So, we're entering into the last day of Passover in just a few short hours. This week has been full of new and great experiences, and I can't wait to share pictures and stories from my first Passover as an Israeli. However, I'm going to wait until after tomorrow night when I go to my first Mimuna with all of my best friends. It's supposed to be the best way to break the Pesach fast full of desserts and treats that we couldn't eat this whole week. Can't wait to share with y'all more about this cool Moroccan tradition.
In the meantime, I'm working on a blog post series that will individually showcase each one of my talented and beautiful friends here. I hope you'll enjoy it. This first one is a real special musical treat. Coming to you about 1am Israel time/5pm Arkansas time TODAY!
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Monday, March 25, 2013
My First Pesach as an Israeli
Each time there is a holiday (and admittedly, we Jews have A LOT), it's the coolest thing to be thinking, "Wow, my first [insert holiday here] in Israel!" Channukah was special, and every day gave me something else to be thankful for. Tu B'Shvat was sweet, and I got to plant trees in MY gorgeous city of Be'er Sheva with my friends from Ulpan. Purim was hystical and produced the picture of "The Gang" that you see to the right of my page. Pesach, or Passover, has really been an entire ordeal, and it hasn't even started. T-minus about an hour before we officially begin celebrating here, but let me tell you what I've experienced for the past few weeks...
Right before my birthday at the beginning of March, there started to be a buzz about "Passover is coming." I knew I'd eventually get into the swing of things, like everyone else, with the cleaning craze. I had huge plans to clean and purge, since (I know this is nuts) I had already acquired things that I really didn't need in the 5 short months I've been here. Suffice it to say that I started the entire apartment cleaning project two weeks ago, and I only finished 30 minutes ago. BUT my apartment is now cleaner than it has probably ever been, I'm free from clutter, and I really do feel ready for Pesach.
Now, like a smarty pants, I waited for today to go and buy groceries for my apartment that are Kosher for Passover, and I was warned by many friends of how stupid an idea this was. What to do? I started my job yesterday and literally didn't have any time other than today.
I had a kind of cool experience on the way there. As I left my apartment, I smelled burnt toast in the air, and I realized that people were burning their chametz (anything with a leavening agent or product in it that is forbidden to eat over Passover). Kind of a cool tradition, although I didn't do this, as Pepper and I ate all that we had left. Here's a picture I took to try and give you an idea:
Even cooler, I saw various other smoke columns rising around the neighborhood, and it kind of felt like I was inside a toaster with the permeating smell. Goodbye, bread.
I finally arrived to the supermarket. As I hesitantly entered the store, just bracing for an explosion of people and chaos, I found that it was actually really calm and not at all full. Therefore, I was able to peruse all the goodies I needed calmly. Suddenly, I noticed that the bread aisle was covered in thick white plastic and taped off. As was the bakery. If you're not aware, we don't eat bread products during Passover (that chametz stuff again). This was really a powerful experience for me, and I got chills because it hit me (as it often does) that I'm finally living in a Jewish place. How special. I wandered through the store and saw other areas sealed off, and everything just felt surreal. Now, we can debate the legitimacy of this later, as I've already had the debate today of "Well, I don't keep Kosher during Passover, so why should I have to suffer and have a hard time buying bread?" Send me an email, if you're so inclined.
Many of you know that I am a huge fan of beer, so as I turned onto the drinks aisle, I was overwhelmed to see the entire beer and liquor section also sealed off. Of course, I knew that I wouldn't be drinking that lovely, foamy, beer-y goodness for the next week, but to have it shoved in my face was a bit cruel. I also took a picture of this moment...perhaps a picture of my face would've been funnier:
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Right before my birthday at the beginning of March, there started to be a buzz about "Passover is coming." I knew I'd eventually get into the swing of things, like everyone else, with the cleaning craze. I had huge plans to clean and purge, since (I know this is nuts) I had already acquired things that I really didn't need in the 5 short months I've been here. Suffice it to say that I started the entire apartment cleaning project two weeks ago, and I only finished 30 minutes ago. BUT my apartment is now cleaner than it has probably ever been, I'm free from clutter, and I really do feel ready for Pesach.
Now, like a smarty pants, I waited for today to go and buy groceries for my apartment that are Kosher for Passover, and I was warned by many friends of how stupid an idea this was. What to do? I started my job yesterday and literally didn't have any time other than today.
I had a kind of cool experience on the way there. As I left my apartment, I smelled burnt toast in the air, and I realized that people were burning their chametz (anything with a leavening agent or product in it that is forbidden to eat over Passover). Kind of a cool tradition, although I didn't do this, as Pepper and I ate all that we had left. Here's a picture I took to try and give you an idea:
That smoldering pile in the middle of the ground is all the delicious bread that we can't eat for the next week. Cool and sad all at once.
Even cooler, I saw various other smoke columns rising around the neighborhood, and it kind of felt like I was inside a toaster with the permeating smell. Goodbye, bread.
I finally arrived to the supermarket. As I hesitantly entered the store, just bracing for an explosion of people and chaos, I found that it was actually really calm and not at all full. Therefore, I was able to peruse all the goodies I needed calmly. Suddenly, I noticed that the bread aisle was covered in thick white plastic and taped off. As was the bakery. If you're not aware, we don't eat bread products during Passover (that chametz stuff again). This was really a powerful experience for me, and I got chills because it hit me (as it often does) that I'm finally living in a Jewish place. How special. I wandered through the store and saw other areas sealed off, and everything just felt surreal. Now, we can debate the legitimacy of this later, as I've already had the debate today of "Well, I don't keep Kosher during Passover, so why should I have to suffer and have a hard time buying bread?" Send me an email, if you're so inclined.
Many of you know that I am a huge fan of beer, so as I turned onto the drinks aisle, I was overwhelmed to see the entire beer and liquor section also sealed off. Of course, I knew that I wouldn't be drinking that lovely, foamy, beer-y goodness for the next week, but to have it shoved in my face was a bit cruel. I also took a picture of this moment...perhaps a picture of my face would've been funnier:
My tears of mourning aren't quite enough to quench my beer thirst.
And so, here we are, the sun is setting on an absolutely lovely day, there is this thick aroma of delicious food floating through the air in the neighborhood, and I can just feel the holiday buzz all around me. I'm going to go enjoy my first Israeli Passover seder (traditional meal where the story of the Exodus from Egypt is told) with my wonderful, adopted Moroccan family. Sadly, no pictures tonight because we're going to a religious house, but tomorrow, I'll be sure to document the massive food consumption fully for y'all. Chag Pesach Sameach v'Kasher! Happy and Kosher Passover!
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Some Visuals
I took this picture the last night of the war as the rockets and sirens continued. Up to the last minute, friends.
Me, Merv, and the dogs waiting out the sirens. We were trying to laugh, but we both got really close to crying after this was taken.
The beautiful and peaceful sky after the "storm." Nice way to start the first normal week after the war.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Perhaps Y'all Want to Hear the End of "The War Saga"?
I was reading back over my posts, and I can't believe I never finished the war story! So, for your reading pleasure, while I'm enjoying my last beer before Passover begins, here you have "The War Saga: The Final Days."
We left off with me in the center of Israel with my friend Liran and his family. Artur, the person who I can easily say is my best friend here, unfortunately had a birthday in the midst of this mess, so I planned to travel from Modi'in to north of Tel Aviv in order to celebrate. Another close friend, Noam, was also coming, and he and I planned to meet at one of the train stops. I saw him running down the escalator towards me, and I started jumping up and down like a maniac, because being separated from those who are your security and your life during such a tragic time is just painful. On the way to meet Artur, my Facebook exploded because one of the main news agencies in Israel had interviewed me earlier in the day, and the reporter had just published this story (you will have to Google Translate it). It basically dealt with how sad and poor I was, being a new immigrant to the South and having to learn words such as "safe room," "red alert," and "siren" from the beginning. It was, for sure, a sweet story, so please check it out.
When we met Artur, it was like 14901784931 teenage girls screaming and squealing at each other. It was such a relief to wrap my arms around my closest friends and to know that they were safe and that we were together, even in the middle of this mess. We went to a fancy shmancy Italian restaurant for dinner and made a schuna (neighborhood...or we made a scene, for my English speaking readers), laughing and singing and drinking and doing everything we could to forget what was going on. The manager gave us a 20% discount on the meal because we were poor "Southern refugees," and when a group of customers complained about our noise, the waiter said, "Don't mind them - they're from Be'er Sheva," which seemed to fix the entire problem. What. A. Night. It was much needed, for sure.
Fast forward to the following evening. After an extra-intense day of rocket fire on Be'er Sheva, Artur and I debated whether we should actually go through with our plan of returning or not for his birthday party. His family said no, our friends said no, but in the end, we said yes basically because we wanted to be home and to feel some sort of normalcy. He picked me and the puggers up from the train station, and we began our journey down south, eating chocolate and listening to good music and laughing. Suddenly, we saw what looked like fireworks in the sky, and there was a very pregnant pause before I said, "Those were rockets." He quickly tried to tell me that they weren't and that everything was okay, but we both knew better. I got on the net to see if someone had reported where the rockets hit because we were in the middle of the desert at this point with no real clue of where they were. He calmly said, "I don't want to scare you, but while you were looking at the phone, there were three more rockets..." I then asked him if we could still be friends if I vomited in his car.
The music went silent, the windows went down, and we both stopped laughing and talking, now carefully listening for sirens from a nearby city so we could get out of the car and take cover, if necessary. The stark contrast from the start of our trip was deafening. We soon also got stuck in a traffic jam, which even had cool-calm-and-collected Artur nervous because, frankly, being stuck at a standstill on a highway in a war zone is not safe. We got to the cause of the traffic jam, which was on my side of the car, and I gasped at what I saw - the remains of a rocket in the middle of the road. Again, Artur chimed in with "it was a car accident" but with the military and police vehicles all around the scene, we both knew it wasn't a car accident. The last 30 minutes to Be'er Sheva were intense, and I felt like crying and getting sick all at once. The feeling of relief once we arrived in the city and were again sheltered by the Iron Dome was indescribable. Artur dropped me at my house, and I swear, I held my breath until I knew he was home, but thankfully, no sirens sounded.
I made pizza that night for Artur's birthday party, but I've never been more detached from a situation or from people in my life. I watched the TV, and I checked my phone, and I don't really remember what happened at the party. Artur sweetly took me and our other amazing friend, Meirav, back to her house, where I planned to stay until the end of this mess. She didn't have a safe room, but to me, being around human beings was much more important than having reinforced walls. She and her boyfriend went to work the next morning, leaving me with Pepper and her dogs during a few different rounds of sirens. I still remember the feeling of jumping straight up from her couch, grabbing Pepper, and calling her dogs into her "safe space" while the sirens blared. When she did return home, we tried to sit and have coffee together which was rudely interrupted many times with sirens. As was the cooking of dinner. We sat in her hallway with our dogs saying the "Shema" prayer just out of fear for our lives. This continued for a couple of days, and we watched in horror as a bus in Tel Aviv was blown up by a terrorist, and all I could think of was, "How does someone survive during an intifada (the time when terror attacks are prevalent and personal)?" Magically, a ceasefire was announced for 9PM on a Thursday, a week and a day after this whole mess started. Meirav and I impatiently waited for 9PM to come, and I kid you not, at 8:59PM exactly, the last long round of sirens went off as Hamas tried to get in one last, massive attack. I saw on the TV as it was written in Hebrew, "Ceasefire in affect" as it read underneath, "Alarms sound in Be'er Sheva." I could go into the mentality and politics of this whole thing, but I'll save it for another post. Suffice it to say that none of us really slept soundly that night because no one trusted a ceasefire would actually hold.
And that's where we are today. Not trusting that this ceasefire will hold and knowing that at any moment, our lives can come to a halt again by a rocket attack. I still find myself waking up, listening for sirens, or I find myself searching out where I'll run to if I'm outside and a siren sounds. It's something that will never leave you. Which, I guess, is a good thing, because we have to be prepared for anything here. So, now you have the full story of living through a war. May the following posts be humorous and light-hearted, although no about more dates. Until next time, my dear friends.
We left off with me in the center of Israel with my friend Liran and his family. Artur, the person who I can easily say is my best friend here, unfortunately had a birthday in the midst of this mess, so I planned to travel from Modi'in to north of Tel Aviv in order to celebrate. Another close friend, Noam, was also coming, and he and I planned to meet at one of the train stops. I saw him running down the escalator towards me, and I started jumping up and down like a maniac, because being separated from those who are your security and your life during such a tragic time is just painful. On the way to meet Artur, my Facebook exploded because one of the main news agencies in Israel had interviewed me earlier in the day, and the reporter had just published this story (you will have to Google Translate it). It basically dealt with how sad and poor I was, being a new immigrant to the South and having to learn words such as "safe room," "red alert," and "siren" from the beginning. It was, for sure, a sweet story, so please check it out.
When we met Artur, it was like 14901784931 teenage girls screaming and squealing at each other. It was such a relief to wrap my arms around my closest friends and to know that they were safe and that we were together, even in the middle of this mess. We went to a fancy shmancy Italian restaurant for dinner and made a schuna (neighborhood...or we made a scene, for my English speaking readers), laughing and singing and drinking and doing everything we could to forget what was going on. The manager gave us a 20% discount on the meal because we were poor "Southern refugees," and when a group of customers complained about our noise, the waiter said, "Don't mind them - they're from Be'er Sheva," which seemed to fix the entire problem. What. A. Night. It was much needed, for sure.
Fast forward to the following evening. After an extra-intense day of rocket fire on Be'er Sheva, Artur and I debated whether we should actually go through with our plan of returning or not for his birthday party. His family said no, our friends said no, but in the end, we said yes basically because we wanted to be home and to feel some sort of normalcy. He picked me and the puggers up from the train station, and we began our journey down south, eating chocolate and listening to good music and laughing. Suddenly, we saw what looked like fireworks in the sky, and there was a very pregnant pause before I said, "Those were rockets." He quickly tried to tell me that they weren't and that everything was okay, but we both knew better. I got on the net to see if someone had reported where the rockets hit because we were in the middle of the desert at this point with no real clue of where they were. He calmly said, "I don't want to scare you, but while you were looking at the phone, there were three more rockets..." I then asked him if we could still be friends if I vomited in his car.
The music went silent, the windows went down, and we both stopped laughing and talking, now carefully listening for sirens from a nearby city so we could get out of the car and take cover, if necessary. The stark contrast from the start of our trip was deafening. We soon also got stuck in a traffic jam, which even had cool-calm-and-collected Artur nervous because, frankly, being stuck at a standstill on a highway in a war zone is not safe. We got to the cause of the traffic jam, which was on my side of the car, and I gasped at what I saw - the remains of a rocket in the middle of the road. Again, Artur chimed in with "it was a car accident" but with the military and police vehicles all around the scene, we both knew it wasn't a car accident. The last 30 minutes to Be'er Sheva were intense, and I felt like crying and getting sick all at once. The feeling of relief once we arrived in the city and were again sheltered by the Iron Dome was indescribable. Artur dropped me at my house, and I swear, I held my breath until I knew he was home, but thankfully, no sirens sounded.
I made pizza that night for Artur's birthday party, but I've never been more detached from a situation or from people in my life. I watched the TV, and I checked my phone, and I don't really remember what happened at the party. Artur sweetly took me and our other amazing friend, Meirav, back to her house, where I planned to stay until the end of this mess. She didn't have a safe room, but to me, being around human beings was much more important than having reinforced walls. She and her boyfriend went to work the next morning, leaving me with Pepper and her dogs during a few different rounds of sirens. I still remember the feeling of jumping straight up from her couch, grabbing Pepper, and calling her dogs into her "safe space" while the sirens blared. When she did return home, we tried to sit and have coffee together which was rudely interrupted many times with sirens. As was the cooking of dinner. We sat in her hallway with our dogs saying the "Shema" prayer just out of fear for our lives. This continued for a couple of days, and we watched in horror as a bus in Tel Aviv was blown up by a terrorist, and all I could think of was, "How does someone survive during an intifada (the time when terror attacks are prevalent and personal)?" Magically, a ceasefire was announced for 9PM on a Thursday, a week and a day after this whole mess started. Meirav and I impatiently waited for 9PM to come, and I kid you not, at 8:59PM exactly, the last long round of sirens went off as Hamas tried to get in one last, massive attack. I saw on the TV as it was written in Hebrew, "Ceasefire in affect" as it read underneath, "Alarms sound in Be'er Sheva." I could go into the mentality and politics of this whole thing, but I'll save it for another post. Suffice it to say that none of us really slept soundly that night because no one trusted a ceasefire would actually hold.
And that's where we are today. Not trusting that this ceasefire will hold and knowing that at any moment, our lives can come to a halt again by a rocket attack. I still find myself waking up, listening for sirens, or I find myself searching out where I'll run to if I'm outside and a siren sounds. It's something that will never leave you. Which, I guess, is a good thing, because we have to be prepared for anything here. So, now you have the full story of living through a war. May the following posts be humorous and light-hearted, although no about more dates. Until next time, my dear friends.
Lost in Translation
I'm in the mood to write today (it's a good way to avoid Passover cleaning...which has to finished TODAY...ugh), and I wanted to share with you some of the language/identity issues that I've been having because, well, they're humorous.
- I was with my best friend's parents eating dinner before his concert in Tel Aviv this week. They're Russian and don't speak English so well, so we were speaking in Hebrew, and I was trying to explain Arkansas weather to his mom. I wanted to tell her that we have more ice than snow when suddenly, I forgot the word for snow in Hebrew. But, I remembered it in Russian. Who does that?
- I was writing a text message to a friend after my written exam for my Hebrew classes, and I wrote that I thought I would receive a good grade. However, I spelled "grade" wrong, just one letter off, and I wrote that I thought I would receive a "good fuck." Ohhhhhh.
- Everyone constantly makes fun of my accent in Hebrew because I sound so American. However, people constantly mistake me for being Russian. One odd time, I was mistaken for a Moroccan. I'm also pretty consistently known as the "blondini" even though I'm not exactly blonde. Identity crisis!
- I don't remember English anymore, and I make really stupid mistakes when I'm writing and speaking. I recently wrote, "We our invited to a party," and "There is food there?" I've also been making the horrid mistake of confusing their/they're/there, your/you're, and its/it's. G-d, help me.
- I accidentally said "in the ass" last night at dinner. Since that word is really close to the word for "underneath." Crazy friggin' language.
"I'm Never Going on a Date Again."
That's what I said after this last horror of a date, and I still maintain this position. So, I met this guy on a train and started up a conversation with him during the hour-long trip. All signs pointed to him being normal, respectable, and intelligent, somewhat of a surprise since most guys interested in me here don't meet any of those qualifications. He was an engineer, spoke great English, and was cute. We exchanged phone numbers but didn't speak for a few weeks because I was in the middle of exam time for my intensive Hebrew school.
I finally reached out to him late Saturday evening, saying that I hoped we could meet sometime this week. My first red flag was that, in spite of the hour, he was insistent on coming over to my house. I should've listened to my gut because I was not feeling this pushiness, but I chalked it up to my own hesitations of dating. Ironic that a date just reaffirmed why I don't want to date...
Fast forward a couple of days, and he invited me to a concert at the university. It sounded fun, so I agreed, not thinking of it as a serious "date." However, he showed up in dress pants and a button down shirt, me in jeans and a nice-ish shirt. Oops. We met in the neighborhood where we both live and rode our bikes to the school. Conversation was initially great, and he seemed normal. While waiting in line to enter the concert, I saw my ex's cousin, an adorably sweet human being, and we began to talk for a few minutes. Once I returned to Engineer Dude, he became very clingy, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me close to him. My skin started to crawl as I distanced myself from his reach. Add to it that it really was a little odd seeing ex-family and being on a date. Poor dude didn't have a chance.
So, we take our seats and begin talking and chatting about life. The divorce comes up, and he suddenly fixates on it. "Wow, I don't think it's weird at all that you're divorced." Conversation changes, then, "You know, it's kind of hot that you're divorced." Conversation changes again and, "You know, I don't have a problem with you being divorced." Dude! Stop! What a way to make an awkward situation even more awkward. He also mentioned something along the lines of, "I'm the Jewish engineer that your mother always wanted you to marry" and added something about getting married in the next year. What? Huh? This just kept getting more and more uncomfortable.
The music began, much to my relief, but this opened the door for him to put his arm around me. And stroke my shoulder. And try to hold my hand. I couldn't handle it, and I yanked my hand away from him. He then tried to tickle my knee, saying, "I want to find out how sensitive you are." GAG ME. At this point, everything he did began to bother me. He complained to the sound guy about the balance in the speakers and that it was too loud (ummm, we sat in the front row at a show - it's going to be loud). He kept pushing me to get up and dance - "You're a dancer! Dance! Dance!" And, the worst of it all, he couldn't clap on the beat. I continued to try and be nice, but this was just seen as me being interested. I said something funny, I'm not sure what, and he started giggling, wrapped me in his arms, and BIT MY SHOULDER. I literally just took my hands off of the keyboard, shuddered, and shook my head because I still don't believe it.
I made the excuse that I had to get back to my house in the next little bit because of a Skype date with my parents (this is apparently my go-to excuse when I need to get out of an awkward man situation). We left the university through a different gate, putting us in a direct line to my house, when what I really wanted was to ride back to the point where we met and leave from there. Not possible. Dude rode with me all the way to my front stoop, and as I was thanking him for a nice evening, he asked for a hug. I gave him one, and he began to try to make out with the side of my face. I pulled away, and he said in a low voice, "You know what I want." I lost my composure at this point and responded, "And you're not going to get it!" His response? "But my heart is beating so fast!" It took everything inside of me not to vomit on the sidewalk. I locked myself inside for about half an hour, and then cautiously emerged to go to the little convenience store by my house for beer. Alcohol was the only thing that would save me from the horror of that night.
There you have it. The worst date I've ever been on. I much prefer being single and alone to having to endure something like that again. Now I'm going to go shower so I can wash off this memory...yuckkkkk!
I finally reached out to him late Saturday evening, saying that I hoped we could meet sometime this week. My first red flag was that, in spite of the hour, he was insistent on coming over to my house. I should've listened to my gut because I was not feeling this pushiness, but I chalked it up to my own hesitations of dating. Ironic that a date just reaffirmed why I don't want to date...
Fast forward a couple of days, and he invited me to a concert at the university. It sounded fun, so I agreed, not thinking of it as a serious "date." However, he showed up in dress pants and a button down shirt, me in jeans and a nice-ish shirt. Oops. We met in the neighborhood where we both live and rode our bikes to the school. Conversation was initially great, and he seemed normal. While waiting in line to enter the concert, I saw my ex's cousin, an adorably sweet human being, and we began to talk for a few minutes. Once I returned to Engineer Dude, he became very clingy, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me close to him. My skin started to crawl as I distanced myself from his reach. Add to it that it really was a little odd seeing ex-family and being on a date. Poor dude didn't have a chance.
So, we take our seats and begin talking and chatting about life. The divorce comes up, and he suddenly fixates on it. "Wow, I don't think it's weird at all that you're divorced." Conversation changes, then, "You know, it's kind of hot that you're divorced." Conversation changes again and, "You know, I don't have a problem with you being divorced." Dude! Stop! What a way to make an awkward situation even more awkward. He also mentioned something along the lines of, "I'm the Jewish engineer that your mother always wanted you to marry" and added something about getting married in the next year. What? Huh? This just kept getting more and more uncomfortable.
The music began, much to my relief, but this opened the door for him to put his arm around me. And stroke my shoulder. And try to hold my hand. I couldn't handle it, and I yanked my hand away from him. He then tried to tickle my knee, saying, "I want to find out how sensitive you are." GAG ME. At this point, everything he did began to bother me. He complained to the sound guy about the balance in the speakers and that it was too loud (ummm, we sat in the front row at a show - it's going to be loud). He kept pushing me to get up and dance - "You're a dancer! Dance! Dance!" And, the worst of it all, he couldn't clap on the beat. I continued to try and be nice, but this was just seen as me being interested. I said something funny, I'm not sure what, and he started giggling, wrapped me in his arms, and BIT MY SHOULDER. I literally just took my hands off of the keyboard, shuddered, and shook my head because I still don't believe it.
I made the excuse that I had to get back to my house in the next little bit because of a Skype date with my parents (this is apparently my go-to excuse when I need to get out of an awkward man situation). We left the university through a different gate, putting us in a direct line to my house, when what I really wanted was to ride back to the point where we met and leave from there. Not possible. Dude rode with me all the way to my front stoop, and as I was thanking him for a nice evening, he asked for a hug. I gave him one, and he began to try to make out with the side of my face. I pulled away, and he said in a low voice, "You know what I want." I lost my composure at this point and responded, "And you're not going to get it!" His response? "But my heart is beating so fast!" It took everything inside of me not to vomit on the sidewalk. I locked myself inside for about half an hour, and then cautiously emerged to go to the little convenience store by my house for beer. Alcohol was the only thing that would save me from the horror of that night.
There you have it. The worst date I've ever been on. I much prefer being single and alone to having to endure something like that again. Now I'm going to go shower so I can wash off this memory...yuckkkkk!
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Dating in Israel - You're Doing It Wrong
So, it's been awhile. I can't promise that this blog will be a regular thing, although I hope it will because I'm having a killer time here and laughing about 90% of what is happening to me on a daily basis.
Let's jump right in. Dating here is a different animal than it is in other countries, and I'm going to argue that dating in Be'er Sheva is even more different than dating in the rest of Israel. First of all, the selection here is...sub par, perhaps? At least, the good guys are proving hard to find. Second, the mentality down here is a little more basic-conservative-primitive because this is the equivalent of the "country" back home. Let me also throw out there that I may be a little rusty at this whole dating game, and Israeli men are hard to handle even when you're at the top of your game.
My first story comes from the first time I ordered pizza here. It was Thanksgiving Day, which proved to be a little depressing as all of the Thanksgiving plans had fallen apart because of the mini-war that ended the night before, and I was also coming down off of some pretty intense emotions. I decided that a fitting impromptu Thanksgiving dinner would be pizza and coke, so I placed my order. My apartment is actually behind this building of four houses, so logically, the pizza delivery guy called me to ask me to come out and get my grub. I arrived, and his eyes grew wide as he began rambling on to me in Hebrew about how gorgeous my hair and eyes are. He then stumbled into asking me if I would go have a drink with him the following night, which isn't creepy or weird, but I just wasn't in the mood and didn't find him attractive in the least. So, I politely turned him down and made some excuse that my parents were waiting to Skype with me. Cut to midnight on the first night that I was actually able to sleep soundly and peacefully without the threat of rockets and air raid sirens. I had just coaxed my tired and traumatized self to sleep when my phone rang, showing a phone number that I didn't have stored. I ignored the call, since it hadn't fully woken me up (hey, it wasn't a siren, so I could ignore it!), and then the number called again. And again. And so, on the fourth time, I sleepily answered and asked who the hell was calling, and he told me, "It's Ron, the pizza guy." What. The. Fuck. It didn't stop there. This guy continued to call the next day until I had one of my close guy friends answer the phone in an intimidating voice. Thank goodness, the calls stopped after that.
I wish I could say that that was the end of the Pizza Guy Saga, but it wasn't. I cautiously ordered pizza from the same place two months later, and of course, same dude delivered me the pizza. And of course, he called me the next day to ask me out. I did give him an A+ for figuring out that calling in the middle of the night was unacceptable, but seriously? Israeli men don't give up.
Next on the list of awkward male encounters, I was in Tel Aviv, enjoying a much needed day alone on the beach. The sun was brilliant, so I bought a beer, stuck my toes in the sand, and tanned my alabaster white self on the beach. As I was walking to change location, find some water, and possibly buy another beer, this guy ran up to me screaming, "Excuse me!" My first thought was, lost tourist, since they all seem drawn to me, like I have all the answers of where they need to go, but he was not. He claimed to be a new immigrant, as well, although he had been here 15 years ("new" immigrant from France). Within the first two minutes of talking to him, he told me that he saw me and knew immediately that we had chemistry together but that he was worried that I didn't speak a language he spoke. Let me say this - he was cute albeit very forward. I was amused but not interested in carrying on further, so I said that I was on my way to meet my boyfriend. Random Dude then started grilling me about my "boyfriend," saying, "You've only been here 5 months! How do you know if he's the one? I'm cuter, aren't I? You need to look at all your options." What? Number 1, my made-up boyfriend was way better than his creepy ass stalking me on the boardwalk, and number 2, who has the nerve to ask those questions? Israeli men, that's the answer. When I tried to leave, he hugged me, tried to kiss me, and insisted that I give him my phone number. No. Why does it seem like the crazies flock to me?
I've decided to split this post into two parts. I promise that the second part is even better than the first. Stay tuned!
Let's jump right in. Dating here is a different animal than it is in other countries, and I'm going to argue that dating in Be'er Sheva is even more different than dating in the rest of Israel. First of all, the selection here is...sub par, perhaps? At least, the good guys are proving hard to find. Second, the mentality down here is a little more basic-conservative-primitive because this is the equivalent of the "country" back home. Let me also throw out there that I may be a little rusty at this whole dating game, and Israeli men are hard to handle even when you're at the top of your game.
My first story comes from the first time I ordered pizza here. It was Thanksgiving Day, which proved to be a little depressing as all of the Thanksgiving plans had fallen apart because of the mini-war that ended the night before, and I was also coming down off of some pretty intense emotions. I decided that a fitting impromptu Thanksgiving dinner would be pizza and coke, so I placed my order. My apartment is actually behind this building of four houses, so logically, the pizza delivery guy called me to ask me to come out and get my grub. I arrived, and his eyes grew wide as he began rambling on to me in Hebrew about how gorgeous my hair and eyes are. He then stumbled into asking me if I would go have a drink with him the following night, which isn't creepy or weird, but I just wasn't in the mood and didn't find him attractive in the least. So, I politely turned him down and made some excuse that my parents were waiting to Skype with me. Cut to midnight on the first night that I was actually able to sleep soundly and peacefully without the threat of rockets and air raid sirens. I had just coaxed my tired and traumatized self to sleep when my phone rang, showing a phone number that I didn't have stored. I ignored the call, since it hadn't fully woken me up (hey, it wasn't a siren, so I could ignore it!), and then the number called again. And again. And so, on the fourth time, I sleepily answered and asked who the hell was calling, and he told me, "It's Ron, the pizza guy." What. The. Fuck. It didn't stop there. This guy continued to call the next day until I had one of my close guy friends answer the phone in an intimidating voice. Thank goodness, the calls stopped after that.
I wish I could say that that was the end of the Pizza Guy Saga, but it wasn't. I cautiously ordered pizza from the same place two months later, and of course, same dude delivered me the pizza. And of course, he called me the next day to ask me out. I did give him an A+ for figuring out that calling in the middle of the night was unacceptable, but seriously? Israeli men don't give up.
Next on the list of awkward male encounters, I was in Tel Aviv, enjoying a much needed day alone on the beach. The sun was brilliant, so I bought a beer, stuck my toes in the sand, and tanned my alabaster white self on the beach. As I was walking to change location, find some water, and possibly buy another beer, this guy ran up to me screaming, "Excuse me!" My first thought was, lost tourist, since they all seem drawn to me, like I have all the answers of where they need to go, but he was not. He claimed to be a new immigrant, as well, although he had been here 15 years ("new" immigrant from France). Within the first two minutes of talking to him, he told me that he saw me and knew immediately that we had chemistry together but that he was worried that I didn't speak a language he spoke. Let me say this - he was cute albeit very forward. I was amused but not interested in carrying on further, so I said that I was on my way to meet my boyfriend. Random Dude then started grilling me about my "boyfriend," saying, "You've only been here 5 months! How do you know if he's the one? I'm cuter, aren't I? You need to look at all your options." What? Number 1, my made-up boyfriend was way better than his creepy ass stalking me on the boardwalk, and number 2, who has the nerve to ask those questions? Israeli men, that's the answer. When I tried to leave, he hugged me, tried to kiss me, and insisted that I give him my phone number. No. Why does it seem like the crazies flock to me?
I've decided to split this post into two parts. I promise that the second part is even better than the first. Stay tuned!
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