Rude or what, or not.

It was long before I came to Israel for the first time that I heard some epic tales about the legendary Israeli impoliteness. Thankfully the Lord didn’t make me wait very long at all to have them backed up by my very own little taster. While I was considerably shaken by the experience at a time, my perception’s shifted already. A passionate fight in a public place, sucking in bystanders, who each feel obliged to take sides and express their personal opinions? I’d say, nothing out of the ordinary.

Impoliteness - it's omnipresent - it saturates the entire country through and through. The moment you step foot on the Holy Land, your circle of personal space shrinks rapidly. Here tact is nonessential, conversations are direct and queues have a culture of their own. Strangers make comments to you about things that, in Australia, you'd only hear from the mouths of close kin.

Israelis are raised to feel they are kings and queens and consequently shyness is a rare quality. People will talk to you in the street if they feel like it without the slightest hesitation and will tell you what to do without a second thought. There’s a joke that explains this:

Why does no one make love on the street in Tel Aviv?

Because if they did, someone would come along and say:
‘No, no, no! Squeeze her ass before you kiss her! Where did you learn to do this? Alright, move aside and let me show you…’

Now, Western foreigners do get hit hard. The atmosphere in Israel is something new. The country seems developed, modern and civilized. They see the Americanization at work and wonder how the heck Israelis still aren't behaving American! They seem so direct and, well, unrefined.

What follows, is the common assumption: Israelis are rude, barbaric and inconsiderate.

While I’ve certainly has some less than pleasant interpersonal encounters whilst in Israel, I’m refraining from straight off the bat judging and criticizing the whole nation. Perhaps I’m simply sentimental and let people get away with lots of crap for my unexplained affinity with their ways. I’m also trying to be observant here, and understanding.

Israelis simply love to argue. The saying ‘You have four Jews in a room and five opinions’ couldn’t be more correct. They shout at one another but no one’s really angry. It’s just their way of saying that they care.

The grandparents of Israelis came from all corners of the world and so the country is essentially a melting pot of European, American and Middle Eastern cultures, all mixed up with a dash of Zionism and a healthy paranoia that everyone always has been and always will be, out to get them.

But Israelis love to assimilate and the one million Russians who arrived in the 90’s are already thoroughly Israeli – which doesn’t mean that the national jokes about them all being criminals or whores have completely died out. The Sephardic Jews are still sometimes seen as being one step away from being Arabic and everyone knows that when the Polish Israelis are in a good mood they sit in the dark until it passes. The Iranian Jews never want to spend a shekel, the Moroccans all carry knives and the Americans aren’t real Israelis but Jews living off their rich relatives in New York.

Although they can appear the rudest people in the world, at heart they’re immensely kind and hospitable. Israel is a tribal society so if you’re on the outside they seem quite hostile. But once you’ve cracked their shell, they’ll spoil you rotten with their hospitability: they’ll invite you to their homes, offer to kill your enemies or their daughter’s hand, that kind of thing. The Israelis are very much community oriented and often exist as tight networks of friends and family. They are fiercely loyal to and protective of the ones they love. Prickly-skinned fruits with big bleeding hearts inside.

These people make the polite Americans and Australian appear ingenuine and constrained by comparison. And my little Slavic soul has no choice but to long to jump right into the middle of that row and bellow: "Ma ani, ez?"*

* "What am I, a goat?"- an expression used as a protest against unequal treatment

Quiet

Where to from now?

It's suddenly gone all quiet around here. Can you hear it? The words sort of dried up. Then, I don't even know if anyone comes here anymore, or maybe I'm writing to a void, bottomless, toothy and writhing like a giant caterpillar.

I'm still sort of sad, having left the Holy Land. I wake up with my head full of palm trees, and desert winds, and lively conversations half in Hebrew. I wake up to the reality of being here, in this cozy haven, familiar as the womb itself, where the coolish weather has been a respite for my sun-drenched skin. The reality reminds me to get off cloud nine for fuck's sake, and face it, man.

Why does my heart ache so? Why do Jaffa's mosques nest underneath my eyelids like rolled up carpets, to be stretched into vivid and richly patterned images as soon as I close my eyes? It's a laden step to decide to grow up. It hurts. No wonder not many travel this road.

Where to now?

Miss Smilla wants to run. She wants new virgin planes to set her not so little foot on. She screams for deserts, roads, books, stairs, stars. Is she stupid? Is she dreamin'? Is she marrying a demon? (just cos it rhymes)

Should Miss Smilla stay where she is? Just goddammit stay for once??

No, don't answer.

Perfect

Photo: Courtesy of Zvika Rotbart

It’s clearly a non-enlightened being speaking, but some days are better than others. Some days suck. While other days just seem to flow, like nature intended them to do, without grinding halts, or pitfalls, or otherwise annoying obstacles.

On one of these days, you may go out for dinner with a dear friend. You may sit in a waterfront restaurant and watch the sun lazily make its way down towards the water, your skin aglow with the evening light. You may wiggle at the sight of the amazing array of middle-eastern salads being brought, all for you to taste and fill you with carnal delight. There might be some bubbly white wine involved, gentle in taste but exploding in your head with fireworks and stories that arrive from god knows where. You’d look up from these fragrant goodies, into your friend’s laughing eyes. You’d be mildly surprised, ever so slightly baffled, for all the knowing him, you’ve suddenly seen him again, anew. You’ve both been able to temporarily strip off, from your individual histories, and from the one you share together. You’ve even forgotten the neglect and grief you might have caused one another. As you laugh, eat, tell funny stories, feed your posh fish dish to the cat – you feel excited; you want to start getting to know your friend all over again.

And then…

Then Shai and I repeated our infamous walk through the empty and trashy Carmiel Market again. It was just as stinky and sticky as on my first night here, only this time Shai (sans the halva), God bless his soul, carried me on his back.

And then we said good-bye. And I was wistful, but joyful, that a friendship I thought of as lost, showed hope to be salvaged after all. That forgiveness and compassion can triumph over resentment and hurt feelings. That you can know someone long and well, and continue to see the goodness in them.

As my Israel trip inevitably draws to an end, I am sad. I don’t want to leave yet. So much still to see, to learn. So many people to meet and have a little banter with. So many pitas with falafel to eat.

It hasn’t been an entirely easy month. Some of my expectations crashed with a huge thud when confronted with ruthless concrete of reality. Some timid hopes had to be buried under the not so clean sands of Tel Aviv’s beaches. Other timid hopes have had to remain timid hopes, for now. And there were times when my longing for loving touch preceded all thought.

But amidst all this balagan, unexpected love for this breathtakingly beautiful land was born. I began to find stories in the mundane and catch them on the fishing rod of my words again. Passion and creativity were restored to me. The sorry leftovers of my prozac pills finally landed in the bin. We all know that life ain’t an endless firework show. Still, for here and now, dear readers, let Miss Smilla proclaim herself – recovered.

"Say anything is possible,

It's not too late

The sun has already risen

It's time for love

Together, heart to heart,

we'll open and we'll see

The light in the sky

Together, heart to heart

we'll open with hope

- to love" Yachad, by Gaya

(translation from Hebrew)

(and she better not be mistaken).

Be Ivrit bil'adit

Had I known how much fun it’d be to seriously tackle a new foreign language, I would’ve started many years ago.

A few months ago I started learning Hebrew. Studying a new language as an intellectually fully-fledged adult (as if!) –a totally different kettle of fish! Like, trying to understand what’s going on from the grammatical, as well as linguistic point of view. It’s challenging, frustrating, makes you question the extent of your own intelligence, makes you appear a fool in front of laughing audiences, all that stuff. It’s also loads of fun. And more.

For the last 2.5 weeks I’ve been studying Hebrew at Ulpan-Or in Tel-Aviv. It’s a vibrant and young-in-spirit company, offering a real smorgasbord of one-on-one programs, customised and tailored to their students’ needs. They use this kick-ass methodology, called Rapid Language Acqusition (RLA) Method – and I swear, they must be doing something right, for I’m quite happy with my progress, as happy as I’ve been with the whole experience.

Three hours of study a day, five days a week? Intensive. And intense. But mostly: pure fun. They use wonderful study kits based on lively up-to-date dialogues and day-to-day life situations, presented often as audio-dialogues, soap opera-style. Which made me howl with glee, banshee-style. How many times would I arrive for class slightly frayed at the edges from some internal drama I was battling, and leave with a huge moronic grin on my face? Many. Ask Leanne, the office manager – she’ll tell you.

My gorgeous teacher Yael was by my side every step my language-learning journey: enthusiastically cheering on my progress, patiently correcting my cringe-producing mistakes and gently encouraging me when my confidence was faltering and my brain turning into falafel mash. She was guiding me through the maze of Hebrew verb groups with astuteness and grace of a tightrope walker. And she’d produce a wonderfully cheesy song for me to learn, just when I needed to laugh, then make me soppy with tears with another.

I don’t think of myself as an easy student: I’ve been known to be stubborn, lazy and perpetually low self-esteemed. But I might have made it up to Yael by producing sentences like: “Why do you like these young black studs so much?” during writing exercises. Or by brightly announcing that “I like to get up in the park*”. Or by professing that Tel Aviv absolutely needs a “Secretary Shop**” Ah, the perils of hammering the new into the thick mass that is one’s brain; you need a licentia poetica for all the damage you do to the innocent language. Nonetheless: kudos to Yael for sticking it out with me. I miss you already.

What I also like about Ulpan-Or, is that it successfully combines language study with the immersion in Israeli culture and history. T-Ulpans – short tours to historical places in Tel Aviv are a fantastic way to learn about the Eretz, and you get to interact with your teacher only in Hebrew be for the whole two hours. I’ve had a great time on both of my Tiyuls. Both my tutors – Yoav and Tzvika were ace, and unperturbed that instead of talking about history, I drilled them with personal questions. I guess they know better than me that in Hebrew there’s no word for “tact”, but the word “chutzpah” is not for nothing.

Yesterday Tzvika and I were touring the Old Train Station (HaTahana). While admiring artsy old-school posters at Made in TLV shop, I even got treated to an upgraded, yet unauthorized version of the Bible story about Jonah and the Whale. One featuring Pinoccio, who came to accompany the prophet in the guttural abysses of the great fish.

“So Elohim requested that Jonah talks to the Assyrians, and tells them ‘No no no’, but Jonah wasn’t interested” continued Tzvika “He’d rather go to the beach, smoke a ciggie…” .“Have a beer…” I chimed in. Even the shop girl came over to listen in, attracted by our unabashed giggles.

And that’s how I came to realize that I can actually have an entire conversation be Ivrit bil’adit*** without imploding from frustration and effort. A conversation as halted and awkward as it gets, but still – a conversation.

Learning Hebrew has proved a very empowering experience to me. Not only did I discover that I wasn’t brain-dead yet, but I also found something that the very brain has a real liking for (I tried it with maths and physics before, but it didn’t work). It’s like landing on a brand-new planet and discovering that you can actually live and breathe on it. It’s exciting; exhilarating in that child-like kind of way. It’s many things. It’s saved my arse from drowning.

Gee, I love Hebrew! Both ancient and modern, it’s got spunk and soul, it churns in my belly and sings in my heart. It’s beautiful.

I wonder who can temper my polyglotic appetites now? In my sinister fantasies the list of languages I want to acquire in this lifetime is expanding. Yet I’m hoping that I’ve still got a considerable amount of time left, before the mighty Alzheimer claims me. Which, hopefully and considering the energy I put into keeping my wits running on high octane– will be never.

* I mistakenly used “lakum” (to get up) intead of “laruc” (to run).

** Idem, “mazkira” (secretary) instead of “mazkeret” (souvenir).

*** meaning: “exclusively in Hebrew”

I was sitting on a bench on Frishman Street, just off Ben Yehuda Street. I had come to hear a teaching on the tenets of Jewish faith at the Tel Aviv International Synagogue. “Bible! Halacha! Jewish Philosophy!” had screamed the bold letters on the random flyer that I’d found earlier in the day, clipped to a notice board at the hostel.

But I’d come a bit ahead of time and had a few minutes to kill.

I was just energetically biting into an apple, when a dark tall stranger walked past me and said something in Hebrew.

“Say that again” I said automatically “I didn’t understand”

“You didn’t understand? What didn’t you understand?” he bellowed the Israeli style “I said bon apetite.”

But he had an open face and when he smiled, something happened between us. I felt my insides melt and become like Max Brenner hot chocolate…the world slowed down, everything becoming thick and sweet with anticipation…

Ah no my lovelies, I’m just joking.

Were I this quick to be charmed by men, I’d be in deep shit by now, believe me. For these Israeli men, they are notorious. Notorious! Not a day goes by without some attempt from someone to chat me up.

“How old are you?” they demand candidly “Do you have kids? Husband? Boyfriend? Would you like one?” I’ve met a man who claimed to be a playwright and who pleaded with me to become part of his project as the 70s’ “nature girl in the woods”. There’ve even been one or two marriage proposals.

And just to dispel any confusion: I’m no Angelina Jolie. Just your average girl next door (plus a brain). I recall Samira telling me about a man who approached her at a bus terminal. After she gave him a cold shoulder, he swiftly moved on to another female passenger in the queue. These men are just trying their luck, and they’re honest about it. It’s just the way it is.

I actually find this attitude not entirely unpleasant; it’s non-pretentious and somewhat refreshing. At least most of the time. I’ve been experimenting a bit with being less rigid in these situations than I was even a few years ago. Travel experience and aging combined, doing the deed. Still, there are lessons to be learned. Fast. But that’s a topic for another topic, as I’m digressing shamefully.

This experimentation and all, could be why I allowed the dark tall stranger sit next to me.

Enter Yossi. Yossi is funny, easy-going and self-assured in a sweet kind of way. Born and bred in Tel Aviv, he drives like a maniac. We were cruising on his scooter last night, breaking just about every law there was. When the road gets too jammed, Yossi has no qualms about driving onto a footpath. And I seem to have no qualms about being his partner in crime. So last night we were powering through the sea promenade, manouvering between Muslim families and gay men with their dogs, until we nearly ran over two police officers! Op-pah.

Not to worry but. I mean, Yossi didn’t bat an eyelid: “It’s all good” he reassured me as he duly produced his driver’s licence out of his pocket. The three men engaged in a properly heated exchange of words and gestures.

“I really wanted to get off the footpath, but I couldn’t” he pointed towards the wired fence separating our path from the road “who put this stupid fence here!”

He got away with it, of course. We parted with the policemen, with friendly “Layla tovs” and convivial pats of one another’s backs. “I know how to talk to them” said Yossi “been down that road many times.”

And the Jewish teaching I had been going to the night I met Yossi? When I finally entered the synagogue, I was met by three men, advanced in age and very friendly. They advised me politely that the shiyur was for men only. That was pretty obvious actually; the vibe was that they couldn’t wait for me to get out of there fast enough. I even got a personal escort out.

The slick road of my conversion to Judaism might have just been averted. But not to worry. I acquired a new friend instead.

I forgot to mention something about Yossi: he works as a driving instructor.