Filed under: Cool Things
Wednesday night was Erev Shavuot, but in Tel Aviv it was also ל’לה לבאן, or “White Night.” My teacher Dina kept insisting that we all check it out. Basically, there would be free outdoor concerts all over the city – on Rothschild Boulevard, by the beach, all over. (Side note – I wonder if Dina is a closet party animal. When she was not in class two Thursdays ago, she told us some story the next Sunday how she rode all over the whole country for two days on the back of a motorcycle. Also, she said in 1998 when Madonna and Michael Jackson performed separate concerts in Tel Aviv’s Hayarkon Park, she went to both of them. Hmm…)
Anyway, I don’t like crowds, I don’t drink, and I’ve already been to Mardi Gras four years in a row; plus, I was bone tired. Did I really need to go to this? But my sweetheart friend Anna encouraged me to meet she and her fiance out, so I did. I joined them for a bite, and then we checked out one of the bands, then strolled among the madness a little.
Cute. Not the end all, be all. But cute. Here’s a few shots:
Back in NY, I'd walk right through this scene (while feeling contempt for the onlookers) if I needed to get to an escalator on the other side. In Tel Aviv though, my Inner Tourist comes out to play.
On Rothschild Boulevard. The "100" lights are for Tel Aviv's 100th birthday celebration, going on all year long.
- Honey, we should have taken the expressway…
- Israel’s youth debates the age old question: Dick York or Dick Sargent?
- Not a good place to be if you’re a lost chihuahua.
- The scene outside Shuk HaCarmel.
I was working late on Wednesday night and not gonna go out for White Night. But my friend from school Anna persuaded me to. I’m not so much into crowds, but it’s supposed to be a total “happening” and not to be missed.
So, I’m riding up Allenby and locking my bike to a pole by Rothschild, when I see Gabe Most, who I know from the New York City Gay Men’s Chorus. Gabe has family here and had told me he comes often for work. “Gabe!” I hollered. Yep, it was him. He came over, and we schmied a few minutes. Small town. How cool is that?
Filed under: School
We didn’t have school on Thursday (which remember, is like Friday in the U.S.; the end of the workweek) last week because of Shavuot, which is when God gave the Jews the Torah. On Tuesday in the afternoon session of class, Dina thinks for a second, then tells us we should have a party at the end of Wednesday to celebrate the holiday. Everyone should bring in something for it.
I brought cups. (nobody ever thinks to bring cups, plates, or sliverware, and they are always appreciated; plus, they’re cheap).
Anyway, it was nice. People brought some killer cheesecakes. I stayed for a while, then ducked out before it was over with my friend Anna. Something very key I learned from Julia Phillips’ book, Driving Under the Affluence that I apply constantly is: “The moment when it’s time to leave” isn’t really the moment when it’s time to leave. “The moment when it’s time to leave” is the moment before the moment when it’s time to leave. In a nutshell, this means to leave when you’re still having fun, not to wait until the function “peaks.” I explained this to Anna, and we both got the hell outta there.
"My cheesecake's better!" "No, mine is!"
Wednesday in Ulpan, in the morning session, Dina writes some shiz on the board. It’s a paragraph making use of the the 2nd of 7 classifications of verbs in the past tense. “?מ’ כורה” shes asks (“Who reads?”)
I don’t know what happened, but my hand goes up. Now I am not one of the best students in our class, nor am I the worst. I’d say I’m above average. But I’m determined to learn this language to the best of my ability. There are a finite number of days in class, and I’m going to use them to the max. This wasn’t a suicide mission; I knew I could get through the paragraph. But it wouldn’t be smooth, perfect or effortless. Imagine a 5-year-old trying to read out loud after (s)he’s only been practicing a short time; I mean, I’m going slowly and sounding this shiz out and making some mistakes. Kinda embarassing.
My point is: if I am going to learn Hebrew, I am going to have to work for it. So, that’s what this was about. And I did great! Yeah, I sounded like a 5-year-old, but I got through it, and after I did, the class applauded for me.
Filed under: Pot Luck
So it was nothing really. But at the time it was odd: two consecutive days where a random senior citizen guy took an extraordinary interest in me, for no reason at all.
Tuesday, it was outside my apartment building. I had just rushed home to make myself a salad, after running a few errands after school. I passed this big bellied guy on the phone as I headed out to my bike and thought nothing of it. A minute later, as I’m futzing with the lock on my bike, he comes up to me, speaking in Hebrew and handing me the phone.
“אנ’ מדבר אנגל’ט” I said, and he changed over to English. He thrusts me the phone and says, “Tell her I’m the fattest thing you ever saw, and she needs to have a healthy lunch with me,” he says.
WTF???
He continues: “Tell her! Tell her!” he insists, and then says to me in an aside: “I’m trying to get her to say yes to a lunch date. Tell her I look terrible and fat, so she will accept my offer to eat at a vegetarian place.”
(This is this guy’s technique?)
I grab the phone and am charming. “Well, he’s not the thinnest I’ve ever seen him,” I say (not wanting to insult him.) When he encourages me silently, I go for it: “Seriously, he’s so big that he took up the whole sidewalk, and I can’t ride around him,” I say. He yanks the phone from me and asks her, “Did you hear that? I am so big that he can’t ride his bike around me!”
He shoves the phone back at me, and I improvise some more: “You should definitely come over here and go out with him. He’ll take you to a nice place…” He cuts me off with, “No, I will pick her up and take her to a beautiful place!” he says. I backpedal, “I mean, you should let him pick you up and take you out. It’s a beautiful day. You two can sit outside, he’ll take you shopping afterwards and buy you some nice things…” (His eyes open wide, but he’s into my performance and still encouraging me.)
Eventually I get myself out of this by saying I have to go to work (it was true). He’s still on the phone with her, but he leaves her hanging and asks me how we can stay in touch. I just give him my number, because I don’t expect to have this phone for much longer.
15 minutes later, I’m in the office when the phone rings. It’s him. “That was great,” he says. “It didn’t work for this time, and she doesn’t love me yet, but I thnk I will get her next time.” I tell him I’m glad. He thanks me for helping him out on the spot like that and makes a comment like, “This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.” Um, didn’t we just meet? (I’m thinking.) He says, “I’m not gay or coming onto you like that or anything, not that there’s anything wrong with that…” He senses that he’s putting his foot in his mouth and says, “Sorry, sometimes I make stupid jokes.” I tell him, “No, it was clever,” but secretly I’m pushing the silent alarm under my desk for the authorities to come get this guy and haul him away.
Anyway, I don’t think he was a gay psychopath, just a jovial dude with a big personality. But my plate is so full, I don’t have time to see and stay in touch with the great friends I already have here and abroad. I don’t need to add Fyvush Finkel to the mix.
Then, the next day, as I entered the mall where the Maccabi eye doctor’s office was in Azorei Chen, I meet a security
guard who I ask for directions. His name is Moshe, and he tells me he likes my “I Love New York” shirt that my friend Jeffrey made for me. He tells me he is also from New York and made Aliyah more than 30 years ago. He yaks some more, but I get away from him.
On the way out, he asks me if I’ve signed up with the AACI (Association of Americans and Canadians in Israel) yet. I tell him I haven’t, and he praises them and says he volunteers there. Then, he asks for my number and tells me he wants to stay in touch. Him, too? I doubt this guy was gay or lascivious either, but two old guys wanting my number in just as many days – what, do I have “Pop Pops of the world, let’s be BFFs” tattooed on my forehead suddenly or something???
Goodbye speed. Was reduced to walking my bike down long stretch of gorgeously smooth and manicured bike path.
Open road....too bad I had to walk.
Prayed for a gas station or bike shop. It was approaching 6pm. Fished my wish: there was a gas station and Bridgestone Tires (!!!) place on other side of road. Crossed when lights were red. Talked to Bridgestone guys. English speakers rule !!! Gave me directions to nearby “Rony’s Bike Shop.”
Uval (Rony is his daughter; he named shop after her) put my bike on a…bike holder thing…and fixed the tire in no time for 30 shekels (about $8).
Uval showed me two thorns he pulled out of my flat tire. I explained to him how I crashed because I hadn’t been paying attention, and he told me that was just a coincidence and didn’t cause my flat. The flat was caused by these thorns, which I rolled over after I got back on my bike after the crash. Dayum !!!
While he worked, we had a cool conversation about Hebrew and English. He said Hebrew has 1/10 the amount of words English has (70,000 vs. 7 million), but that it is definitely enough to express all your thoughts. He said I need to keep speaking my Hebrew in public and not rely on Israelis’ ability to speak English. I told him I had run into Israelis plenty of times who didn’t speak English, and how that sucks. He explained that almost all Israelis know English, but they are embarassed to make mistakes, because they primarily learned their English not from the classes they had in high school but really from American TV, so they will only speak English in environments where they feel safe and they won’t be embarassed.
A-ha.
Was happy to get ease and speed back and ride on home. You see, everything in Israel is an adventure! I had the frigging time of life riding a few miles out to the eye doctor, crashing, getting a flat, getting directions to a bike shop, getting my bike fixed and having meaningful conversation with a stranger new friend, then riding on home. Israel’s the best!
Unfortunately, the story doesn’t end there. Then, I went back to work for four hours, and now it’s quarter to 2:00 in the morning, and I’m still a’bloggin’…
Filed under: Infrastructure
Posts all out of order today, but whatever.
Cycled far – for about 35-40 minutes north to tony Ramat Aviv neighborhood I already mentioned called Ezorei Chen to the optomotrist Maccabi assigned to me.
Really enjoyed this ride. This must be where the rich people live! Gorgeous high-rises. Like, fourth or fifth day of perfect, San Diego-style weather, and really enjoyed this long bike ride out there. When, sidewalk ended on main Namir Road, figured I could finish the trip within what looked like an internal network/campus of Rich People High-Rises. I was right; totally did the trick and brought me rest of the way there.
No main receptionist greeting arrivals at Maccabi; just peeps sitting outside 4 or 5 doors, each with a list posted in front. Very organized! I was siked when I was able to find my doc’s name in Hebrew (even though I had never seen it written before; only had a transliteration), and then found my own name in Hebrew right next to the 17:30 (5:30 p.m.) time slot.
Doc was a chick. Not super friendly, but friendly enough. Spoke English. Told me I didn’t exactly have “calcium deposits” on my eyelids like I’ve had before and suspected was why it’s been hurting to wear my contacts lately. Said I actually had inflammation on inner parts of both eyelids. Prescriped drops, ointment (on my eyes??) and wipes for both eyes for 10 days.
Riding back, I had the accident…
Azorei Chen, where the rich people live.
Took my first spill on my bike today. Was riding back from my eye doctor appointment in the ritzy Ramat Aviv neighborhood of Ezurie Chen. Didnt’ realize I was zoning out, looking at the pretty high-rises. Alright, actually I was writing a blog post in my head, about back-to-back experiences yesterday and today of old guys hitting on me. I’m probably exaggerating – neither one was actually hitting on me, just responding to my energy and being really genunine and friendly. But that’s another post.
Just before the *crash*, my attention pulled back to the wall I was riding next to, and I watched in slow motion as it was too late to stop my left handlebar from coming in contact with it. T o t a l s l o w m o t i o n , as I like, out-of-body style, observed, “Oh, I’m gonna crash. I’m going down now. Brace for impact.”
Took a spill. Pretty minor. I mean, it was full blown, but only suffered a minor scrape on my right knee and some grease on my left ankle. Didn’t mess or tear any clothing. My instinctive relfex to put my arms out to break my fall kicked in, but I didn’t scrape my palms. Checked out the bike. All seemed OK. Headlight still affixed to handlebars, wheels in alignment, chain still on, gears working, etc. Felt stoopid, of course, but there were no witnesses.
Anyway, I’ll take it as an effective lesson to remember how important it is to live in the moment and not somewhere else.
Got back on and resumed riding…until something didn’t feel quite right. Uh-oh, I had a flat. Pffft.
First of all, I am totally exaggerating. Dina is the Nicest and Bestest Teacher in the History of the World, and we all love her to what’s approaching cult-like proportions.
Second of all, all she said was, “What’s with you lately, hmm…?” after I yawned in class. If anything, I should feel grateful she cares and is attentive enough to notice any changes in me. I overslept today and came into class a half hour late. Plus, didn’t shave, so I was stubbly. Plus, I’ve been wearing glasses for two weeks, b/c my eyelids are inflamed (more on that later). Plus, my hair is a little longer and I used some Bed Head Hair Stick, so my hair was (purposefully) astrewn.
But I’m so sensitive…
I half feel like coming in tomorrow in a sportsjacket and slacks, hair slicked back, contacts in, etc. But that would be soooo overcompensating…
P.S. peeps: do not freak out about this picture. It’s makeup. I was playing the role of “tweaked out club kid” in a 2006 cabaret performance during the “Ninth Avenue Holiday Spectacular” – a party for one of New York’s oldest LGBT AA groups.
Filed under: Identity
This morning as I was going down the stairs in my building, I naturally wondered if my apology note would still be outside the door of the apartment below me, unopened, where I left it on Friday.
I turned the corner and looked and – voila! – it wasn’t there. Good, I thought; he wasn’t refusing to acknowledge it out of some resentment for me.
Not even a split second later, Aunt Clara appears on the landing below me, on her way up to that apartment. You’ll recall that she is the one who said something to me on Friday, so she must be married to the guy I drove bananas.
“Excuse me,” she says, “would you mind carrying this bag for me? I’m a little tired, and it’s heavy.” (She was returning from doing some grocery shopping.) The bag was light as a feather, stiff as a board, and I had no trouble helping her out. She thanked me, and I told her it was my pleasure.
The timing of it all – my wondering if my apology had been accepted, not seeing the letter outside and interpreting it as an answer that it had been, and then being of service to Aunt Clara immediately after – left me with yummy spiritual stardust dancing around my head.
Then, me and Clara went at it in the stairway like dogs in heat in the second reel of a Skinamax movie.
Gefilte Fish Out of Water 