailing Wall” as it is so endearingly nicknamed, because what better way to spend the saddest day of the year than to go find yourself a Jewish husband?
I told my uncle about my plan.
“Uh, make sure you dress modestly,” he replied with a cautionary groan like a foghorn.
In Israel, modesty is a euphemism for religious, so I knew exactly what to wear: my tried and true frum skirt. The boys on Ketura couldn’t resist me in this little number in spite of the fact that it only goes a couple inches below my knees, but hey, that’s what leggings are for.
I arrived at the kotel around noon and found a nice, accessible area in the middle, where I stood in my most inviting pose, legs spread shoulder-width apart and hands on my hips. After about five minutes of waiting and not so much as a phone number, I knew that I had to be more proactive. Now, I’m not exactly an expert on picking up guys… ha, I can’t even write that while keeping a straight face. Let’s try this again. Now, I may be an expert on picking up guys, but the religious ones completely baffle me – besides being intimidating as all hell, they’re completely immune to my best lines.
I frantically ran through some ideas in my head. “Atah medaberet anglit? (You speak English?)” No, that’ll never work, everyone here is American. “My lips are tired, mind if I rest them on yours?” Blast! They’re all shomer negiyah, no touchy! I was left with only one option: prayer.
I cautiously approached the wall, the right side of course. The entrance was crowded with a herd of creepy panhandlers, one of whom waved a Tupperware of gold coins in the air. “Please, bavakasha, agarot!” she shrieked again and again. I fished through my bag for a ten-agarot piece (roughly 2.5 US cents) and extended it to her, before quickly reeling my arm back in when I realized she wasn’t handing out red bracelets. I mean, how did she expect to earn the big money without rewarding me with some kind of treasure?
There was no empty spot along the wall on account of it being a holy day and all, so I stood by the mechitzah (divider) between the two genders’ sides; I figured, G-d probably can’t hear prayers from our end of the wall, so the best I can do is position myself near a male minyan. Over the buzz of women crying and wailing, I could just pick up a nearby man carrying on about something in Hebrew. I inched closer to the noise, hovering less than an arm’s distance from my potential baby-daddy.
After finally losing interest, I wavered around for a few more minutes, desperately trying to think of something to do with myself. I didn’t even have a siddur (prayer book) with me – in fact, the only reading material in my bag was “Parkinson’s Law or the Pursuit of Progress.” That obviously wouldn’t do, so I looked to my peers for ideas. Most of them were engaged in some kind of woodpecker motion, bending over repeatedly toward the wall and moaning here and there. I turned to my left and noticed a mother with what appeared to be a small boy of about six or seven years; I then realized that I could never get any praying accomplished, what with a member of the opposite sex present. I crept backward toward the exit, occasionally checking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t about to trip over a beggar.
I waited a few more minutes in the courtyard area to give G-d a chance to answer my requests, but alas, I received a grand total of zero marriage proposals. I blame my misfortune in large part on the fact that after walking at a brisk pace to the Old City in 5000-degree heat, I was sweatier than a bar mitzvah boy in a three-piece-suit. In addition, I’d estimate that roughly ninety percent of the people present were tourists, plus some douchebag had built an extending mechitzah through the courtyard so as to further separate the genders; it kind of ruined the people-watching element of the Western Wall.
Upon leaving, I once again found myself in an area dominated by signs written in Arabic and women in Muslim head coverings. I didn’t really know where I was, but I continued walking straight until I finally reached an opening, which I recognized as the Damascus Gate – uncharted territory for my kind. I exited and took a deep breath of freedom, and started on my long walk home.
Suddenly, a handsome fellow approached me. “Do you know how to get to the Jewish area of town?” he asked me in the original English, with desperation and a slight crack in his voice. Being the good citizen that I am, I escorted him back to America, I mean Jaffa Street. Alright, so he was prematurely balding, and he had a little bit of a hunchback, and on top of that he’s a law student from the Midwest; I still maintain that he is physical proof that there is a g-d, or at least that He loves me enough to bestow upon me a husband.
BTW, I did my research.
Monday, July 23, 2007
def not wasting time at work
The latest Harry Potter was released at 2AM on Shabbat this past Friday. While half the country has already retreated into isolation to complete the book, the other half, aka the blacks, is up in arms over the situation, and understandably so. However, I can’t figure out if it’s because the seculars were encouraged to spend money during G-d’s day on a children's story about witchcraft, or because they felt left out of all the fun.
One pilgrim had this to say:
"We must put a limit on the desire to imitate other countries. It is inconceivable that numerous employees will be brought in to allow these events to take place and damage the spirit of Shabbat. I plan to file charges and fine anyone who violates the Hours of Work and Rest Law."
Yeah, I also stopped paying attention midway through the first sentence. Either way, I personally think there are more important issues to freak out about right now. Like for instance, that there are spiders in my apartment and I’m too scared to do anything about it! Or how about the fact that I haven't had a hair cut in 6 months? Or how I’m stuck in Israel without a return ticket?
To be continued…
One pilgrim had this to say:
"We must put a limit on the desire to imitate other countries. It is inconceivable that numerous employees will be brought in to allow these events to take place and damage the spirit of Shabbat. I plan to file charges and fine anyone who violates the Hours of Work and Rest Law."
Yeah, I also stopped paying attention midway through the first sentence. Either way, I personally think there are more important issues to freak out about right now. Like for instance, that there are spiders in my apartment and I’m too scared to do anything about it! Or how about the fact that I haven't had a hair cut in 6 months? Or how I’m stuck in Israel without a return ticket?
To be continued…
Friday, July 20, 2007
how i spent my day off from doing, umm, nothing
One of my goals for my time here in Jerusalem is to become comfortable with the Old City. In the past, I’ve done my very best to avoid this unbearable place, often at the cost of sitting in hostel rooms by myself, and for good reason. I simply do not enjoy the Old City. I find it quite outdated and awfully religious. In addition, I tend to get lost whenever I try to navigate the mazelike passages on my own, and recurrently find myself in areas where it does not pay to be Jewish, Israeli, or even American. But now that I am an official resident of Jerusalem, I think it is important that I familiarize myself with the Old City to the point that I no longer choose my bus route based on whether or not it passes by the Jaffa Gate.
For my first attempt at reaching this goal, I headed to the imaginary area known as the “Armenian Quarter.” Nobody really knows what exists in this section, and to tell you the truth, there isn’t much, mostly because the Armenians are a fictitious people and definitely aren’t a religious body of significance equal to that of the Christians, the Muslims, or especially the Jews. The only major historical site in the Armenian Quarter is of course the Armenian Museum, which is located in an ancient abbey and hasn’t really been updated in about two decades. All of the “information” presented in the museum has to be taken with a grain of salt; I mean, if they’re trying to pass off their so-called “genocide” as a factual occurrence, then who knows what other lies are being presented as historical truth?
Upon leaving the museum, I promptly found myself lost in the Muslim Quarter. If you’re at all familiar with the layout of the Old City, there may be some doubt in your mind as to how this works, considering the Armenian Quarter and the Muslim Quarter don’t even come into contact with each other. However, I assure you that not only is this outcome possible, but it is highly probable, when you happen to possess the instinctive orientation of a shoelace. It is also particularly likely when you’re on a hunt for the best shawarma available within these crumbly walls, which is apparently sold next to the Damascus Gate exclusively.
Anyway, the Muslim, Armenian, and Christian quarters were all completely new to me, so I reacted in the same way one would expect of any American in my situation – I spent lots and lots of money. The top purchase of the day was a keffiyeh, obviously not the red and white kind worn by terrorists, but a white and rainbow-colored one that is fit for either a princess or a homosexual genie. And it gets better: despite my unmistakably American accent and my downright un-Arab appearance, I was able to haggle the price down to a moderately respectable sum.
The whole negotiating process made me think. We seldom give you tourists the recognition you deserve – you actually have it quite rough! You’re in a strange land, trying to reconnect with your Judaism and pick up a few souvenirs along the way, and on top of being jetlagged and constipated and therefore unseasonably irritable, you also have to deal with being ripped off by local vendors! Although I may be a clear-cut American (by upbringing, anyway), at least I am fortunate enough to possess acute bargaining abilities, ripened with practice and sheer talent. However, the rest of you aren’t as capable as I am, and are instead urged to hide the fact that you are nothing more than a credit card out for a joyride in the Holy Land. For that reason, I have put together a list of advice for the budget-conscious globetrotter, which I like to call:
Shana’s Guide to Fooling the Natives into Believing You’re One of Them
For my first attempt at reaching this goal, I headed to the imaginary area known as the “Armenian Quarter.” Nobody really knows what exists in this section, and to tell you the truth, there isn’t much, mostly because the Armenians are a fictitious people and definitely aren’t a religious body of significance equal to that of the Christians, the Muslims, or especially the Jews. The only major historical site in the Armenian Quarter is of course the Armenian Museum, which is located in an ancient abbey and hasn’t really been updated in about two decades. All of the “information” presented in the museum has to be taken with a grain of salt; I mean, if they’re trying to pass off their so-called “genocide” as a factual occurrence, then who knows what other lies are being presented as historical truth?
Upon leaving the museum, I promptly found myself lost in the Muslim Quarter. If you’re at all familiar with the layout of the Old City, there may be some doubt in your mind as to how this works, considering the Armenian Quarter and the Muslim Quarter don’t even come into contact with each other. However, I assure you that not only is this outcome possible, but it is highly probable, when you happen to possess the instinctive orientation of a shoelace. It is also particularly likely when you’re on a hunt for the best shawarma available within these crumbly walls, which is apparently sold next to the Damascus Gate exclusively.
Anyway, the Muslim, Armenian, and Christian quarters were all completely new to me, so I reacted in the same way one would expect of any American in my situation – I spent lots and lots of money. The top purchase of the day was a keffiyeh, obviously not the red and white kind worn by terrorists, but a white and rainbow-colored one that is fit for either a princess or a homosexual genie. And it gets better: despite my unmistakably American accent and my downright un-Arab appearance, I was able to haggle the price down to a moderately respectable sum.
The whole negotiating process made me think. We seldom give you tourists the recognition you deserve – you actually have it quite rough! You’re in a strange land, trying to reconnect with your Judaism and pick up a few souvenirs along the way, and on top of being jetlagged and constipated and therefore unseasonably irritable, you also have to deal with being ripped off by local vendors! Although I may be a clear-cut American (by upbringing, anyway), at least I am fortunate enough to possess acute bargaining abilities, ripened with practice and sheer talent. However, the rest of you aren’t as capable as I am, and are instead urged to hide the fact that you are nothing more than a credit card out for a joyride in the Holy Land. For that reason, I have put together a list of advice for the budget-conscious globetrotter, which I like to call:
Shana’s Guide to Fooling the Natives into Believing You’re One of Them
- Transportation
- It goes without saying that anyone who has spent more than an hour in Israel has the credentials necessary to author “Israeli Driving for Dummies” or something of that nature, but I’m operating under the assumption that the typical, frugal tourist is not traveling by private car. This therefore leaves two main modes of transportation: cabs and buses. The general norm in Jerusalem is that taxis are for tourists, and buses are for locals. But herein lies the distinctive behavioral modifications that must occur in order to ride a bus like a true Israeli. Please pay attention because this detail is easily overlooked: When you step onto a near-empty bus, stop and take note of your surroundings before finding a seat. Do not, I repeat, do not sit on a bench by yourself. Seek out the unaccompanied passenger sitting off to the side or at the back of the bus, and park yourself directly next to him. If he is Israeli, he will not flinch, and neither should you. Once you have mastered this task, practice eating a crumbly chocolate bar or a melting popsicle while leaning over your neighbor’s lap.
- The "Other" Mode of Transportation
- Memorize and repeat this mantra as necessary: “I will not walk in a straight line.” Think of it this way: you are a misguided bowling ball, and the sidewalk is your bumpered alley. Make it a point to walk in a zigzag formation of a roughly 100 degree angle, except when approaching a fellow pedestrian headed in the opposite direction, in which case it is your duty to walk directly into his path. After all, you live here, so he should be moving out of your way.
- A second part of this is that however slow your natural walking pace might be, you must cut it in half. If you need some kind of reference speed, keep in mind that in between steps you ought be able to mentally recite the entire traveler’s prayer, which should be inscribed on a keychain attached to your backpack.
- Bags (This one applies to male tourists only)
- Men – important items such as your wallet, cell phone, and tanakh should be carried in some sort of fanny pack. I realize that this may seem to be more related to appearance and therefore redundant, but I feel that the distinctively Israeli desire to own a fanny pack falls under the category of personality disorder, and is therefore a corrigible behavior. The pack, however, should not be worn covering the fanny as was intended, but instead draped over the shoulder like a man-purse.
- Footwear (Female tourists, specifically)
- Remember that orthopedic shoes are for the weak. No hiker in six-inch-heels has ever been mistaken for a tourist.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
oh white bread, you minx
Some shit went down in the wheat-growing industry recently. Nobody really knows what happened (or I don’t care to do the research to find out), but for some reason the price of wheat went up, up like a qassam rocket over Sderot. But when the bread-makers asked G-d for permission to raise the going rate of their products, the powers that be asserted a big Nun Vav. (N-O, to translate.) Their reasoning – charge all you want for the specialty loaves, but your basic white bread prices are fixed so that every breadwinner, whether he be a Bedouin, an Arse, or even a Russian immigrant, can afford to provide his or her (but clearly his) family with a healthy amount of empty calories from carbohydrates.
In typical Israeli fashion, the bread-makers’ response was very straightforward: a national bread strike. And the people’s reaction has been understandably dramatic. “Why why why why why!” can be heard echoing through the streets of Jerusalem. “All I want is a loaf of plain bread,” whimpered my cousin at dinner the other night.
As for me, I’m not actually affected by any of this, considering I tend not to eat white bread when presented with any other digestible option. In fact, I am actively engaged in what I like to refer to as the “Warsaw diet,” which basically involves only buying inexpensive food from the shuk.
You’re probably wondering how I can sustain myself for two months eating only items from an open-air market, but I guarantee that it is entirely feasible, especially when you have the eating habits of a farm animal to begin with. Additionally, it is actually recommended to stick to this way of life when your wallet has the elasticity of a chocolate wafer, which mine decidedly does. Am I getting all the nutrients necessary for survival? That’s debatable. But have I sampled every type of fruit produced in this country in the last eleven months? Why yes, yes I have. Such is the life of the impoverished OTZMA alumna.
In typical Israeli fashion, the bread-makers’ response was very straightforward: a national bread strike. And the people’s reaction has been understandably dramatic. “Why why why why why!” can be heard echoing through the streets of Jerusalem. “All I want is a loaf of plain bread,” whimpered my cousin at dinner the other night.
As for me, I’m not actually affected by any of this, considering I tend not to eat white bread when presented with any other digestible option. In fact, I am actively engaged in what I like to refer to as the “Warsaw diet,” which basically involves only buying inexpensive food from the shuk.
You’re probably wondering how I can sustain myself for two months eating only items from an open-air market, but I guarantee that it is entirely feasible, especially when you have the eating habits of a farm animal to begin with. Additionally, it is actually recommended to stick to this way of life when your wallet has the elasticity of a chocolate wafer, which mine decidedly does. Am I getting all the nutrients necessary for survival? That’s debatable. But have I sampled every type of fruit produced in this country in the last eleven months? Why yes, yes I have. Such is the life of the impoverished OTZMA alumna.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
welcome to hamoshava hagermanit
Following my current motto of, “I’m Israeli, I can do whatever I want,” I’ve recently secured myself a two-month sublet to serve as my very own bachelor pad in Jerusalem. Of course I actually mean that the apartment was found for me, but that’s just a technicality. At any rate, the reasoning behind this development is that I’m Israeli and can therefore do whatever I want, including rent a private apartment in Israel.
So I’m living the highlife in my basement loft, which may sound like an oxymoron, but that’s just what they want you to think. It is situated on the first floor of a three-story building, in a shoebox-style apartment that is about as spacious as an ice cream cart. The bathroom window faces the sidewalk outside, which doesn’t bother me because I’m sure the religious people walking around are more afraid of me than I am of them. My “bedroom” is little more than a loft area connected to the kitchen/dining room table/dresser nook by a rusty pull-down ladder; furthermore, there are no roommates to speak of. In sum, I love it.
The thing is, Otzma was great, and I liked that it introduced me to parts o the country that I never would have noticed outside of that framework. But Be’er Sheva, albeit the capital of the Negev, doesn’t exactly have much in the way of bragging rights considering the region is mainly populated by impoverished and semi-nomadic Bedouins. And although Kiryat Shmonah and Kibbutz Ketura are both quaint and lovable in their own rights, they are each so remote that, well, you can’t get much farther from the center (both geographically and culturally) without entering international territory. Finally, I have the chance to experience this country to its fullest with my own home base in a real city.
Anyway, I now reside in a neighborhood that I like to refer to as the German Colony, but really it’s about a kilometer away from the main drag of overpriced cafes and trendy boutiques. Popular attractions around my dwelling include the Greek Consulate, the International Christian Embassy, two parks, a bottle-recycling bin, and a bus stop. I’m also a short distance from the city center and the shuk – that is, if you call a one-hour hike short, which I decidedly do after working as a Young Judaea madricha for three weeks.
The must-have accessories among my neighbors are tzitzit, baby strollers, and orange ribbons; seeing as I am currently in no position to acquire any of these items, it seems that my only method of assimilation is to adorn the long skirt and Crocs combination, which I assure you is not in my near future. I mean, I’m all for integration by appearance, but only when this involves relaxed hygiene, mismatched clothes, and comfortable footwear. But the modern orthodox ensemble – not likely.
It took me a few days to pick up on the local fashion norms, and in the beginning I made the mistake of gallivanting about in short shorts and tank tops, a getup that attracted quite a few menacing glares. On the other hand, I could have been mistaking hostility for jealousy, regarding my flawless tan; compared to the ultra religious who just can’t put down the tanakh to catch a few rays, I must look like an Arab! No? Not so much? At least a Moroccan Jew.
In the mean time, I’ve decided that if everyone in my neighborhood is going to make a political statement by parading around with orange paraphernalia attached to everything, I’m going to make my own counter-statement by not only disposing of every orange item I happen to own (by coincidence, of course) but by personally destroying it all so that no one can use my former belongings to fulfill any fanatical agendas. Below is a catalog of my possessions in that particular hue:
- Secaucus t-ball shirt from a thrift store (approx retail value, $2US)
- Striped scarf from the shuk (approx retail value, 15NIS)
- Ugly bangle from H&O (approx retail value, 10NIS)
- Masa backpack (free)
Oh, the prices we pay for liberal ideologies.
So I’m living the highlife in my basement loft, which may sound like an oxymoron, but that’s just what they want you to think. It is situated on the first floor of a three-story building, in a shoebox-style apartment that is about as spacious as an ice cream cart. The bathroom window faces the sidewalk outside, which doesn’t bother me because I’m sure the religious people walking around are more afraid of me than I am of them. My “bedroom” is little more than a loft area connected to the kitchen/dining room table/dresser nook by a rusty pull-down ladder; furthermore, there are no roommates to speak of. In sum, I love it.
The thing is, Otzma was great, and I liked that it introduced me to parts o the country that I never would have noticed outside of that framework. But Be’er Sheva, albeit the capital of the Negev, doesn’t exactly have much in the way of bragging rights considering the region is mainly populated by impoverished and semi-nomadic Bedouins. And although Kiryat Shmonah and Kibbutz Ketura are both quaint and lovable in their own rights, they are each so remote that, well, you can’t get much farther from the center (both geographically and culturally) without entering international territory. Finally, I have the chance to experience this country to its fullest with my own home base in a real city.
Anyway, I now reside in a neighborhood that I like to refer to as the German Colony, but really it’s about a kilometer away from the main drag of overpriced cafes and trendy boutiques. Popular attractions around my dwelling include the Greek Consulate, the International Christian Embassy, two parks, a bottle-recycling bin, and a bus stop. I’m also a short distance from the city center and the shuk – that is, if you call a one-hour hike short, which I decidedly do after working as a Young Judaea madricha for three weeks.
The must-have accessories among my neighbors are tzitzit, baby strollers, and orange ribbons; seeing as I am currently in no position to acquire any of these items, it seems that my only method of assimilation is to adorn the long skirt and Crocs combination, which I assure you is not in my near future. I mean, I’m all for integration by appearance, but only when this involves relaxed hygiene, mismatched clothes, and comfortable footwear. But the modern orthodox ensemble – not likely.
It took me a few days to pick up on the local fashion norms, and in the beginning I made the mistake of gallivanting about in short shorts and tank tops, a getup that attracted quite a few menacing glares. On the other hand, I could have been mistaking hostility for jealousy, regarding my flawless tan; compared to the ultra religious who just can’t put down the tanakh to catch a few rays, I must look like an Arab! No? Not so much? At least a Moroccan Jew.
In the mean time, I’ve decided that if everyone in my neighborhood is going to make a political statement by parading around with orange paraphernalia attached to everything, I’m going to make my own counter-statement by not only disposing of every orange item I happen to own (by coincidence, of course) but by personally destroying it all so that no one can use my former belongings to fulfill any fanatical agendas. Below is a catalog of my possessions in that particular hue:
- Secaucus t-ball shirt from a thrift store (approx retail value, $2US)
- Striped scarf from the shuk (approx retail value, 15NIS)
- Ugly bangle from H&O (approx retail value, 10NIS)
- Masa backpack (free)
Oh, the prices we pay for liberal ideologies.
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