My Israeli Family
What is ‘family?’ Is ‘family’ merely a bloodline, something we are born into, or is there something much deeper about the idea of family? Does the expression “family is all we have” ring true, or is our family not very different from our friends and colleagues, who we often spend as much or more time with?
My Israeli family rests somewhere within these complex borders. Genetically, my cousins are more like friends; my closest relative is a third cousin (my great-great uncle’s grandchildren!) and as my grandfather put it half-kidding (but also half-serious) after meeting one of my more attractive cousins, “you know, you’re not blood related!”
Still, blood-relation or not, my cousins took me into their homes like a son, who could not be praised enough for his decision to come to Israel. “Yoffi, Sam!” (Great, Sam!), my cousin Menachem would tell me after nodding contentedly at my subpar Hebrew skills or after I told him I was considering joining the Israeli army after college. (He would quickly follow by offering me some food. “Have something to eat, Sam! You see, you will tell your grandparents, there is food in Israel, yes?!) I grew closest with Menachem and Talia’s children; Carmel, Yitzhak, Einat, and Yuval welcomed me with warmth and of course—endless food! I’ll pick out a few highlights, but in general I would just say that my (very) extended family in Israel taught me an important life lesson: ‘family,’ whether your sister, uncle, or even third cousin, is something that should never be disregarded; it helps connect us, forms bonds that extend past friendship, and is something that can never be taken away—“he’s family.” It’s a relationship that I will hold on to tightly and look forward to strengthening in the years to come.
Passover Seder, April 20-21:
I had heard stories about the Passover festivities my family holds in Balfouriya, (a small town in Northern Israel). As I mentioned in my first post, I have over 200 distantly related cousins living in Israel today. My great-great uncle Mordechai Seletsky had nine daughters, each of whom provided their parents with a number of grandchildren—and quickly paved the way for what became one of the largest families in early 20th century Israel. In his will, Mordechai left his extended family the estate in Balfouriya and requested that his home remain a sanctuary for future generations to gather for a summer ‘camp’ of sorts and on special occasions.
Passover in Balfouriya is one of these yearly get-togethers: Over 100 cousins from the various families that have emerged over the past few generations come together to sing, dance, eat, and engage in the Passover Seder service. It was an absolutely amazing event: I met generations of cousins. From Rachel, my eldest cousin, to the youngest generation of kids, like Tal—Yitzhak’s son—the family’s sheer size is astounding. Tal is one of my favorites, and quickly adopted me as something of a ‘big brother.’ Ever so often, he would grab my hand and pull me to the room he was sleeping in; “I’m sleeping here,” he told me as he pointed to a dusty bunk-bed. “You can sleep next to me…if you want,” he stammered before searching my eyes. Earlier that day, I had impressed Tal with my obvious talents for plastic swordfights. And while the 6-year-old Tal had (miraculously) emerged victories, I guess I had proven my worth as a potential sleeping partner!
There were a number of other memorable moments; the size of the Seder blew my mind (see pictures below), the friendliness and enthusiasm of everyone I met made me feel at home, and of course—the food! The one moment that sticks out in my mind, however, was my introductory speech when my turn came to speak. “I’m Sam Levine,” I told the intrigued group of families sitting around the tables. “It’d take me a while to explain how exactly I’m related,” (I got a few laughs, but probably more puzzled looks), “but I would just like to say that I’m honored to be here, there truly is nothing like this where I come from, and I encourage all of you to look me up if you ever come to the United States!” I took some flack for my last comment, if only because—as Yitzhak explained—‘Israelis aren’t like Americans. They don’t just say things to be respectful. Now, you’ll have distant relatives showing up at your house, unannounced!” At the time, however, I was applauded by family at my table. The immediate effect was overwhelming. Cousins I had never met started approaching me: “How long are you in Israel for? Why did you come? How exactly are you related?” I made contacts from all over the country; everyone offered me a place to stay, and some even demanded that I take their phone number, email, and address. It’s comforting to know that wherever I might travel in Israel in the future, my family is only a call and short distance away. And if a family member is reading this, my offer still stands: just don’t bring too many friends!
Yitzhak, Menacham, Sigalit, and Justin
Trip up North:
Towards the end of my trip abroad, I spent some quality time with Yuval, Sigalit, and their children, Inbal, Chen, Shoshan and Royee. I wish I had written this earlier, because details escape me, but the weekend I spent up North at their home in Binyamina was one of the most compelling and fun weekends of my trip. On Friday I danced at a packed club with my cousin Inbal and her two Israeli friends. The scene couldn’t have been more different from my typical club outing, save for, perhaps, the blaring music. Instead of rap music, techno beats bounced off the black, bare walls of the club. Instead of the sweaty, all-too-personal ‘grinding’ I’ve grown accustomed too, people were actually dancing. And, it was even okay to dance alone! Who would have though!? I’m not sure which genre I prefer, but one things for sure: the European/Israeli style of dancing is much more laid back.
Then on Saturday morning, after nearly 3 hours of sleep (!), I traveled up North with family on an annual hiking trip to a friend’s gravesite. The whole event was touching: the basic story, from what I remember (take notes, you fool!), is that nearly three decades ago a member of Yuval’s classmates was killed in a car accident. The young man’s family, friends, and fellow unit members decided to make an annual trip to his gravesite in his honor. Now, many years later, two busloads of family, friends (and their families) participate in the hike and memorial service. The scene was moving; close family members and friends spoke about the young man, his good heart, his aspirations. He was “too young,” an older woman quivered, as everyone silently nodded. But what I remember so vividly from the scene was the inscription on the gravestone, “to young to die, to young to know what life is.” Like so many other young men and woman who lose their lives in Israel, Yuval’s lost friend was too young.
Inbal, Chen, Yuval, Sigalit, and Shoshan
Carmel, Justin, and the two cutest girls in the world (save for my sister, of course)
I want to give a special ‘shout-out’ to my cousins Carmel and Justin, and their two beautiful little girls Danielle and Maya. They welcomed me to their home in Kfar Yona on a number of occasions, helped coordinate my travels around the country, and were fantastic family emissaries: they made my trip to Israel that much more fulfilling.
Justin isn’t the prototypical Israeli; he hails from the UK, and actually goes back every few weeks to work. (Maybe not the ideal situation, but one that Justin and Carmel seem to have adjusted to well.) Justin’s a great guy: funny, a soccer fanatic, and he also loves to drink; from late-night Irish coffee to “just one more” glass of wine, Justin is a rarity among Israelis. In fact, not many guests even tried to stay with him, much to his disappointment. I was more than happy to fill in, (I was just trying to keep him company!) and on occasion, we became drinking buddies, or ‘mates’ perhaps? He also took me clubbing and introduced me to a whole new genre of crime/mafia shows on Israeli television. (Unfortunately, they do not compare to the Sopranos, my marker against any crime show.) Justin is also a great cook. I’m craving his English breakfast of sausages, eggs, beans, fried bread, mushrooms and tomatoes, and a healthy dose of ketchup right about now…Talk about a diet breaker!
Carmel’s a bit tougher than Justin, but has a great heart and a fun, loving sense of humor. She took a keen interest in my travels, helped connect me with bus routes and rides, and took time to introduce me to family whenever I asked. She also thought my studies abroad were a joke (which they were, to an extent). “So, Sam,” she would grin at me, “tough life eh? Really working hard, I can tell.” Carmel and Justin were a great help, and are great friends.
Carmel, Justin, and the two girls
In the end, family means many different things to different people. Israel gave me the opportunity to see a different face of my family; there are no huge gatherings in my American family or any hiking trips across the country. They are a much tighter-knit group in Israel. It’s something that I miss out on, and find myself craving now that I am back home. Maybe it will inspire me to reach out to family here. Or maybe, it will just give me an excuse to head back to Israel! I can think of worse things!
Fare Thee Well, oh Jerusalem!
I really dislike ‘Goodbyes.’ (In fact, I think goodbyes really suck, but I’ve been told the word ‘suck’ really sucks, so let’s stick with dislike). Sometimes goodbyes are easier. My High School graduation, for example, was pretty easy on the soul. I wasn’t an avid fan of my HS; the faculty, the students, the general atmosphere at the “playground” that was Schechter Manhattan was never very inspiring. Sure there were the exceptions, but as the quick decline of the school attests (Schechter NY closed 16 months later), they were far and in-between.
Still, most goodbyes—at least for me—are hard. Saying goodbye to Jerusalem was especially hard. The last few weeks flew by in a whirlwind. First, in Petra—one of the ‘new’ seven wonders of the world. (I often toss and turn in my sleep, wondering how exactly the ‘new’ and ‘old’ wonders of the world were determined! What right do so-called experts have to dedicate one sight as an ancient wonder and dismiss another beautiful sight as inferior?) I’m rightfully outraged, and I plan to do nothing about it. Still, in keeping with this objective standard, I’d say Petra was magnificently…boring! The landscape was beautiful, the infamous Temple from George Lucas’s Indian Jones, ‘Raiders of the Lost Arc’ movie was a sight to behold, and the fact that the Temples were carved out of rock thousands of years ago was impressive. But that’s it. Petra was cool because, well, it was Petra and I can now tell my brethren that I visited Petra and am, consequently, the man. (I think I want to explore this fascinating fad of ‘doing things to say you did them,’ but that’s for a more philosophical post).
Asides aside, the last two weeks walked by in a hurry. But the first inclination I got, the first real glimpse of the end was, sadly, brought on by my friend’s tears.
The night before I left, a few of my friends and I cabbed down to see some friends who were on a retreat in downtown Jerusalem, learning the intricacies of leading a group of (sometimes) raucous, (always) energetic 17-year-olds on a 6-week trip through Israel. Two of my friends –one in training, the other cabbing were ‘hooking up’ or were together…maybe somewhere in-between? (ahh, classifications! –what a complicated life we live!). Whatever the case, there were some heartfelt feelings; Adam hadn’t been himself for a few days and Becca was clearly upset. Emotions are heavy, and you could almost feel the sadness weighing down on everyone as the eight of us sat together for those last few hours. (This would be the last time I would see many of them before leaving the next night).
The atmosphere was tense, but there was also a sense of relief. For most of us, this wasn’t ‘good-bye;’ I will make a sincere effort to stay in touch. Still, for the couples on the trip—this romantic writer included—there was a sense of doubt, or at least of the unknown. Was this just an abroad fling? A temporary bond in the holy city? If not, how would these feelings transfer back to the distant States where distance would now be a very central factor?
By midnight I was ready to call it a night. We all said bye for a short 15 minutes (the cab driver didn’t seem to know what to do—it’s always a bad idea to scream at a crying, slightly hysterical girl), and then made our way to the cab.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, Becca started running towards the cab, (I swear, it was almost cinematic), tears streaming down her face for one more kiss. It was sad, almost depressing, but more than that, for me—who often lives in his own fantasy world—it was all very real. Too real, almost. “We really are leaving,” I gulped. The car ride back was silent, deafening, but also gave each one of us a chance to think, to put the trip into some perspective.
What was I really going to miss about Israel? Sure, I’d miss my friends, my family, but what specifically about Israel would I miss? Here’s what I could think of:
Proximal Beauty:
I put proximity and beauty together because I think they really go hand-in-hand in Israel. Consider: I walked the width of Israel, from the Mediterranean Sea to the Kinneret (about 50 miles) in four days. I bused the length of Israel (about 600 miles) in 24 hours. From Mount Hermon, where an estimated 300,000 people joined together to celebrate Lag Ba-Omer with bonfires and prayer, to the sinful city of Eilat (‘what happens in Eilat stays in Eilat!’), you can travel the span of Israel in a single day. The snowy, vivid peak of Mount Hermon, on the border of Syria and Israel, to the sunny beach and sparkling water in Eilat, Israel is a beautiful, very accessible country.
Jerusalem:
Let me preface this by saying: I would never settle down in Jerusalem. The city is too tense, the dull fear of terrorism always creeps up on me when I get on a bus or sit down at a popular bar or restaurant. Still, Jerusalem is one of the most provoking, intriguing, fascinating and physically gorgeous cities in the world. I’ve never visited a more picturesque city at night: the golden rooftops, the sweet/breezy air, the quiet, religious feel on a Friday night…Jerusalem is a very spiritual and special city. I’ll be back to Jerusalem—maybe not next year (as the expression goes, “Next Year in Jerusalem!”)—but soon.
Being Jewish in a Jewish State:
There certainly are more and more places in Israel that feel less and less Jewish; indeed, parts of downtown Tel Aviv are strangely reminiscent of NYC’s Chinatown—thousands of Thai and Chinese workers have brought their work to Tel Aviv in recent years, brewing up quite a bit of controversy in the process. Still, the ability to get into a taxi and speak in Hebrew to a fellow Jew who’s great-grandparents emigrated from the same city as yours (!), or hiking all over southern Israel during Passover and having everyone wish you a happy holiday, is something special and surely, should not be taken for granted. It’s an uncommon bond; it breeds, I think, a deep sense of camaraderie that will forever connect us. It’s also something that I will sorely miss as I immerse myself in the cultural pluralism of the United States.
In the end, I’ll miss the people the most. Maybe that was the lesson of my abroad experience. Jerusalem was provoking, Israel was beautiful and always great fun, but without my friends, without my distant family that welcomed me into their homes like a son, the trip would have been much less fulfilling.
I couldn’t have asked for a more worthwhile semester abroad. I mean that.
Sea-to-Sea, oh Shining Sea!
You know the oft-cited Machiavellian phrase, “the end justifies the means?” Well, I think in some cases the expression should be flipped on its head. Sure, maybe justifies is too strong a word, but the means do make the end that much more enjoyable. Let me explain.
This past week I traveled up North with a few close American friends. Packed with five cans of tuna, five apples, one obnoxiously large baloney stick, much-needed water, an assortment of yummy albeit sticky jelly and chocolate spreads that were quickly disbanded, some clothing and a sleeping bag, and our go-lucky map, the six of us hiked ‘Sea-to-Sea’ over four days. ‘Sea-to-Sea,’ or “Yam-Le-Yam” in Hebrew, is a popular hiking trip that spans from the Mediterranean Sea (where we began our journey) to the Kinneret River. It is around 50 Kilometers (35 miles), and in the sweltering heat, (we wisely chose to hike during a heat-wave, with temperatures reaching 115 F at one point), the trip was one of the most strenuous activities of my life. I tried to keep something of a running diary during the trip; below are some of the highlights, and of course, my concluding thoughts—(as Niccolo Machiavelli tosses and turns in his grave!)
Poking the Mediterranean:
After a scenic train ride from Jerusalem to Narahiyya, we found ourselves in a small, fairly poor town on the banks of the
Mediterranean Sea. A few of my companions had taken the initiative the day before and had managed to find a very suitable map and sketch out a rough outline of our trip. Still, the specifics were unclear and after walking to the Mediterranean and snapping a few symbolic pictures, we found ourselves asking for directions. One friendly park-ranger helped fill in some of the gaps, but after walking a mile-or-two, and with night quickly approaching, we decided to call it a day and sleep out on the beach. A bonfire and 5 packs of meat later, we huddled up in sleeping bags and fell asleep as we listened to the soothing crashes of the waves. “This was gonna be a joke,” I thought to myself.
Truckin’:
We didn’t get that much done the first day; but we sure made up for our shortcoming that night. Josh Varon, or ‘Traitor’—as I named him in my Facebook album, fell ill the first day, and while he tried to stay up, the heat, the 40-pound bag, and the lack of sleep ultimately did him in. “And then there were five,” Sir Adam Weiner duly noted as we watched the ‘traitor’ board a bus on his way back to Jerusalem around five in the afternoon.
With only a few hours of sunlight, other less menly-men (haha) might have called it a day; we had walked four or five miles already, and surely we could just double-time it the next day. But sometimes great minds do not think so logically, and after reexamining the map and finding a “shortcut” we decided to trek it after dusk. A quick note about this “shortcut:” turns out it was a hilly, twisty highway with little light and even smaller side-barriers. To be fair, only looking back right now does the idea seem a bit ludicrous—six foreigners walking along an unlit highway road at night with only a vague idea of where they were headed. In the moment, as my notes suggest (”rockin this highway, baby!”), I was all for it. I’m sure I realized it wasn’t such a bright idea; at one point, after my friend complained that he wanted to stop for dinner, I looked incredulously at him, asked him if he wanted to sit on the road or perhaps stand on the barrier as we ate, and after a moment of silence—the two of us broke into an “oh right, we’re on a tight highway” hysterical laugh. It was an experience, to be sure, and one that I am sure my parents would not be very happy about. Still, (dad!) we did manage to walk six miles before passing out at a nearby campsite.
I awoke the next morning to a herd of cows ‘moo’ing’ by my head. Our campsite of sorts, it seems, was also a hotspot for the local cow community (and the one lonely donkey—seriously, where were his people??). I was amused if not a bit puzzled when I awoke, but after dozing off for a moment and nearly getting stepped on by a 1,400 pound cow, I decided it was time to get moving. Which brings me to an important and loudly debated question among my companions: Was I ever actually in danger? If I had not been nudged awake by my friend, might that cow have stepped on my head? If so, would I have instinctually moved its foot or would I have been a goner? You be the judge. I think I could have reacted quickly enough, but then again, I tend to think a bit highly of myself. Indeed, these were the questions that we busied ourselves with over our four-day hike. The other discussion that’s coming to mind is the “morality of utilitarianism”, but that is surely for another blog post.
Must…Find…Water!
It wasn’t really that bad; but by the afternoon of our third day (it was really hot outside—more on this later) we needed a refill. Problem was, we were in the middle of nowhere—near another trail, for sure, but fairly certain that there wasn’t any water on that trail either. After questioning some other Israeli hikers, they assured us they would bring us to a nearby water pump (they didn’t), and we decided to follow them. The nearby water source, it turns out, was not really that close or even that accessible, and after jumping barbed wire twice and apologizing to a farmer for trespassing, we found ourselves in a small village about ten miles away from the Kinneret. Eventually we did find water and we even managed to find some friendly locals who helped us map out the rest of our hike. But we also lost two or three hours in the process, and hopes of reaching the Kinneret that night were squelched (although a few of my more gun-hoe friends tried to push a second midnight Highway walk…) We ultimately decided on spending the night in a local, mosquito-infested park. I have never been bit up like that before, and I got the least of it! One of my friends counted 140 bites on his face alone! (He, unfortunately, refuses to let me post the picture).
Heat Stroke:
I never had a minor heat stroke before, so when I got one on our last day of hiking, I started to freak a bit. Luckily, we had just refilled water and after chugging a few bottles and wearing a wet bandanna on my face for a few hours, my pounding headache and general feeling of nausea and tiredness started to dissipate. Suffice it to say—a minor heat stroke is akin to a terrible hangover, just in this case, I couldn’t lie in bed all day and recover: I had to walk another five miles. I think my sickness was brought on by a few factors. First, it was 115 degrees outside and I had not been drinking enough. Second, instead of sticking to a trail, we decided to descend a violently thorny mountain with no identifiable trail down and plenty of barbed wire to remind us that we were trespassing. And finally, and most importantly, I have no sense of direction.
About an hour or two into our hike, we realized we were going to need significantly more water. So, when we reached a nearby highway, a friend and I decided to hitchhike to the nearest gas station and refill everyone’s water bottles. Seemed simple enough, and when my friend suggested I take my cell phone along just in case something came up, I didn’t think twice. Thirty minutes later, after hitchhiking to the gas station and back to our meeting spot, I realized I was missing my dear cell-phone. I was pissed; I started screaming at the world (in the process, spending much-needed physical energy), and after conferring with my tired friends, I decided to hitchhike back to the gas-station to find my phone. If that had been it, if I had just hitchhiked back and found my phone (as I eventually did), I think I would have been fine; I would not have gotten sick. But, you see, I have no sense of direction! And after hitchhiking five miles in the wrong direction, and wasting more energy violently kicking the road barrier and pulling out my hair, I tried running back. Running in 115 degree weather is never a wise idea, and after a mile of impulsive running, I stopped to gasp for breath and decided to hitchhike my way back. The problem is: it really isn’t easy to hitchhike on a main road with few, if any, safe places to pullover. When someone finally did pullover, I was so relieved that I didn’t even bother to take a good look at the driver. Bad idea. My savior turned out to be just a bit scary; I’m not one to superficially judge usually, but his tattooed body, beat-up jeep, and (best of all) foot-long hunting knife did not soothe the soul. Heart-racing, with one hand on the passenger door and two feet firmly clamped down on the hunting-knife below me, I hoped for the best and prepared for the worst. I’m still alive, so I guess that’s good, but let’s just say I learned a valuable lesson: Take a good look at who’s picking you up, even if you just lost your cell-phone and its’ really hot outside. It’s never worth making the nightly news for a friggen’ cell phone.
So, to get back to my point: I’m pretty sure the energy I invested in my little private adventure had something to do with my ensuing heat-stroke.
Full Circle:
By the time I was able to walk again, (we took a good 30 minute break to help me recover once I started to feel really bad), the brunt of the heat-wave had passed, and it was nearing four in the afternoon. We were all tired, but we could also smell and taste the Kinneret. We doubled the pace, stopped taking substantial breaks, and finally reached the final trail. We could finally see the Kinneret ahead of us! It was exhilarating; we were so close, and on adrenaline alone, we breezed through the last few miles. Ironically, the last trail—just like our first trail from the
Mediterranean—was full of banana trees. I’m not one to make something out of nothing, but there was something special about feeling like we had hiked full-circle. And then, just as the sun began to set, we reached the Kinneret. The view was spectacular, but more than that: I was just so unbelievably happy. We hugged one another, (I think I even witnessed a kiss-or-two), and lied motionless in the cold, magnificently refreshing water.
It wasn’t easy; parts of it were assuredly not that much fun. But oh, was it worth it. Maybe, sometimes, the “end does justify the means.” One could surely make that argument in politics or business. But in this case, as my friends and I trekked across the entire width of
Israel in four days, the hike itself—not the beginning or the end—made the trip one of the best experiences of my life. Indeed, “the means justified the end.”
Living the Night Life in Jerusalem
I have been here about nine weeks now: time really flies by in this whole “abroad” experience. In fact, I have been freaking out a bit lately— I’m trying to capture the whole essence of my time abroad, whatever that’s supposed to mean, and I have been having some trouble. So a few nights ago, a few drinks in at “Sideways,” a bar in the center of Jerusalem, it didn’t surprise me when I had a reflective moment.
Before I came to Jerusalem, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t settle for the standard abroad experience—going out with Americans, getting drunk with Americans: blowing off more cultural, religious, or maybe just different experiences to pursue my, sometimes, ‘fratastic’ impulses. Yet, here I was at a table with eight other Americans drinking a Corona. What happened? Wasn’t this exactly what I didn’t want?
To be fair, I have been making a real effort to immerse myself in Israeli culture. I’m interning for Israel21C, a local online publication that focuses less on the centuries-old conflict and more on Israeli culture, music, technology etc., and I have also been spending time with family in Tel Aviv and Netanya. Next week, (I have two weeks off now), I’ll join 100+ of my distantly-related cousins up North for a massive, family Seder: I’ll elaborate more on this event in my next post, but suffice it to say—I’m optimistic it will be one of the more unique experiences of my life.
(I hope the above paragraph helps clear up some of my behavior a bit. I’m not that bad. I’d hate to think I came all the way to Israel, a place in which I am giving serious thought to spending part of my life, to simply ‘chill’ with Americans). But, back to my deliberation.
The bar was pretty empty, save for the giggly Israeli couple sitting at a table across the bar, some young Americans who were staring, eyes agape, at the long list of alcoholic beverages on the menu but still trying to act like it was no big deal (drinking age is 18 in Israel…what!!), and a few older Israeli men who were not-too-subtly undressing my lady friends while smoking a good half pack of cigarettes (Israelis tend to ignore the obnoxious “no smoking” laws).
It was a different scene from the night before, indeed, when I had ventured to a dance club nearby—“fusion”—and nearly been pummeled by unrelenting Israeli men looking to make conversation with my friends. I know I’m painting Israeli men as packs of ravenous dogs, and I feel a bit guilty about it, if not only because there are so many civilized, honorable, outgoing, and friendly Israeli men and women that I have met throughout my trip. Still, they weren’t to be found at Fusion, and after being yelled at by a group of ‘Arsim’—think outgrown skateboarding punks but in tight jeans and with globs of hair gel sweating off slicked back hair—I decided it was time to leave.
As I sat in Sideways with my friends—the polar opposite experience of the previous night—I still found myself thinking over the same question: Why is it so hard for foreigners to meet Israelis? Specifically, why was I having trouble meeting Israeli girls? And why were my girl friends having similar problems with Israeli men? The answer of course is much more complex then it seems, yet at the same time: so, so simple. Kind of like love? (That was deep, Sam…). Let me explain.
Israeli Women and American Boys:
Let me preface this analysis by pointing out two confounding variables here. First, maybe I’m just looking in the wrong places. I have yet to join any local clubs, for example, and I have also failed to take advantage of many of the hikes and other events that Hebrew University sponsors. Also—my Hebrew language progress aside, there is always the language barrier—as evident most recently by my inappropriate order at a McDonalds (of all places!) in Tel Aviv. I thought I was asking for a “cup of ice-cream,” but by the disturbed look on the cashiers face and the burst of laughter from my Israeli friend, I guess I ordered something very different. I’ll leave the punch-line out of this pg-13 blog, but be sure to pay attention to your pronunciation if you ever order an ice-cream cup at McDonalds.
Aside from these two factors, however, I think there’s a greater problem at hand, which is this: While I’ve been taking classes at Cornell over the past three years and complaining about “how hard my midterm is going to be,” most of my Israeli counterparts have been in the army, learning how to survive in the most dangerous of situations and carrying around a weapon—in some cases even using this weapon to protect themselves against harm or death.
It’s pretty simple, really. I’m simply not mature enough, not tough enough: I’m from a different place; literally, of course, but I am also at a different place in my life. I’m 20—too old for pre-army, 17/18 year-old Israeli girls, and too young for those in the army or those who have just completed their service. I just cannot relate, on some distinct level, with Israeli woman; it’s almost like I am lacking that one last attribute, or character trait. “He’s cute”—check. “He seems funny, maybe even smart”—check. “But no, it wouldn’t work”—he’s an American college student. Damn.
Now, I don’t want to overemphasize this, and I’m sure that many Israelis are not as quick to pass judgment. But from the past 2+ months of going out with friends, I always get the impression that I need to compensate for something I’m lacking. It’s unfortunate too, because I do not and could not know how to overcompensate for something as fundamental as army service and duty to one’s country.
Israeli Men and Their Misconceptions:
On the other side of the spectrum lie Israeli men and American women. There’s no compensation issue here; in fact, part of the problem may be that Israeli men don’t think they have to compensate at all (for the language barrier, for example). They seem to think that American girls are “easy,” and instead of stepping back and using a slower, more-friendly approach—they press; they touch; they write love notes to complete strangers: they go in for the kill and introduce themselves later. It’s a lose-lose situation, and one that many of my friends have grown tired of quickly.
To borrow from one of my favorite movies, Cool Hand Luke, “What we have here is a failure to communicate.” American women’s problems seem more easily fixable: perhaps Israeli men just need to work on their sensitivities. But in both cases, this failure to communicate has led many of my friends to turn to the easier route: ‘Sideways’ isn’t catered specifically to Americans, but in other bars in Jerusalem you will be hard-pressed to find an Israeli: ‘Mike’s Place,’ for example, has a sign above its entrance that reads “your home away from home,” and is probably the most popular hangout in the city on Superbowl Sunday or during the NBA Finals.
So, as I sat at Sideways sharing a drink or three with my English-speaking friends, I did feel a bit torn. Maybe I shouldn’t be here; I could do this at Cornell, right? But then, as I looked around the table at my friends, it hit me: Sure, a central part of living in a foreign country is immersing oneself in the culture and meeting natives. But on the other hand, there’s a lot more to the abroad experience, or at least mine: I also came to Israel to travel and to really learn and experience the land that my forefathers dreamt of one day seeing. Above all—I came to Israel to make some type of lasting connection. And I think I have found that connection in the people I have surrounded myself. In the end, it’s all about finding that moderation, and as I enter my 10th week in the holy city, I think I’ve found a happy and worthwhile one.
My Trip to Istanbul: Where the Religious Past meets the Secular Present
A few weekends back, I had the opportunity to visit Istanbul, Turkey. Istanbul carries with it a fascinating blend of secular and religious elements: it is a modern city evolving, for sure, but you still do not get the sense that it will ever quite leave behind its ancient, historical feel. At times, to the unsuspecting (and perhaps naïve) American tourist, it seemed to be a city of walking contradictions. At other times—riding the trolley through the new city, for instance—I felt like I was in downtown Boston, weaving past the tightly-packed shops and restaurants, watching the rows of cars park neatly on opposite sides of the train-tracks, and smiling at the occasional tree or green life placed shrewdly on the side of a street.
Against a background of ancient architecture, grand mosques, booming calls to prayer, and bazaars that still resemble old trade routes, Istanbul is a city equipped with modern infrastructure, BMWs and designer clothing, a metro system, high culture, and rich nightlife. While those in coastal Istanbul live a life of wealth, beauty, and privilege, most ‘Istanbullis’ live lives of poverty further inland. As our trusty guidebook, Lonely Planet puts it: “The social challenges facing Istanbul, almost a microcosm of the world’s tensions, are played out in one of the world’s most historically rich and breathtakingly beautiful and vibrant cities. There is simply no other city like it.”
Before I delve into the specifics of my trip, a bit of background courtesy of the ever-trustworthy Wikipedia (I just finished watching the episode of the Office where Michael Scott uses Wikipedia tips to negotiate a business deal, and have been on a bit of a Wikipedia binge since…)
Anyway, did you know?—Istanbul is the 4th largest city proper and the 20th largest metropolitan area in the world; sitting on the Bosphorus Strait, it is the only city to harbor the Mediterranean and Black Seas. Once known as Byzantium and later as Constantinople, Istanbul has been capital to the Byzantine Empire, the Roman Empire, the Latin Empire, and the Ottoman Empire. Today, Turkey is a Muslim country dominated by a secular regime and middle-class; it enjoys healthy relations with the State of Israel, as the first Muslim country to recognize Israel in 1949 (a point of personal intrigue), and is located at the geographical intersection between the Asian East and European West. It was worthy indeed of the $537 I spent for my first long weekend out of Israel.
Instead of providing a running dialogue on my 2+ days in Istanbul, I’ve sectioned off some of the highlights of my trip, full with my insights and perceptions on traveling through a foreign country for the first time with seven other clueless Americans, one stupid Canadian (sorry for the spite Diesey, but you are Canadian) and one Scottish fellow (who became something of a tour guide, having previously lived in Istanbul for a few years).
Food:
The first night in town, a cold and overcast Thursday evening, we went out for dinner in the New City of Istanbul (across the harbor from the Old City) to a place that Lonely Planet had recommended. It was called “Karakoyum,” and apparently is routinely featured on Istanbul’s “best of” lists. Strangely enough, it was on the sixth floor of a random unmarked building that we could only find when we asked a local. The food was a mixture of greens and Turkish meat (including their featured (and salivating-worthy) Turkish Kebab. The food was good, the sparkling view of the Golden Horn, Istanbul’s natural harbor, was better, and there was a general sense of excitement that we were about to embark on something pretty special.
That same night, after venturing through Taksim Square (see below), we stopped at a local dessert place for some ice-cream and Turkish delicattesans. I was especially excited to try the “Turkish Coffee”—what kind of tourist goes to Turkey and doesn’t try real Turkish coffee?—but am sad to report that I’m not much of a fan; there was some type of muddy substance on the bottom (mushed coffee beans, perhaps?), and to be honest, I can’t remember tasting something much fouler in my life. (Maybe that’s an overstatement; my experience with my month-old milk last week was fairly unpleasant). Still, the ice-cream, a minty, fruity mixture topped with chocolate wafers easily made up for the coffee, and was a tasty ending to my first night in Istanbul. I have some pictures of me holding the creamy-assortment while trying to hug a confused Turkish waiter, (I really liked the ice-cream), but cannot locate them currently…
One final note on the food:
On Friday night we ventured down to the waterfront to catch a truly Turkish meal. Off of the Bosphorus River, (which separates the old city from the new city), fishermen catch fish in the water, cut off their heads and tails, take out their internal organs, and cook them right there on the boat. A fish sandwich, quickly prepared right in front of you on the boat, cost 3 Lira, (approximately $2.5). The experience was a unique one, and I am glad I was able to overcome my distaste for fish and try something new; still, I don’t think I’ll be eating anymore freshly cooked fish in Turkey: my churning stomach hours later would serve as a kind reminder of the ‘tasty’ Turkish catch.
Taksim Square:
We visited Taksim Square two or three times over the weekend—it is the heart of a bustling, sparkling nightlife in Istanbul. The streets are always packed, (on par with, if not surpassing, levels in Times Square on any given weekend), the streetlights and store and restaurant lights make for a wondrous spectacle, and the range of natives and foreigners all-coming together on a few connected streets was impressive. Still, it was here, in Taksim Square that I most clearly saw the running contradiction that is part of modern, Islamic Turkey. When I visited on Saturday afternoon for a people-watching stroll through the Square, I was very suddenly reminded that I was strolling through a Muslim country when over the loudspeakers of two nearby Mosques, the call to prayer (Muslims pray 5 times a day) was blasted, sweeping through the Square and leading to a frantic push by the more religious Muslims, as they quickly unraveled their small rugs and began to pray in the general direction of Mecca. I was taken aback; had I not only moments earlier cracked a smile as I saw a McDonalds on my right, Gap store on my left, and a Mercedes car humming towards me? Weren’t the two, the secular and the religious, supposed to be divided? Could a country really function without a division between religion and state? Sure, Israel is a religious (Jewish state), but there are rarely public displays of something as vivid as prayer-services (and, for sure, not 5 times a day). The experience surprised me, but not in a negative way. Turkey is a modern state founded on ancient, Islamic ideas: to think that they can maintain a distinct religious presence while still leading a secular nation is impressive.
Afternoon Call To Prayer
Bathrooms:
A quick side note, and one that might not seem to be “a highlight” of the trip—still I did find it amusing, if not a bit telling (of what I’m still not exactly sure—perhaps, again, this dichotomy between old and new). On Saturday night we spent a few hours at a local bar near Taksim Square; at one point, I got up to go to the bathroom, but when I opened the stall I was shocked to see that there was nothing but a porcelain hole in the wall. The ridges on the side were intended for squatting, and even if there HAD been toilet paper available, I probably would have had to have been really desperate to pull it off. I took a picture, and went back downstairs (Tourist…pshhh).
Topkapi Palace:
An absolutely gorgeous ancient palace that used to be home to the Ottoman Sultans (1465-1853). I could write an entire post about the palace (and perhaps I will?), but now I’ll concentrate briefly on one of the more fascinating rooms I have ever been in. Suffice it to say I spent a while in this room—not just looking at the displays, but also contemplating what exactly it meant to me as a (usually) rational human being.
The ‘Privy Chamber’ houses the Chamber of the Sacred Relics, which was constructed under the reign of Sultan Murad in the mid-to-late 16th century. It claims to hold the real cloak of the prophet Muhammad, his sword, one tooth, a hair of his beard, his battle sabres, an autographed letter and other relics which are known to believers as “the Sacred Trusts.” It doesn’t end there: Several other sacred objects are on display, such as the swords of the first four Caliphs, the staff of Moses (!!!), and the sword of King David (!). I was astonished, absolutely, positively blown away. My first reaction was to grin, my second to angrily dismiss. The staff of Moses? Muhammad’s tooth? David’s sword? How in God’s name could any rational human being think that these were the real objects? They would have to be thousands-of-years old! And conserved in such perfect condition! “What a bunch of religious nuts,” I thought to myself. And even now, looking back—and remembering the solemn, all-believing looks on some peoples’ faces—I wonder if my original inclinations weren’t so far off. I’ve always had some trouble coming to terms with religion—how could so many people give up their lives for something they could never definitively know?—and I could feel those sentiments rushing out of my body as I gapingly walked around the room. On the other hand, who am I to judge? Maybe I’m the fool, and even if I’m not (and indeed, no one really is the fool), I firmly believe that if it works for someone, all the power to him/her. The room, and the holy history that it claimed to hold, just overpowered me; I had to take a few minutes to regain my composure. I’ve attached some photos below, but if you are ever in Turkey—an absolute must to check out.
Grand Bazaar:
On Saturday morning we visited the Grand Bazaar, or “Covered Market” in Turkish. Termed “labyrinth and chaotic” by Lonely Planet, it certainly lived up to its description. Indeed, it boasts over 4000 shops, 58 streets, and several kilometers of winding lanes. Wikipedia estimates that about 250,000 to 400,000 people walk through it daily. They had everything the superficial heart could desire at the Grand Bazaar. From Turkish restaurants and dessert vendors, to clothing, watch, lamp, and other shops, to jewelry and hookah stores, we spent upwards of four hours scouring through the Covered Market. I don’t know that anything in particular was overly intriguing, although I do find Near-Eastern bargaining antics to be fascinating, particularly how quickly the price can split-in-half if you are an astute bargainer. The key: picking a price you are willing to spend, and then actually convincing the shop-owners you only have a certain amount of money (sometimes even going as far as taking out your wallet) until they eventually near your price. I bought two items: an authentic Turkish light (I think) and a belly-dancing costume (to be further explained in my next post on the Jewish holiday of Purim, full with pictures—of course).
Taking in the Grand Bazaar
Turkish Bath:
I thought I should end this post with a truly Turkish experience; Indeed, I don’t think you can get much more authentic then a Turkish bath in Turkey. Along with my eight other traveling companions, we found a cheap Turkish bath in the Old City on Saturday afternoon. For 30 Lira ($25) I was soaped up, washed, slapped, elbowed, and massaged by a huge, hairy Turkish man who spoke no English. It was absolutely fantastic! My back hurt a bit afterwards, (tends to happen when a man twice your size shoves his elbow into your upper back…in love?), but I had not felt so refreshed and relaxed in days. Afterwards, as we sat in our towels upstairs listening to Turkish music, (the place is built like a three story house—with bath chambers on the lowest floor, the store and business operations on the middle floor, and changing rooms on the upper floor), we were given hot and sweet Turkish tea by the hostess, a small but stern Turkish woman with jet black hair and green eyes.
The Turkish bath was really the culmination of my experience in Turkey, and was fitting as our last activity before heading back to the hotel and airport. It is a centuries old ritual, but seems to be dominated by incoming tourists (or at least the one that we visited). Again, it reflects this contradiction—of new meeting old, of maintaining a traditional outlook while still adjusting to the global onslaught of modernity. There are problems in Turkey today—their refusal to admit to the Armenian Genocide recently became an international issue, and there is also an unhealthy socioeconomic divide in the country. Still, the balancing act in Turkey, between religious forces from the past and secular forces from today, is a fascinating one. Indeed, it is one, I think, that other, less adapted Arab and Muslim countries must take to heart as we all push forward together into the global age of the 21st century.
The Wise American Tourist:
Running in the Old City
I could write about a number of exciting events over the past few weeks. I could elaborate on the beautiful Israeli wedding I attended at a Kibbutz right outside of Netanya: the sheer size of the celebration was astounding; (I’d estimate nearly 500 people attended, including your very own 5th cousin to the groom—he, surprisingly, had no idea who I was!).
I could also detail my weekend trip to Mitzpe Ramon in the Negev. The Negev, for those unfamiliar with Israel’s terrain, is the desert region located in Southern Israel, which covers some 4,700 square miles, or a shocking 55% of Israel. Mitzpe Ramon is a unique town in the Negev, special because it overlooks the largest natural crater in the world, the Ramon Crater (28 miles long and 5 miles wide). Mitzpe Ramon represents a very different type of beauty from the golden, intense city of Jerusalem or the bustling beach-scene in Tel Aviv, but it embodies something that most Israelis also seem to deeply appreciate. It’s quiet, peaceful, almost biblical at Mitzpe Ramon. The mountain goats, the distant views of barren desert land, the magnificent sunset that you can catch sitting on top of the crater; Mitzpe Ramon is the anti-stereotype of Israel: As our 24-year-old tour guide, Liav, put it succinctly: “It’s a place to just come chill, to get away from all the craziness.”
But rather than elaborate on these adventures, I’d like to focus the rest of this post on a less enjoyable, but surely more provoking, and, at least personally—perspective changing experience. I’m not sure that the emotional aspect will fully resonate. I, for one, think that you must find yourself in a similar position first, but I’ll try to make it as real as possible.
I have wanted to run through the Old City of Jerusalem for a while now; you could say it was one of those check-list items before I left. So, a few days ago, on a rare beautiful day in Jerusalem, (see my last blog entry for a full report on the ‘fantastic’ weather here), I jumped at the opportunity to take in the fresh air, catch some scenery, and more importantly– get some exercise (I’ve been packing one too many daily falafels over the past few weeks). Along with a few of my more adventurous friends, we vaguely outlined our run and started traveling in the general direction of the Old City, not giving much thought to the specifics: After all, we were four, fairly athletic, Hebrew-speaking, (usually) intelligent individuals—what’s the worst that could happen at 2PM in the afternoon?
The trek is about 3 miles in each direction; for most of the run we were on a main road (road # 1, or ‘kvish echod’ in Hebrew), but for a good mile, the road takes a sharp turn near a place called ‘Mount of Olives’ in East Jerusalem. For a few minutes that seemed just a bit longer, we found ourselves sprinting through Arab-villages. Very poor, beat-down areas; I had chosen to wear, perhaps foolishly, (or, perhaps just not realizing exactly how intense parts of Jerusalem really are), a tank-top with Israeli writing and a necklace with a golden Torah attached, and as we ran I received my share of ugly stares, violent gestures, and even the screaming ire of a homeless man sleeping on the side of the road. Still, nothing all that surprising: I have received many stares from disapproving shop-owners in the Arab market these past few weeks, and have mostly grown accustomed to the discomfort (I know, deep down, that it’s all just tough-love!) But then, as were running alongside what looked to be an old playground of sorts, a mob of young boys (maybe 9, 10 years old) sprung up—as if they had just been waiting, almost dying for the opportunity to start something—and began to jeer us, aggressively tossing rocks at our feet (and as I was taking up the rear, at my back and head). As I slowed down for a moment, so bewildered at these little boys’ violent eruption, I suddenly felt this little baby-foot creeping underneath my running legs, as one of the young boys tried to trip me. I whirled around, as a bolt of anger rocketed through my body, and stared violently at this little Arab boy, fists clenched—before realizing that a 15-1 match would probably not be in my best interest, especially in a dangerous area in one of the tensest cities in the world. Looking back now, I still remember the boy’s complexion vividly: his dark brown hair and chapped lips, his dusty blue shirt, and most of all—I remember his raging, fierce eyes piercing through me, almost screaming “how dare you!” I unclenched my fists, struggled to open my mouth, and realizing that I was too confused to register something coherent—I took off, bolting past the screaming mob as I tried to catch up with my friends.
In hindsight, I don’t think I was ever really that scared; I was just horrified. What had I done to deserve the ire, the absolute, unrequited hate and anger of a complete stranger? Is it really enough that I’m simply a foreigner , a Jew? We’ve all been known to judge people on occasion, but to react so violently to a superficial appearance? Outrageous! And where does that resentment and hate originate? Had my quick-footed aggressor learned to react aggressively from an older brother or father, or perhaps at school?
What bothered me the most was the hopelessness and downright sadness I felt upon returning to my dorm. How are we ever going to bring peace to a region where little children are taught that innocent, American students are the enemy? The major challenge, as I (expertly) see it going into my fifth week living in Jerusalem, is convincing the next generation (the 8 and 9 year olds) that violent reactions will only get us where their parents have taken us.
It’s often said in Israel that there will be peace with the Palestinians when their mothers and fathers love their children more than they hate the Israelis. I can’t think of a more valid way of putting it: that little boy’s hate was not a natural, instinctual response—it was a learned, hateful reaction to someone that he now perceives as the ‘enemy.’ Only when we are able to reach that hate, and still those piercing eyes, (or at least redirect them) can we truly discuss the beginnings of peace. I do not know when or if that day will come. What I do know is that little boy is surely not ready, and to be frank–that’s pretty damn depressing.
Keeping Warm in Jerusalem
It has been snowing in Jerusalem over the past week; nothing really new or special for a rugged Cornellian like myself, but for the Israeli students here at Hebrew University it’s been quite the event.
I awoke this past Thursday–at an early 2 p.m– to a whopping smack across the neck from my Israeli suitemate Marina. (She’s a bit over-aggressive, but assures me she means well). “Yalla, Sam! It’s snowing outside, let’s go!” Fully-armed in her fleece jacket, mitten gloves, tan hat, rubber boots, and overblown scarf, Marina could have been mistaken for any cautious Cornellian venturing to class on a cold January day. She looked puzzled when I threw on a pair of overworn man-uggs and a green tee-shirt. “You are crazy, Shalom? {My Hebrew name} It is freezing outside.” I just laughed: I was in Jerusalem, right? How cold could it be?
I live in a fairly large complex of student apartments (think townhouses times 4). While nearly half are occupied by students studying abroad at the Rothberg International Center, the other half host an assortment of Israeli students studying at Hebrew University (some pushing their mid to late 20’s) and a group of students interning at locations around the city. Most American and European students are familiar with the particulars of slushy/rainy snow (as opposed to the more exciting, playful Cornellian powdered snow) and if not a bit irritated by the whole experience, are unlikely to gape in awe at mother nature’s chilly creation. Not Marina though, nor her similarly well-dressed friend Adee. Grinning from ear-to-ear, Marina and Adee began to pick up the slush and hurl it at anyone in sight, including the unfortunate American in his loafers and tee-shirt–all the time giggling hysterically at the very thought of all this snow! Luckily for me, and the other amused Americans attempting to escape the wrath of these crazed natives, Israeli’s have little-to-no aim. Baseball never really caught on in Israel–and while most Israeli’s learn how to throw a grenade during my freshman year of college, the basic army training does not seem to translate into proper snowball mechanics. After fifteen minutes of playing “hit the American” (a real wonderful game) I suggested we warm up at a nearby bar/restaurant on campus–”Kfar Bar.”
The place was packed with students; school had been cancelled—after all, how could anyone go to school when it was snowing outside?—and with nearly everything else shut down in the city, people had flocked to Kfar Bar for some hot chocolate and potential karaoke fun. Adee was particularly interested in my snow expertise, and between fielding questions about the weather and life at Cornell, I managed to find out a bit about her military service, which we had begun to discuss when I jokingly teased her about her poor marksmanship after she missed me with a snowball.
Adee was a tank commander in the Israeli Defense Forces, and had been on active duty during the Israel-Lebanon War two summers ago when her battalion had seen combat action in Lebanon. The nonchalant way in which she talked about her experiences, and even the loss of friends in the war, shocked me: something that I found truly honorable, courageous, and more than a bit scary was just business-as-usual for her. My social life at Cornell seemed more interesting to Adee than the stark realities of war and death that she had faced so early in life.
It is an interesting divide, and one that I am slowly beginning to grasp as I enter my second week in the holy city. Israelis are forced to grow up much quicker than most Americans; bus rides, trips to malls or clubs are necessarily punctuated by the dull fear of ‘what if?’ There is relative calm now, but a strange intensity still pervades over much of the atmosphere in Jerusalem, almost like a hovering cloud anxiously creeping towards the eye of the storm.
Yet, to Adee and Marina the general unease is a way of life; one that they have grown accustomed to, and have generally embraced as they travel the city via bus and visit restaurants and clubs at night. So, instead of quizzing Adee about her military service, I gave her the full-circle of fraternity life at Cornell. Sitting with Adee, watching her eyes jump, I could have sworn I was talking about my military service or combat experiences in Lebanon. In the end, I guess it’s just basic human instinct: we crave what we don’t know, and never fully appreciate what we have.
Beyond the philosophical musings, however, one thing seems pretty clear to me, even this early on in my trip: There are no clear skies in Jerusalem, especially when it’s snowing.
Vegas, Bad Movies, and the Holy Land
So I’m flying to Vegas right now (to win back my college education) and as the movie chosen is ‘Nanny Diaries’—seriously, how do they get off showing a movie that bad on a Continental flight?—I thought I would take this time to share some thoughts on my upcoming trip to the Holy Land.
I will be in Israel in a little more than two weeks (!), and while there is something to be said for spontaneity, I have tried to outline some of my basic trip goals: I am looking for a job—in media, maybe journalism; something that I’m familiar with but that will also force me to take a deeper look at Israeli culture and society, instead of relying on a touristy, Americanized front to help form my impressions. I have been in touch with an editor from Israel21C, a popular online media outlet in Jerusalem, and also spoke with a family friend at the Abraham Fund, a non-profit organization whose overarching mission is to reconcile relations between Jews and Arabs living in Israel.
On a more personal note, I’ve been looking into my family tree in the hopes of reconnecting with family in Israel. To give a quick rehash: I have more than 250 cousins living in Israel today! In 1924 my great-great uncle Mordechai Seletsky moved with his wife Hannah to Balfouriya, a town named after British Lord Balfour (see Balfour Declaration of 1917) and close to the Lebanon-Israel border. Mordechai and Hannah were a fairly busy couple, and between hosting Lord Balfour and building a home and finding work, they managed to make time for nine daughters. Each of these nine daughters, in turn, provided their parents with 3+ grandchildren, quickly paving the way for what would become one of the largest families in early 20th century Israel and for the shocking 250+ cousins I now have. So, I think I’ll try to tap into this amazing family network—you’d think some of them have to be pretty cool, right?
Clearly related to any job I take or with trips around the country to connect with family is the question of security: just how safe is it to travel by public transportation in and around Jerusalem? Are there certain clubs or restaurants I should avoid in Tel Aviv? I’d like to think that part of being immersed in a foreign country’s society and culture is taking the same risks that Israelis take every day. On the other hand, do I really want to feel guilty every time I disregard my mother’s advice/pleading and decide to take the bus? Ultimately, I’m sure I will take my share of risks—I refuse to be ‘that American in a foreign country,’ and I’ve never been one to shy away from getting my feet a little wet. But (for the sake of this blog, of course) I will also try to be careful and not bring too much truth to the oft-cited ‘stupid American’ citing…
To the city of sin! Vegas!