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...
Monday, November 28, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
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?!
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.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
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...
"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?
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.
 |
| 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.
Friday, November 18, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
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/.
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/.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)