It was only 4 and a half months ago that I boarded a sherut; tired, confused, excited for my new adventure. The sherut driver shouted at me in Hebrew and amiable Yeshiva boys translated for me. A religious woman laughed when he addressed me and explained that he had addressed me as one would a married woman, based on the assumption that the bright bandana I had donned to cover my dirty, frizzy hair actually was an indication that I was married.
Now I sit in the airport again, experiencing very different emotions. I know to where I am returning, to the loving arms that I will get to run into sooner than I can imagine. My adventure has been had, a new place explored. Out of it, I have emerged someone changed, maybe wiser, certainly with eyes much more open to the world and all it has to teach me. What I do not know is how I will, as I am now, fit back into my two homes. Will I? It is a question that has kept me up at night.
I am wearing about eight layers of clothing. Although I threw away many ripped and stained clothes, I filled my bag with presents for friends and family. Thus, I had to don whatever I couldn't fit into my time-worn duffle bag. I dread the ripping sound that greets me whenever I try to pick it up. My arms are already beginning to feel jelly-like from lifting two very heavy bags onto my back.
I have not slept since last night. I am trying desperately not to miss my communal bed and the constant companionship of my chums, a two week lifestyle born from the desperation that comes with the realization that an era is about to end and one cannot stop it. So, we soaked in every second of it that we could, pushing our mattresses together every night, eating meals together, just being together. The silence around me is strange. It lacks the laughter and constant springy energy of my friends. "Who am I when no one else is around?"
I was all packed early this afternoon. I scoured my room and my space in the kitchen and began to stick the rest of the clutter into my bags. Maintenance locked me out of my room and I bolted from my apartment, which has not felt like home for two weeks. I wandered the city by myself, something I rarely did. I bought a keepsake, a Jerusalem bagel and some freshly squeezed apple juice (so excited about being able to ask for the juice in a full sentence, I said tapuhim instead of tapuzim, the critical difference between apple and orange. I suppose it was worth it to get to show off my ability to make the throat-gargly het sound). Took a random bus home and was jumped by my friends. We finished a movie, got my last falafel and went to see a dance performance. Went out to a bar, ate a huge dessert and ended up back at home. Waiting. Everyone was waiting.
I had been panicking all night. All week, really. But the constant presence of people was a fabulous distraction. It is difficult to mourn the absence of people who are right next to you and keep distracting you from whatever you are doing. But tonight felt chaotic. New dancers had arrived and were following us, looking wide-eyed and unsure of themselves in the new environment. I wanted to be friendly, to introduce myself, but I knew it didn't matter. I was leaving and they were beginning a new life. The evening was peppered with hugs, sad looks and "don't go's". It was only in moments of silence that I felt tears springing to my eyes. My face felt heavy with the weight of the uncried tears, the deep sighs, the future "good byes". And still we waited.
My friends fell asleep on the couch while waiting. Things were drawn in my journal, my collection of notes written by everyone to help me remember, half-hearted jokes were told. We drank hot chocolate and the silences grew. One by one, goodbyes were said as I ushered people to bed. Abruptly, I was informed that I was 10 minutes late for the shuttle. I grabbed everything and was hustled onto the sherut with only a quick hug and kiss from friends. The waiting was disrupted, ended abruptly.
And now I sit here, rather confused. How is it that I could have been sitting on a bed, hugging a friend who I will definitely not see for at least 6 months only a few hours ago? How is it that soon I will be worlds apart from people with whom I have created a life with? What my body grasps, my mind does not yet understand.
My sherut trip was characterized by the smells of wine and cheese, brought on board by a very drunk man and a very large Haredi man. At some point, the sherut was pulled over to the side of the road while everyone tried to figure out how to get everybody to sit down without putting a woman next to a Haredi man. A typical Israel puzzle.
The airport wait was long, silly questions were asked. "When did you first learn Hebrew. From where? What was the name of your synagogue? What is the origin of your last name? Who did you go to Petra with? What were their names?" A friend and I found hilarity in the absurdity.
And now I sit and wait. By myself. Surrounded by a pile of too much stuff, the remnants of my life that I have dragged from corner to corner of this planet. My bag is ripping, my clothes haven't been washed in two weeks and my shoulders are red from carrying all my belongings. Soon, my computer will run out of battery and I will be disconnected. I will board the plane and be disconnected in another way, lifted off this land, flown away from my friends, my family. It is 6:21 in the morning and I have not slept. I am tired and disenchanted with crying in the airport. I wish for a compromise.
Three friends went camping. One decided to leave the trip early to go spend time with family in a nearby town. When another group of friends joined the two that were left, they decided to only tell the group that the friend was collecting firewood. Hours passed, it got dark, and he still had not returned. Still, they were told that he had gone to collect firewood, probably from far away, and had taken all his stuff with him. When the group began to actually grow concerned, they were told the truth. Yet they still didn't believe it! He would be back soon, they insisted, carrying lots of firewood.
And so, there is an unspoken rule not to talk about leaving. I am only going to collect firewood. Bapom abba, lehitraot (until the next time, see you later).
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