This Tastes Like Jesus: Christmas

Let's begin with the Christmas party. We decided to have our Christmas dinner on Shabbat night, two days before Christmas because we always do Shabbat dinner!  

Our menu: Cornbread covered in dulce de leche made out of goat milk, latkes, Chinese noodles, bread, cheese, applesauce (homemade with cranberries), applesauce from a jar, mashed potatoes with LOTS of butter and sour cream, broccoli and other veggies, a pear pie with whole wheat crust, a berry pie with whole wheat crust, and ice cream! 

The venue: my apartment. My roommate was in charge of cleaning, inviting and decorating. She bought beautiful flowers and placed them all over the apartment, some in wine bottles and some floating in cute little dishes of water. She lit tons of tea lights and lined the counters and tables with them. We cut out some snowflakes which were taped up to the window. A bunch of friends showed up with food in hands and a 3-D Christmas tree they had made (way better than my 2-D one). They placed it under the sign that read "Presents Here". Somehow, everybody had managed to dress up in Christmasy colors and I turned on the Christmas carols. Another friend brought over these very strange candies that looked like little Christmas presents. Everything was ready and Christmasy! Let's eat! 

December 22

Wake up early. Make 10 eggs with sauteed garlic and onions. Add some fresh basil.

Start off to school. Report my apartment's latest craziness. 

Attend Hebrew class where my teacher speaks increasingly quickly in order to finish reviewing in time for us to eat. I cannot think without eating so I stare blankly at the board. We present her with a beautiful necklace to thank her as she was an amazing teacher. She must know at least 5 languages fully and bits and pieces of pretty much every other language. 

Head home, take a 2 hour nap to try to catch up on the sleep I have been missing because of the delicious, heavy late dinners we have and the homework that I try to do while my eyes heavily drift shut. Wake up, head to Tmol Shilshom, an adorable bookstore with amazing milkshakes with some friends. 

We decide to take the train. We get to the train station and neither of the 2 ticket machines will take our money because there is no change in the machines!!! Decide to take the bus. Which is at least 90 degrees despite the fact that it was a pleasant 75 outside. We sweat and chat with other students we run into on the bus. It takes us an hour to a place that we could have walked to in less time, but it was fun! Meet up with friends and start studying. Our chatter over milkshakes and coffee drives everyone else away. We study hard, preparing for the finals that are stretched out over the next three weeks.

You just gotta learn to laugh.

It makes me laugh and laugh and laugh how silly life can be here sometimes.

It is as a friend once told me: Israel tries soooo hard to be part of the West. But at the end of the day, things are really very Middle Eastern. This dichotomy can drive you crazy

A list of this week's grievances:

• Last weekend, on Friday night, our water heater simply did not turn on. I learned how to do everything while walking around in a towel because I was hoping the water would heat up. It did not. So I soaped up and hopped under the freezing cold drizzle. It took my breath away, it was so cold!! It was also Shabbat and NOBODY works on Shabbat. Thus, I knew I would have to wait until Sunday to say anything. Saturday, only more of the same. Sunday I couldn't not shower anymore. So, I heated up water in the tea kettle, poured half of it into one big pot and the other half into another pot. Added some cold water (I have learned from scalding myself these past few weeks to remember that boiling hot water is in fact REALLY hot). Soaped up. Dumped it over my head. It was actually a pretty nice shower. My roommate just decided to use the cold water. She woke my other roommate up with her screaming. Cranky household that day...

"If you need a little touch of America, go to the West Bank"

"Hey, want to go to Bethlehem with us?" "SURE!" 

You hear a lot of things about the West Bank. In America, there is an insecurity about this Palestinian land. In Israel, the opinions range, as do those of international students. Our schools and sometimes our families tell us that it is unsafe to go there. I have heard many people say, "The West Bank? Yeah, I'd love to go. But I'm Jewish. And I LOOK Jewish." (I always find that statement funny as I feel like internationals are identified more with their nation than with their religion, especially as the Jewish stereotypes that exist in America are not the exact ones that exist about Israeli Jews.) Other people are very nonchalant about it. I didn't know what to think, but I decided that, regardless, I was going to go. 

I was invited on this trip by a friend who is interning with the UN. He absolutely loves wandering around the West Bank and he served as our tour guide throughout, explaining to us the political tensions, the best places to get fried chicken, and what we should see. 

We boarded a bus at Damascus Gate. An Arab bus. That is really what people call them. Paid our 10 shekels and began to make our way through suburbs of Jerusalem that I have never seen before. All of a sudden, we were surrounded simply by hills with little groupings of houses on top of them. Some of them were settlements, distinguishable in their defiant-neatness. Others were Arab cities, looking much more ramshackle but filled with building materials, as though no one could decide whether they were being built up or torn down. 

The security barrier, which DOES not follow the green line at all.
In some places, it is simply a fence, in others it is a wall, and in
some places it looks like this. The overhang is so that people
cannot shoot down at cars.

As you can see, the Security Barrier cuts through many parts of the West Bank that it is not supposed to. Very clever, if you think about it, but it really, really has hurt the lives of Palestinians. It separates many farmers from their crops, people from their schools and jobs etc. It makes commuting disastrous and frustrating. Israel is taking over more land than it is supposed to regardless of the people whom they are taking the land from. One of the many things that I spent this short trip contemplating. 

Green line = The line drawn in 1949 to demarcate
the difference between Israel and a potential
Palestine. The red line is the part of the security
fence that has been completed. The purple is the part that
is planned, as is the blue.

 The wall has been covered in art and words. This is not a phenomenon isolated in Palestine; art covers many walls in Israel. But it was obvious that the Security Barrier was a very relevant canvas for the people's protests, messages, thoughts, hopes etc.

Hoofing it in Haifa

6:45 WHY AM I AWAKE? I don't think I have class today, right? Great! I must've just turned my alarm on accidentally. I'll turn it off and go back to bed. Zzz...OH! We're going to Haifa!

7:15 "Elisa, someone is here!" "WHAT?" I walk out, bed head hair sticking out in all different directions. "Why are you here so early? I still have 15 minutes! Go away!"

7:30 I speed out of my room after downing a cup of hot tea and we head to catch a bus.

7:45 We pass a ton of security guards standing around looking worried. An ambulance is on its way. We look concerned, then get on the bus.

8:00 One of my guy friend's grabs my face cause he knows that it annoys me. I proceed to lick him. The Hasidic man sitting next to us looks incredibly disturbed. Then moves.

Prejudice

It never ceases to amaze me the prejudices that people have and that they feel comfortable expressing, regardless of who they are around (although more often than not it seems exacerbated by who one is around). Traveling around Jerusalem, this tension is constantly felt. And it really doesn't matter whom you are with. The secular like to believe that it is the religious who cause all the problems. They get angry that some of the streets are blocked off on Shabbat so that no cars can drive through, they complain about the lack of stores and transportation in operation on Shabbat and holidays as well. The religious contribute to the problem, and the fanatics throw stones or bleach at those who disrupt their lifestyles. Everyone is so angry at everyone else.

What bothers me the most about the prejudice that I am most often exposed to, that of the secular, is that it comes from international students. I have never even heard an Israeli citizen living in Jerusalem complain about living in Jerusalem. This could be because I am not around Israelis very often, but I wonder if they also understand that, having chosen to live in Jerusalem, this is how things operate. It is not true of the rest of Israel. Almost everywhere else, things continue to operate on Shabbat, even if at a slower pace, similar to that of Sundays in the States. I simply cannot understand this prejudice. Often times I say something or make a mean face when someone makes fun of the eight little children crowded around a tired looking Hasidic woman or when people make blanket statements about the religious, but I more and more feel the increase of this antipathy.

Jerusalem Syndrome

I woke up two days ago to find that there was no water in the Kfar Hastudentim (Student Village). I had yet to shower, wash my face, brush my teeth or make myself breakfast. And I had piles of dirty dishes in my room that needed to be done. I went about my morning routine as best as I could without water, splashing some really old water from a water bottle on my face when I could no longer stand feeling dirty. Why, I wondered, did I have no idea that the water would be shut off? Why had no signs been posted?

When I walked out of my apartment building to head to class, I saw why. Take a look:

It is often a source of hilarity for us native English speakers to read signs posted in Israel. Reading this explains why no one was aware that the water would be shut off. After all, I am not currently in need of a massage...

Learning to Listen to the Music

My life at Wesleyan is characterized by my constant motion. In my hot pink backpack I carry at least two changes of clothes (one for dance class, one for work), snacks, homework, books etc. My friends know that I am always rushing off to somewhere. And I love it. I relish it. There is never anything that I want to give up.

The beautiful view of Jerusalem that I have from my living room. Where I am sitting, not doing homework, listening to music and just being!

When I decided to come to Israel, I knew that I was coming because I wanted to experience a different place. Choosing my classes for the semester, therefore, presented me with a very difficult problem. Should I take as many as I normally do at Wesleyan or take fewer, give myself time to actually experiencethis wonderful place in which I am living? Back and forth I went. Finally, I made my decision. It was more important to me to actually BE in Israel and to learn from that than to take as many classes as I could.

While my roommates and friends delightedly compared how little time they had, a game I almost always win at Wesleyan, I sat and listened in silence. I couldn't help feeling racked by guilt. What was I thinking? I should be taking as many classes as I could!!! I should be working myself to the bone! That is the only way to experience things!!!
But somehow, despite all of my guilt, I persevered. I did not add any extra classes and I actually managed to condense my schedule so that I would have class from Sunday-Thursday morning, giving me an almost completely free Thursday.
And I am so happy.

Shaving with Rusty Razors

It is a sad fact in my life that I am terrible with transitions.

"I am so sad that we have so little time left here!" I moaned to a friend while walking back from school. He just looked at me like I was crazy.

Ok, so it's true, I am in Israel for 42 more days. (GAH! When I say it like that, it sounds like nothing!) But I am really horrible with switching from one thing to another and I have already begun to attempt to think a bit more about the lives that I will be heading back to in the States. I try to anticipate what I will feel in the future, which, although great ('cause I am usually right), is terrible because it takes me out of wherever I am in the moment. More than that, I have begun to mourn the loss of all the amazing people that I have met here in Israel. What random events bring people together. In two months, most of the people that I spend my time with will be spread across the planet once more. Some to return back to their home towns, some to remain in Israel for another semester, some to study abroad else where.

Which brings me to why I was shaving with a rusty razor today. Granted, this is not a rare occurrence in my life. Having grown up with only a bath tub, I have never mastered/been taught the art of preserving a razor without it rusting after one use. Hence, I often find myself looking at my razor with worry, then using it anyways. (I can imagine my Mom wincing now as she reads this). It probably doesn't help that I am usually in a hurry to shower, as I pride myself in wicked fast showers, and often emerge with little rivers of blood streaming down my legs...

Becoming More Me

"So, do you feel like you have changed at all?" My friend asked me. She is studying abroad in Tanzania and has been living in a whirlwind of difference.
Changed. Changed...Changed?
I knew that word was supposed to mean something, supposed to somehow sum up how my experience here had effected who I am. I searched through my memory, looking for a memory where the stamp "CHANGED" could be placed. Nothing.
"No. If anything, I feel like I have become more myself." I replied. This thought made me rather sad at the moment. Why HADN'T I changed? Didn't that mean I hadn't learned anything? What was wrong with me that I wasn't changing?!

Thanksgiving in a Foreign Land

"Can we plan Thanksgiving? Can we? Please? Canwecanwecanwe???" Muttered responses, noncommittal smiles were all I received. No one seemed to be as concerned or as interested in recreating this strange but lovely American tradition. Or maybe they knew it would be CRAZY. And Thanksgiving was fast approaching! In the mail, I received some terribly punny Thanksgiving stickers from my Mumsy, to be used on Thanksgiving placemats. It was a sign! We had to have Thanksgiving! 

So, when invited over to do homework, I ambushed my friends. "Who should we invite to Thanksgiving?" This was the worst part of planning, the part I was dreading. When we had named all of the people who we normally hang out with, the list numbered 15. Then we had to pick from the list of 17 "maybes". Boy, did I feel like a Queen Bee. We argued and debated about who garnered an invite and why. At 1:00AM I left the apartment with a list of 26 people, with 6 starred as "probably won't come". 

The venue: 4 friends' apartment. The menu: traditional Thanksgiving food. My task: to invite everyone, assign them all a food to bring and figure out how to fit so many people in an apartment.

Hebrew Madlibs

(Inspired by my Gaga dance class which was taught completely in Hebrew. At first my guesses made sense. Then it was just too much fun to add in my own words, since I couldn't understand anything. Resulted in my trying not to laugh slightly hysterically).
"Shalom. Begin to move. Let your body parts float. Move like you are in water.
Now think about your legs. About your feet. Move like your feet are covered in wet rags. Really allow your legs to experience the feeling of being covered in slimy seaweed. Enjoy. Sink deeper into the mud. Good. Now think about your hands. Grab a pomegranate. Dig your fingernails into it. Feel the juice sliding down your hands. Begin to move in rollercoasters. Let the movement smack you. Now combine that movement with the pomegranate. Throw the pomegranate. Grab another one! Throw that one! Faster! Connect the movement to pleasure! Begin to move more slowly. The pomegranate is no longer ripe. It is moldy. It is growing on your hands and legs. Move smaller and smaller. Do not let the mold eat your flesh. It is eating your flesh! IT IS A FLESH EATING POMEGRANATE! Move more slowly! Do not let it eat you! I repeat! Do not let it eat your hands and legs. Now, sit down. Drown in a bunch of wet spaghetti noodles (yes, this was actually said). Drown! Shake! You cannot breathe! You are gasping for air! You are gasping! And gasping! Try to swim out of the spaghetti. Do not inhale the sauce! It is not air! Swim faster. Faster! You cannot escape!  Now combine it! You are being consumed by flesh eating pomegranate mold and trying to swim out of the spaghetti. You can do it! Shake that flesh-eating mold off your body! Change positions so the spaghetti sauce doesn't go into your nostrils! I can't hear you breathing! Have you suffocated because of the spaghetti?!?! TEN, NINE, EIGHT...TWO, ONE! Relax. Allow your whole body to regain its normal amount of  flesh. Do not worry. It has not been eaten."
Was a great class. The funniest part was that no one noticed I was following these directions, not the ones shouted by my teacher...

Adventures in Arad and Conversations

 How are friend groups created? Why are they? Why are they so important?

View from my window at an obscenely early hour. 

These were questions that were asked quite often last weekend on a trip (a "Shabbaton") to Arad, a small city in the Negev (desert). They were brought up with good reason. Most of the students who attended the Shabbaton have been here in Israel for at least a month. The 91 attendees went to Ulpan together and have figured out Israel together. We know each other from classes, from other friends, from living on an almost deserted campus for two months before the rest of the students arrived (see: problems with the way that schools attempt to acclimate their international students). But this Shabbaton was very different from the first.
The first Shabbaton began with my and my roomies sprinting outside after waiting for a roommate who had forgotten to set her alarm. We didn't know each other well and were glad to have this shared experience to talk about. We were all exhausted, as no one had been in Israel for more than 4 days. I met so many people on that trip, completely unsure of and not at all worried about who I would eventually hang out with. A friend of mine who I was introduced to on the trip always likes to make fun of the fact that I didn't remember anything about him for the first two weeks of our occurrence. I made the mistake of telling him exactly why this is the case for most of the people that I meet in the beginning of programs - you just don't know who you are going to end up hanging out with in the end. Remembering everything about them, especially when you have asked 50 people the same questions, is difficult and sometimes silly, as you might never talk to that person again
This Shabbaton began with me meeting friends who I knew were going in front of the buses. We worried about where a few of our friends were and I gave them a call, only to be informed they had woken up late and we shouldn't let the bus leave with them. We settled easily into our seats, comfortable chatting with, sleeping next to, listening to music with the person next to us. No obligations. We know we're friends. That's enough.

Revelation.

I do not want to be a dancer.

I came to this realization this week. After spending so much time agonizing over why I am studying dance in Israel and why I am a dance major, this thought came to me in a moment of complete clarity while I was zoning out during class.

I do not want to be a dancer. I am not truly interested in the dance world. I have been privy to so many conversations here about famous choreographers, dancers and dance companies. A few months ago, I figured that I would start to get a grasp on who they were and would become really passionate about learning more about them. But I have not. Whenever I try to sit down to watch a YouTube video by some dancer the entire dance world has heard of, I get bored (it takes at least 3x the length of the video for it to load!) and wander off to do something else. I never seem to actually sit down and watch the videos.

I walk into dance class and I am glad to be there.

Blindfolded and Doesn't Speak the Language

How I found myself one day in dance class. The girl who had been translating for me was all of a sudden no where to be found. I couldn't see anything. And the teacher was speaking in Hebrew. I heard movement and knew that we were supposed to be doing something, but I had no idea what. So I cracked open my eyes and tried to watch other people.
The experience was freeing. The teacher used me to demonstrate the next part of the exercise, where a classmate would be moving us around, while speaking Hebrew. All I could understand was her touch. So I stopped listening and started concentrating on that. And the pressure of her hand on my arm became easier to understand, until we were flowing around the room, my eyes still covered.
The paradox of being in another country. Most of my time spent here is spent with students who speak English well (I have learned so much about Mexico, Canada, Germany, China). I attend academic classes spoken completely in English (except for my Hebrew class, because that would be absurd, wouldn't it?). It is only when I go to dance class (2 days a week, 6 classes) that I am reminded how out of my element I am here.
And I love it.
It is the ultimate challenge. Stick someone in a class where the primary language is movement, the secondary language is Hebrew and the tertiary one is English. See what will happen. I think I am faring much better than many of my DanceJerusalem friends. Their intense schedules did not allow them time to fit Hebrew class into their schedule, so they are not able to update their vocabulary. However, I am constantly learning new words. And in dance class, it is deliciously easy to infer the meaning of sentences as they are always accompanied by a decent amount of gesture and/or movement. It is the nonetheless still very difficult. People do actually speak English, but I am very uncomfortable with the teacher taking double the amount of time to explain things in English when I am the only student in class. It is also strange to have a student sitting next to you whispering in your ear. And is not necessarily good for their studies either.
Or take this situation. "Hi, Elisa!" "Hi!" (It is really difficult remembering people's names when they are so unfamiliar!) "How are you?" "Great!" "How are you?" "Good. Tired. (Turns to friends) MwFmawoiefljsdlkfslamfklsdfjlksajdfls hahahahahaha." What do I do? Either sit and stare at them intently as they talk trying to understand what they are saying, smile neutrally or wander away. Because regardless of how nice people are, they speak HEBREW! Even if they are not trying to leave you out of a conversation, it is inevitable. And, even when I understand, my spoken Hebrew is atrocious.
Before I came here, I promised myself that I would push myself. I would push myself to get out of the International, English-speaking bubble, to really get to know the REAL Israel. I am so glad that I am in dance classes where I do have to do so, but I am unsure how to take the next step to actually connect to my classmates. They are also 2-3 years older than me. And truly, even just being in another country is exhausting. It is no wonder that people are content to remain in whatever comfortable, homey place they carve out for themselves.

This post was inspired by the trials and tribulations of a good friend of mine. Check out his rants about falling through the cracks as an English speaker in a Hebrew school: http://carloantonio.wordpress.com/.

Stage Presence Comes from the Armpits

Also known as my first week of real school. I think this wisdom, uttered by my Contemporary Professor,  was very applicable. What can be more nerve wracking than the first week? But it is the sweat that one puts in that makes the impression! Or something like that...hahaha.

(What does this mean? What have I been doing for the last two months? September: I was in Ulpan (Hebrew Intensive) with the DanceJerusalem classes (learning choreography, taking modern and Gaga classes. October: Rothberg International School classes began (Hebrew, Hasidism, The Emergence of Biblical Israel) and DanceJerusalem classes (choreography, ballet, modern and Gaga classes).)
In Israel, classes began on October 30th. Now I am taking my Rothberg classes along with classes at the Jerusalem Academy of Music and Dance.

My week was filled with quite a few hilarious mishaps.

• Was unsure where the bus would pick me up. Instead of standing at the bus stop, I decided to stand outside the gate of the Student Village. From there I had a fabulous view of the bus passing me by...
• Assumed that the "behina" being given in class was a quiz, not a test (people here don't really distinguish). Even though I knew we were supposed to study two chapters of material. So, I didn't study very much...Boy, wasn't I surprised (although, hurrah for being a good test taker, I still got an A).   
• Tried to walk into friends' apartment (they live exactly below me). Was so embarrassed I ran up the stairs to my floor, only to realize that I had managed to wash my keys (stuck my keys in a jacket pocket, stuck jacket in laundry). Had to then walk back downstairs to ask them for asylum till my laundry was done. 
• Decided to buy a chocolate croissant. Dropped said treat. Down a flight of stairs. A nice lady in front of me picked it up and handed it to me...I waited until she couldn't see me to take a bite out of it. Yum. 

Dance is Not Comfortable

We have cycled through various choreographers during the last 2 months of the DanceJerusalem program as we prepared two different works. One is part of a piece called...by Vertigo. The other is part of Kamyot by BatSheva. This has been interesting, as we have received very different interpretations of the pieces we are in. Sometimes confusing, as this will often change the directions, but overall very enlightening.

The other day, we had a choreographer come in who was part of BatSheva for 10 years and just recently left. He was by far one of my favorite choreographers. The BatSheva piece that we are working on has often felt very peaceful. It was much easier for me to learn than the Vertigo piece because each movement is very specific and is part of a new story. However, this new choreographer refused to allow us to settle into the piece. He pushed us to go further into it, to really challenge ourselves and I LOVED it. He spoke to us as my coaches used to when I played field hockey. Usually, when we finish this piece, we are all fine, not breathing too heavily, ready to do it again and to correct what needs to be corrected. But, under his direction, we were all panting at the end of the piece. He would accept no less than this complete throwing of ourselves into the movement.

Stone Soup

"Once upon a time (“far, far away!” someone shouted), there was an old man.” So the story of Stone Soup began, told by a friend sitting next to me. “Now, this old man was poor and he was hungry. He had been wandering the countryside for a while and was hoping to happen upon some food. He found himself in a small village and began to ask the townspeople if they would be able to share a meal with him. But everyone refused, telling him how hungry they were, how they barely had enough for themselves. After being refused time and time again, the old man called everyone to the center of the village. ‘I would like to make you all a meal. It will be the best meal you have ever had! All we need is a pot of water and a stone.’ ‘A stone?!’ the villagers asked, incredulously. The old man assented, then paused: ‘But I have just remembered! This stone soup will be even more delicious with an onion.’ A villager piped up, ‘I have an onion!’ And off she went running to get her onion so she could add it to the soup. ‘What about a clove of garlic?’ someone asked. ‘Yes,  I think that would be quite good.’ The soldier responded. Soon all the villagers were hurrying off to their pantries, grabbing whatever they had, even if it was only a carrot or a sprig of parsley. They all brought their ingredients and added them to the large pot of boiling water. Soon, a wonderful, rich smell began to emanate from the pot. The village had made stone soup. It was the best and the biggest meal that they had eaten in a long time. The entire community had contributed what they had and they all came together that night to dine on stone soup.”

I found myself beaming as I listened to the story. A few weeks ago when I told my friends this story over one of our first “Stone Soup” dinners, they had never heard it before. It was a story I grew up with and was reminded of when friends and I began to cook and eat together here in Israel. Everyone contributes a little something, even if it was just a can of sweet corn or a red pepper. And suddenly we have a huge meal, always enough to feed the 12+ people who end up at dinner.

Trip Number 3: Eilat and Petra (Jordan)

Short bus ride. Long bus ride. Chug chug chugging along. Chug chug chug...what? No more chugging along? SPUTTER. Dead bus.
Our bus died about 30 minutes into the journey. We were stranded on the side of the road in a desert-y area while the driver mopped his forehead and peered at the engine. Three Bedouin women with black face veils, shimmery black tops, baseball caps and Adidas sweatpants/sneakers rode by on donkeys and waved. "We'll get there faster if we take those," my neighbor said cynically. Another bus came to the rescue and we were on our way.
At the midway point of our five hour drive, the driver hopped back in to start the bus. He tried. And tried. And looked like he was about to cry. We were laughing hysterically at this point, sure that we would have to wait for another bus to come and rescue us. Finally, the driver, his face red with the effort, got the bus to start and we were on our way.

Eilat with a view of Petra

We drove through the desert, which never stops astonishing me with its incredible vastness. Mounds and mounds of yellow sand as far as the eye can see, sprinkled with rock but otherwise completely desolate. Such a different world than the over-developed one that I am so used to.
We reached Eilat, one of the southern-most cities in Israel. Now, I was invited on this trip and agreed to go because, well, why not. I really had no idea what Eilat was like or why Petra was exciting. Until I spent a few minutes reading up on both in the last half hour of our bus ride. Eilat is mainly a tourist town. It's attractions are its beach, where there are beautiful coral reefs (hence much scuba diving) and....well, yeah, that's pretty much it.

YOU HAVE NEVER TAKEN BALLET BEFORE?!?!?!?!

Even if that isn’t exactly how he said it, underneath his perfectly trimmed eyebrows, I could tell that was what he was thinking. I had just completed my first ballet class with a renowned professor at the Jerusalem Academy of Music and Dance. Surrounded by graceful swans with long necks and light-as-feather-arms who were born with tutus attached to their hips, I galumphed through the entire hour and a half. The dance professor, an imposing man wearing what to me looked like very flexible combat boots(later I was informed that they were in fact jazz shoes), had kindly glued himself in front of me after five minutes of watching me try really, really hard to follow his instructions. With twinkling eyes, he unclenched my iron grip on the bar and commented generally “We want to barely touch the bar. After all, it is not supporting us. We simply rest our hand on it. Lightly.” Later in class he poked me in various places until I was standing with a “supported, strong ballet posture.” I felt more so that I had just been made into a very awkward shape, with my neck sticking out, my bum tucked in and my stomach sucked in determinedly. But he was pleased. So class continued, with me attempting to fake my way through the steps. After a floor portion, which I basically ended up can-canning, class was over and I approached the professor.

“Thank you for all your advice! I have never taken ballet before.”

Trip Number 1 1/2: A Mystical Path

Camera on, I enter the scene. I am wearing a full-length black dress, a black t-shirt that covers my collar bones and a sweater that covers my arms. I am fully covered. I am on my way to the Hasidic neighborhood to meet the professor of my Hasidism class. He invited his 40+ person class over to his house for tea/coffee and cake, then planned on taking us to various "tishes" (tishot? tishim?): huge, amazing, dancing celebrations of Sukkot. I, as always, have no idea where I am going. Despite the fact that I spent half an hour staring at a map of where I needed to get, then copied it down for myself, I somehow forgot to put down any street names or markers that would orient me if I diverted from the correct path. Which I did from the very beginning, when I decided that I was much smarter than the directions. A call to a friend and I was back on the right path, wandering through an Arab neighborhood to get to the Hasidic neighborhood. It was dark and only the second time I have ever wandered around Jerusalem by myself. I hadn't planned to go by myself, but I was damned if I was going to let that stop me from going on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Running through my mind: Am I less of a target because I look like a very religious Jew? Or am I more of a target? A target of what? I put on my "don't mess with me face" and walked confidently, trying not to think about how stupid I was for walking around at night by myself!

In Jerusalem, there is one glowing street sign per every street corner. Which means that it is not always on the same side of the street as you. After crossing many streets and then crossing back, I found my way into the Hasidic neighborhood. Although I was still being looked at funny, I found that I felt much more comfortable. The apartments I passed glowed with light, sukkahs built on balconies and porches were filled with music and the high-pitched babble of kids.

Life of Many Tracks

I came to Israel for many reasons. Many good reasons, in my mind. I had planned on studying abroad in India, but knew that I had little reason to go there aside from being interested in the culture and huge fan of Indian food and Bollywood movies. When I went on Birthright last January, I was incredibly intrigued by Israel. I was fascinated by the coexistence of so many different types of Jewish people in one place. I was intrigued by the passion that EVERYONE who lives here has for the land and for the politics and for the history. Jerusalem is the birthplace of the three major monotheistic religions, evident in a quick walk around the city. When I returned back to Wesleyan, I realized that I wanted to go back. I wanted to know more, to see how/if I could fit into Israel, to live in a country where you were proud of where you came from and passionate about your heritage, something that I have always felt to be lacking in the left-wing American world I grew up in. With a bit of research, I found out that Israel has become over the last two decades a hotbed for modern dance. Dance and religion together in an old, historically rich, politically complicated place that had some connection to my Jewish heritage? Really, what could be more perfect? I petitioned the   Office of International Studies to allow me to come even though I had not taken the requisite year of Hebrew, was approved, got into the program and am here today.
But I find myself constantly questioning WHY. Before I went into college, I fell absolutely in love with cultural anthropology. It shaped the way that I viewed the world while speaking to the respect and curiosity about other people and cultures that I was brought up with. I wanted to be an anthropologist. I was severely disappointed by the anthropology department at Wesleyan, but luckily fell in love with the freshness and openness of the Dance and Religion departments. There are many ways to learn about the world and I never feared the new perspectives that my two new passions would give to me.
Here, I have felt myself splitting. My interests in dance, religion and anthropology still remain. But they exist completely differently in these completely different worlds.
At Wesleyan, I can be a dancer even though I have no technical training and little knowledge of the greater dance world. I am taught to create and to think, to observe and to react. My dancing is whatever I make it and, as long as I commit wholeheartedly to that, I am accepted and supported. Likewise with the religion department. I am taught to write, to discuss, to engage with materials that I am given. But I sometimes feel I am lacking in real knowledge. At school, I am taught to be a person, and I am not forced to know anything other than my own thoughts and opinions.
In this world, maybe known as the "real world," everything is topsy-turvey. I have entered into a dance world where people came out of the womb with ballet shoes. They are technically trained and VERY aware of the dance world. They speak of Martha (Graham) and Merce (Cunningham) as though familiar with them. In fact, many of my teachers were in direct contact with many of the dance greats (something that doesn't impress me most of the time because I have yet to understand the greatness of these greats). I am often intimidated and constantly challenged by the idea that I might never catch up to my peers. But the question exists in my mind: do I want to?
I love movement, I love the human body, I love creation, I love art. This has translated easily into a love of dancing, a love of choreographing, a love of watching dance performances. But I have little real notion of where these loves will take me in the future. Normally I do not even worry about that - my "future" has always existed in fuzzy concentric circles in my head, not linearly. But here people speak of which company they want to join, who they would never work with, the ordeals of being a dancer.
I could have studied biology and run. I could have studied exercise science while doing yoga constantly. I could have taken tons of drawing and art history courses. But I am here, a dance major. A term with such different meanings at Wesleyan and in the "real world".
On the other hand, I have such strong anthropologist tendencies. A walk around Me'ah Sharim, a Hasidic neighborhood, awoke within me such a passionate curiosity about the lives and thoughts and relationships of the myriad of Hasidim living in the second oldest settlement in Jerusalem. I realized that I could be ecstatically happy if I settled in Me'ah Sharim as an anthropologist for 3 years or so and dedicated my life to learning about those people, then turning my work into an ethnography. In fact, that is EXACTLY what I feel like I have always wanted to do!
So, what do I do? It's like I have these two different tracks that my train wheels fit on so perfectly, yet they have completely diverged. How to connect them? How to not feel as though my time in the "real world" or at Wes are wasted as they are not furthering me on one track, but really taking me further and further away from the junction? How to handle this??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?
I. Have. No. Idea.

Trip Number 2: Ein Gedi, Masada and the Dead Sea

You know those moving staircases in Hogwarts Castle? That is sometimes what I feel like life is like in Israel. I do not have to decide or plan out trips I want to take, I just shove stuff in a backpack and GO!
Which is how I came to be found in my kitchen at 12:30AM, cooking all the food I had, trying to pack enough for 2 people to survive for 2 days without buying food. Potato/ginger/curry, green beans and garlic, onions/red peppers/lots of salt, tons of rice, 3 cucumbers, figs, all ready to go. At 2:30AM I went to bed.

8:45AM and I am ready to go, sleeping bag and mat borrowed, as little packed as possible as my bag is mostly full of food. On my way, in a group of 12 people to Ein Gedi, the Dead Sea and Masada. The plan is to hike in the Ein Gedi nature reserve the first day, camp overnight, hike Masada and float in the Dead Sea.









Hike we did, once we finally found the nature reserve.











The desert is BEAUTIFUL. Very dry (obviously, but it needed to be said) and so vast.

 We were hiking next to a tiny little spring that blossomed into waterfalls at various points of the hike. There were many families out, kids splashing around in the cool water. Really makes you think about the value of water. This little bit of green was so precious in the dusty landscape. I was also constantly aware of how much water I had at my disposal, as it was sloshing around heavily on my back.







Up and up and up. If you were to slip, you would slide down forever on grayish reddish rocks. The higher we went, the more amazing the view was.









We could see most of the Dead Sea and so many dunes/cliffs spread below. Barely any green, mainly yellow, and so quiet. Across from us rose more mountains of a similar style: Jordan.

We ended up camping right next to the Dead Sea. I decided not to partake in the evening swim in the Dead Sea as I was already there on Birthright. I also have been deeply scarred by middle school camping trips where I was always freezing, so I was trying my hardest to contain my warmth. This became a bit ridiculous when I had put 4 layers of clothes on and it was still about 75 degrees outside. Amazingly, it remained warm the entire night!!!! We sat around, ate junk food (because there ARE stores, albeit overpriced ones), talked, stared at the millions of stars.

On the edge of one of the Jordanian mountains, I spotted an orange glow. What could it be? The sun rising (it was about 7PM)? A bomb (wow, so negative)? No, is it? Could it really be? It is! It's the moon! As orange as the sun, it rose so quickly. The pitch black that we had experienced for about an hour was gone, as the world around us was light with the dusky white light of the moon. I watched it rise, entranced by its movement. Around me the air was warm and filled with sounds of singing (as huge family groups celebrated Sukkot with a DJ singing Israeli/Jewish songs) and the laughter of my fellows travelers as they talked and tried to dance along to the music (very difficult, as the announcer sang about 35 seconds of each song than got bored and switched). I found myself engaged in many interesting, deep conversations, than floated peacefully in my own thoughts for a while.



Eventually, it was time for bed. A friend and I spread out our sleeping bag and blanket, which we were sharing, and lay down. Above us, the sky was still alive, full of mystical clouds and stars and the moon. That beautiful Lady Moon. I felt myself more in touch with the mystical, spiritual, pagan, witchcraft part of my beliefs. After all, we are all made of stars. So I slept. Next to two friends, a wash of stars above, tons of rocks below, and us, so small, at peace, there, in that moment.
I woke to the hot pink of the sunrise. The entire campsite was waking up with the sun. The Dead Sea was sparkling tantalizingly as the sky moved from pink to peach to orange to yellow to blue. And we were off again.





Up Masada we went on the Snake Path. I have climbed Masada before, but I guess we took the easy route. My body was tired and the steps grew increasingly steep. Not to mention that it was the middle of the day and the sun was beating down on us ruthlessly! Increased my respect for ancestors who lived in the desert. Made me a bit bitter about the people whizzing over my head in the 67NIS cable car to the top.














































With many stops to admire the view (read: catch our breath), we made it to the top of the mountain and began to explore Masada, one of the oldest Roman ruin sites.












Masada was the Winter Palace of the Roman King Herod in the 3-4 centures BCE.













Later, along with the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, Jews holed themselves up in Masada, trying to stave of the siege of the Romans. They held out for a surprisingly long time, but eventually realized the Romans would capture them and make them slaves. Thus, there was a mass suicide, as the Jews would rather die than be made slaves.

Today, Masada remains an very important symbol for Israel. We witnessed a young boy being Bar Mitzvahed and were told that soldiers swear their oath of service on Masada.






We wandered in the three palaces on top of Masada, descended into a huge water cistern, marveled at the beautiful mosaics on the ground of the Western Palace. We continued to be awed by the amazing view, shouted and listened to the echo of our voices as they bounced among the mountains, were astonished at the fact that a palace on top of a mountain had so many baths and ritual cleansing spaces.

It sure was hot! We made our way back down, hopped on a sherut and made it back to Israel by about three. Covered in dust, coming home to little or no food in my pantry, sleep deprived, I realized how lucky I am to be able to travel like this. I can experience so much and end up back in a familiar place. I get to sleep in my bed, cook, take a shower and then go out and do it all again. Why can't all traveling be like this?!

Elisa's Travel Tip: Do not travel in a group of 12 people. It is too many. To fully experience a place and the people, traveling with up to 2 people seems like the best idea. Unless the group you are with is comfortable splitting up. 

Elisa's Travel Tip: Travel with people you know you like. Because when you get tired and cranky, you will hate even the people you like. If the people you are with get on your nerves normally, it will be more difficult!

Waking Up in Israel: The Return of Gilad Shalit and 1,000 Prisoners

(Written while listening to Katy Perry's "Waking Up In Vegas")

Generally, I wake up with the sunrise. To the sound of the muezzin's call to prayer, a beautifully eery song echoing throughout Jerusalem. Sometimes I wake up to the crowing of a rooster. Sometimes to the banging around of my roommates in the kitchen.

This morning I awoke to the sounds of firecrackers, fireworks, sirens and helicopters. It is the day that Gilad Shalit, an Israeli soldier who has been held captive, will be released after 5 years in captivity, held by Hamas. In exchange, Israel has/will free 1,000 prisoners. Today, 477 of them will be freed.

Let me tell you, it is INCREDIBLY unnerving to be woken up by fireworks. To look out the window and to see an IDF patrolling balloon thing in the air. To hear parades of cars honking and people shouting: everyone is celebrating.

But everyone is celebrating something different and I cannot help but feel nervous. Many of the prisoners being released in exchange for Gilad helped mastermind suicide bombings and terrorist attacks on Israel. Most of them were foiled, resulting in their capture. But they are being returned TO Israel (although some of them have been expelled to Egypt). Wherever their final destination, their reincorporation into Hamas and/or Fatah seems only imminent.

I am a complete humanist. I am so excited that all these people are being freed, that they are returning to their families after years spent in a horrible, suffocating cell. How amazing it must feel to finally see the sun, feel the wind on your face. I cannot imagine how amazing it must be. There are celebrations taking place everywhere, people speaking, tons of people amassed to greet those who have been freed. I can actually hear joyful shouting and singing from my window.

But all of it makes me incredibly nervous. I live in East Jerusalem, so the people who are celebrating are/were Palestinian. I live in a Kfar of Hebrew University, so those who are celebrating on campus are Israeli/Israeli supporters. It creates so many questions in my mind. Of course everyone deserves to be celebrating. But they are celebrating such different things! What will come of it all?!?!? More deaths, more abductions?

How to be a spectacle in Israel

Be female: You know how you are always taught that staring is rude? Here, staring is constant. Sometimes accompanied by honks, lewd gestures and shouts.

Be female and from America: More of a problem for blonde, blue-eyed white women. People here do not seem to know what to think of me. They all seem to know I have some kind of African heritage (as I have been told this on several occasions. Although here it does not feel insulting.) But I still stand out.

Be female and go running: Because that is what I have been doing since I was 12, so why should I not do it here (oops, where is my anthropologist mentality????). I have found that having my iPod playing helps. It allows to me ignore any comments made and to run almost blissfully.

Be female and go running in purple shorts and a sports jersey: In the US, these shorts are considered "basketball shorts" meaning that they are long and baggy. Much longer than what most women wear to run around a park. Here, they are very, VERY short.

Be female, go running in odd clothes, and do it all on Shabbat: When everyone is decked out in their Shabbat finest, its super fun to cruise around them, sweating and panting like a mad woman.

Do all of the above and then sit down: When I did this, because sitting down is always part of my runs, a man stopped to chat with me. Now, I am generally pretty friendly, so I chatted back. He offered me some chocolate-filled Bomba (basically peanut butter cheetos), talked to me about my running shoes, told me how much he runs, made me guess his age (58), guessed mine, told me about his time as a soldier fighting in the Yom Kippur War, began crying as he explained that 25 soldiers in his unit (?) died, told me that Gilad Shalit's return was only temporary, talked to quite a few people passing by, explained to me that they thought I was his girlfriend, asked about my family history, told me he had seen Roots (in order to relate to my Dad being African American), told me about his family from Kurdistan, told me all Kurds are very strong, invited me to a Kurdistan party in the park tomorrow if I was still in town. He then got distracted when a girl from France came up and asked us for help with her credit card. It really was quite a fun conversation, although I didn't understand half of it as the man was switching back and forth from Hebrew to English quite liberally while crying and conversing with people who walked by. It didn't feel as creepy as it sounds, it was more like talking to an old family friend. A bit strange, but interesting!

Do all of the above and walk: When you are running, no one bothers you because, by the time they have thought about it, you are gone. But, if you start walking, people tend to talk to you. Like a Muslim high school girl who stopped me and asked me questions in Arabic while I wore my stupid American "HELP" face and begged "Anglit, anglit?" over and over again. I was obviously the butt of a joke.

So, all this begs the question: do I continue to run? Do I keep some habits that are more normal when you are NOT in Jerusalem, surrounded by very devout people? Do I stop running? I'm not really sure.

Being a Moral Tourist

"I just saw that guy rob 2 vending machines. I think that entire bag is full of money he stole from them! What do I do? I did nothing! UGH. I hate morals."
"Actually, it seems like you like them a lot." -Conversation between me and a friend on the way back from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem.

My definition of a tourist: 
Bad tourist: Obnoxious, feels as though every experience is their prerogative, thinks of everything as a novelty. Interested only in their experience at that moment.
Good tourist: Respectful, humble about their position wherever they are. Interested in the history, politics, religion, culture of where they are. Attempt to understand that what they are experiencing as new is normal to many people.

My thoughts on being a moral tourist:

• Having a huge camera hanging around your neck is not what makes you look like a tourist. It is what you are taking pictures of. 
• First of all, no one wants to have you photographing their children. My Mom used to yell at anyone who tried to take pictures of me when I was little. Unless you ask permission from someone, taking pictures of them as though they are a novelty is rude and callous.
• If you point at everything and oo and ahh, you are marked forever as a tourist. 
• Being mindful of the way that you dress is important. Most likely, you will never completely fit in wherever you are. American casual and Israeli casual involve completely different colors, styles and gender norms. But that does not mean you cannot try. 
• Attempt to speak the language. In Israel, many people know at least a bit of English. Some are insistent on practicing their English with you. But most are happy to help you practice and grateful that you try, instead of just assuming that the world caters to you as an English-speaker. This also helps when living in an international community: here, Hebrew is sometimes the bridge in communicating with people from France, Germany etc. when English cannot supply the word. 
• Be aware of noise level. We Americans are VERY loud. As young Americans, we are even louder. As young Americans traveling in large groups EVERYWHERE, we are REALLY loud. There is no better way to attract attention to yourself than when you are pointing at everything, flashing pictures, and shouting above each other. Especially as, in Israel, even the loudest of conversations seem a bit quieter in comparison. 
• Asking questions is fabulous. Ask everyone. Today, I had a great conversation with a taxi driver. For me, as a prideful person, it can often be difficult to ask about things that I know are normal for Israelis, but it seems that most people do not think they are silly questions. (By the way, the taxi driver's favorite place in Israel is Tiberias, in the North. He grew up around the Mount of Olives and he often works on Shabbat, even though he is Jewish.)
• THINK about where you are. I feel that I am so aware of the differences in culture here because I am constantly observing and talking about them. How, at the beach, I made the mistake of thinking many guys were women because they had long hair, wore flowing pants and cut off t-shirts. Bringing my own attention to this in conversation with a friend helped me to question why that would be a typically female outfit in America. 

I thought about the implications of tourism a lot on a trip to Meah Sharim, a Hasidic neighborhood I ventured into with some friends to observe Shabbat preparations. Living in Jerusalem is constantly introducing me to different looking people, celebrations, cultural aspects etc. I have observed many of my peers rushing greedily to capture all that they can. I have worked very hard on absorbing as much as I can with understanding from all sides. Thus, I try to not only see, but to think about what I am seeing, why I am seeing it, what it would be like to see it from the other side and what it would be like to see me from the other side. This is a fabulous asset and makes me feel that I am much more aware of myself and my surroundings.
Thus, I have very few pictures of many amazing experiences like that. But I have my words and I can describe. Not walking around snapping pictures of everything also helps me to blend in a little bit more, helps me to remember that what is foreign for me is normal for everyone who lives here. I am in fact out of place! More and more, it helps me to feel like I am living here instead of just capturing moments for my scrapbook.

(A big thanks to my Cultural Anthropology training for all this mindfulness. Changed my life!)

Trip Number 1: Trip to Tel Aviv

You might ask yourself, as I often do, whether or not I ever attend school. At the moment, it doesn't really feel like I do! I had a week off for Rosh Hashana break (went to Tel Aviv and the Mt. of Olives), had about a week and a half of school and now I have 2 weeks off for Sukkot break. This is fabulous (although made that small amount of in-school time very difficult to focus on!).
I, as a poor college student without a job and in another country, decided that I would try to stay in my apartment for most of the break. I would take a few day trips, but would try to sleep in my own bed and eat food that I had cooked. That was how break started...
Day 1: Woke up. Made a big brunch. Went back to bed. Woke up. Made a huge dinner.
Day 2: Woke up. Went to Meah Sharim, a Hasidic neighborhood, to observe preparations for Sukkot. Most people had departed to different corners of Israel at this point and I realized that I was VERY antsy. I wanted to go somewhere to!!!!!!!







Day 3: At 9:00AM, I find myself zooming perilously down the highway to Tel Aviv.







We arrive and start looking for a hostel. The first place we went to was...well, scary to say the least. In fact, I'm not sure it was hostel. There was just a lonnngggg dark hallway with ominous looking doorways and a lot of trash on the ground. We hustled out of there as fast as we could. The next place we went to looked a little bit less sketchy. A friend jumped to pull the bell, which was placed at about 7 feet in the air, and we were buzzed up.

Full of young people. "Chill"
is a good word. Made me feel like
I was back at school!!

"Heeyyyyy, you all must be the people from Costa Rica," a man who was obviously very hungover said while high-fiving us. "No," we responded. "We just want a room." We were offered a bed on the roof for 60 shekels (a bit less than $20). We agreed.

"What a strange place," I kept saying. The chic, young
and artsy mixed with what were basically shanty-towns.

No one was out, as it was the first day of Sukkot. 

Off we went to the beach, snacking on pita and hummus that one of our savvy traveler friends had packed in his bag. The Mediterranean was soooo blue and sooo beautiful. Everyone was out, as it was the first day of Sukkot and most of the shops were closed. People were barbecuing and flying kites and swimming: it was LOVELY. My friends were actually given a huge amount of BBQ as we were walking along by a very kind family. Good feeling was all around! 










We found a spot on the beach and jumped into the water. Only to find that this section of the beach was much less clean than the last one we were at. We were surrounded by floaty things that ranged from plastic bags, seaweed and discarded hats to other objects which were less easily identifiable. It had been a long day (HAHA) and a nap was in order.

A friend and I stretched out, him to read and me to sleep, although I quickly fell asleep, while our other two friends continued to frolic in the waves. They then began to build an epic sandcastle while simultaneously digging two very deep holes that they could stand in, making it look like they had lost their legs. When I woke up to this sight, I was very confused, haha.

Jaffa port at sundown. 

After three hours on the beach, we decided to search for food. We headed in the direction of Old Jaffa. When I came here for Birthright in January, Jaffa was my favorite place in Israel. It was the place I claimed I wanted to live if I ever settled in Israel. I wasn't sure why then and I have no idea now, but Jaffa is still my favorite place in Israel. It is beautiful and homey feeling.

Sigh. No words. 

Kiortush and a cappuccino.

We found a store called "Kiortush" and sat down for a coffee. The people at the neighboring table ordered this amazing pastry-thing and we decided that it was a necessary part of our experience to order one as well. We ordered a kiortush with halva (sweet sesame seed paste) in between the layers of the dough, caramel and toasted almonds on the outside. It. Was. Amazing.






Our destiny was Dr. Shakshuka. Shakshuka is basically two sunny-side up eggs in spicy tomato sauce. Lucky for me, unless specified, it is ALWAYS vegetarian. We were told this was the best shakshuka ever, so we decided to wander around Jaffa until it was time to eat.


We found the port and caught the end of the sunset. It was so beautiful, it took my breath away.

The view of Tel Aviv from the Jaffa Port area. 

So many families, of all different colors and sizes, were out, wandering around. There was beautiful art on the walls (some may call it graffiti, but I don't. This seems to exist all over Tel Aviv. There is a plethora of purple eggplants, bandaids, the word "sperm," different monster-like creatures and very inspirational, matter-of-fact statements sprayed onto the sides of so many buildings). We took picture after picture, reveling in being tourists, until we finally found our way back to Dr. Shakshuka. And ate and ate and ate.




Afterwards, what else could we do but eat some more? So we went to get frozen yogurt/gelato (I'm not sure what it was, as it was claimed to have both). The flavors ranged from the basic (chocolate, vanilla) to the unique (Werther's candy, nutella, ferro roche). I got Snickers and caramel.
Had we eaten enough? Yes. We wandered around for a bit. Entire streets were taken up by candle-lit tables at little restaurants. It was so gorgeous and, well, romantic. Eventually, we ventured back to our hostel, to change and rest, with plans of going out in the evening. We ended up just sitting around, looking at the stars and talking. I ordered my first beer, drank 1/8th of it and gave it away. I really don't like beer. Slowly, we got sleepier and sleepier, till we were tucked on our respect sofas/hammocks.
A midnight revelation: I was, for the first time, celebrating Sukkot. Sukkot was the first real Jewish holiday I celebrated with my family. It is a very pagan celebration of the harvest. You construct a temporary building (with various requirements, of course. One is that you must be able to see the stars) and put decorations of fall fruits around it. And here I was, with a see-through tarp over my head and the moon right above me. Beautiful.
I woke up to a blue, blue sky. We decided we needed another kiortush before we left. The man who was working yesterday was tickled to see us. "This is the best thing you ate here, yes?" YES, I told him.

We then wandered around the area, where there were tons of antiques and various other items being sold in the street. I bought a pair of very flowy, genie-like pants which are in very vogue here. I then bargained (kind of) for a bunch of bangles. Check one on my bucket list: bargain! It was fun. We Americans are so reserved: it is hard to bargain!!!! But, the shop owner obviously was having a blast, enjoying our discomfort. "It is Shabbat, I just want to go home. You want for 200NIS? No, 350NIS. Here, you take. I just want to go home!" was his running monologue as my friend tried to buy a large tapestry (amusingly, we had just watched him fill in the pattern on another tapestry with a cheap felt tip pen). When we left, he smiled at us and shook our hands, wishing us happy holidays. He then pinched my cheek and told me I was so beautiful in a very grandfatherly way.
It was then time to split up. A friend and I were going to a dance performance (The Project) at the Tel Aviv Opera House, while our other friends were planning on wandering around.
After the performance, we grabbed huge slices of pizza (we hadn't eaten anything for hours! GASP!). Hopped on a bus and were headed home to Tel Aviv. We actually knew how to get back this time and our way around Tel Aviv! We still walked around a ton, but it was all in good fun. Got off the bus, very groggy, bargained down a taxi driver and ended up back in my apartment. Great adventure.  Bring on the next one!

Turns out I live in the shuk + some meal math

Turns out I live in the shuk. Whenever I have free time, I seem to be in the shuk. Tonight we went to the shuk to party. My life revolves around the shuk. 

French Hill, where I live. 

 Some meal math: 

The shuk!  

Dinner begins with 1. 

1 conversation about food and moves 2 quickly to 3 people in the kitchen. 

4 dinner tonight we have 5 pots on the 4 burner stove and 6 people who are actually in the kitchen. 

7 people are sitting around, drinking wine and eating appetizers, they can’t wait till they have 8. 

9 extra dishes are needed and 10 extra utensils. 

Want some cheap cereal? Just be sure to check the expiration date.
Sometimes it expires in a month. Sometimes it expired
3 months ago! 

With 11 people, I begin to worry that there isn’t enough food and we are up to 6 dishes on the table, a number that is still increasing. 

12 was the first big dinner, but now it seems we have skipped to 15, 17, 20 people.

The birds love this store. They had just flown away when
I took this picture.

 5 people sitting on the floor, 9 people on chairs and couches, 8 dishes. 

6 people have wandered in randomly and are invited to stay.

Spices and spices and spices galore. 

 4 people clean up, 2 dishes are set out for dessert, 3 hours have passed since we begun. 

One of the few women who works at the shuk. 

Everyone is full, everyone is smiling, everyone is talking or just being. 

1 dinner = Me + a roommate, or maybe 2 + 4 people from another apartment + 2 people who live below us + 3 people who live above us + 1 person who lives next to us + some random people who seem to have a sixth sense and only ever show up when we are cooking food + 1 person from my class + a roommate’s friend = a normal amount of people for dinner any given night of the week.

On the menu this week?

Yesterday: Scallion pancakes, sweet and sour soup, rice noodles, sweet rice balls with a peanut sauce, tapioca pudding, bruschetta and pita, guacamole and chips, mashed potatoes with garlic and cheese, white rice, stir-fried broccoli, white wine, red wine, plum wine, cookie dough/cookies

Tonight: improvised curry made with left over coconut milk and so many veggies, scallion pancakes, left over rice, tapioca pudding, no-bake peach crumble, Israeli salad, leftover chili, leftover squash, potatoes and olive dish, broccoli and bean sprout dish.

Tomorrow for brunch: yogurt, fruit, pancakes, French toast (with nutella?), a frittata

My mantras: There can never be enough people. There can never be enough food. No, you don’t have to bring anything! (Just do the dishes later…) Stone soup (everyone contributes something at some point and we get to eat a wider variety of things and more things). Dynamics are important: if someone doesn't fit in well with the 12 or so normal people, well, that's all, bye-bye!

Nuts and dried fruit

I thrive in this setting, with so many people stopping in and eating and the chaos and the way that, in the end, everything always works out, and everyone is always so much happier after a good meal and good, leisurely time with friends. This is how life should be, yes? 

OF COURSE YES! 

Canddddyyyyyyyy

Don't know how I managed to miss taking a picture of the pastry stores.
Next time. Muhahahahaha.