Maybe one of my worst nightmares is to live somewhere and not be able to communicate. I bet that to be able to do almost anything in the post-cave(wo)man era one's got to be able to talk the talk, you know what I'm saying? Yes, Israel is a place where English is an official language, along with Hebrew and Arabic, but really if you don't know Hebrew, chances are you won't be part of Israeli society to the fullest and you'll be stuck in this English-speaking bubble or an Anglo niche, if you will. Since I'm not one to pigeon hole myself, I have taken on the task of studying Hebrew.
There are several basic things about the Hebrew language which I find interesting - it's from right to left, it has some letters that take on entirely different shapes when they are at the end of words (like mutant forest creatures with some sort of psychological disorder, they decide they can be different based on where they are located?) and of course, and this is the kicker, everything, I am talking, EVERYTHING, has a gender, including the adjectives. As in, if you want to say, "Wow, that soup is good!" you have to know that "soup" is a masculine noun (and unless this is a meatball soup, I don't get why it is masucline) and then you have to know to say "good" in the corresponding masculine form. This is a simple example, but, trust me, it gets super complicated.
The most annoying part is that Israelis sense your insecurities with the language like a hungry wolf senses hummus and fresh pita. So, the minute you mess up, they switch to English, and there you go, you lost your opportunity to actually put this bizarre language to use. You have to go through the awkward formalities of asking to switch back to Hebrew.
"Can we go back to Hebrew?" I ask with an embarrassed twitch that clearly says, "Please humor me."
"Sure. Anyway, what I was saying was that..." The native Israeli says.
And that's really what they do, they say, yeah, I'll humor you by pretending you can speak the language, and then, they actually don't talk in Hebrew as promised. But as with most things in Israel, sometimes you have to pick your battles. I'm sure this happens in every country where people who are not natives of the language try to give life a whirl in the local language. If the locals (lets call them the "others") speak English, they just don't want to deal with you butchering their language. It's actually very annoying.
So, here, I'll confess something. I stutter sometimes. It may be because I get nervous talking in the language I really have only been actively speaking for like a minute fraction of time, relatively speaking. But, I have noticed that there are some instances in particular where it gets bad. Usually this involves very specific words that have a "t" sound" followed by another consonant sound. Like, the word for "picture" - "t'muna" or the word for "dates" (the fruit) in plural - "t'marim" or "dependent" - "t'lol", whatever, the point is, it doesn't quite (california) roll of your tongue.
And, this I learned the hard way, because, I wanted to print some pictures.
I mean, I knew it would be hard.
The English language equivalent basically went something like this:
I walked into a printer's shop where they said on the window they print photographs. There was a long line at the counter, but having been in Israel now for a bit, I understand that there may not be a need to stand in the line. So, I went to the lady sitting at a desk where it seemed she was working on a wedding invitation or something. At any rate, I just wanted to see if she knew if I was supposed to stand in line, or really, if she could maybe just print the stuff for me.
I walk up to her desk with my USB memory stick in my hand.
I am determined.
"Hi, can you tell me if I can get these p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-a-a-a-a-c-tures printed?"
"What?"
"I'm trying to print some p-p-p-p-p-p-p-" (I am now red in the face.)
"I'm sorry, I don't understand you."
"But, please, " I started seemingly desperate, "I'm just trying to print-"
"Do you want to print pictures?" she asked.
"Yes," I said as if I were some caged monkey being asked if I wanted a banana thrown at me.
"Stand in that line."
Well, that line was not worth it. And, it was already like admitting defeat. So, I left. I went to a photography store where they had a self-service machine which was still incredibly difficult (who has ever measured photographs in centimeters?). On my walk over I also realized I had asked that woman if I could "printer up those p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-i-c-s."
But, whatever it takes to frame photographs of those I miss on my walls.
Today, I asked my Hebrew teacher if she had a trick for me to be able to say these words. She looked at me quizically and said in not so many words, "You can speak the language, just don't think too hard about these words before you use them."
And she's right, I realized that all this time, I had been avoiding using these words - dates, dependency, and pictures. I have synonyms for each that I use, except for dates, when I just point at them like a mute.
But, the truth is, who wants to live in a world without photos and dates?
I'll let you all know how it goes.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Patience. Take a Breather.
Okay, I admit it, I went to Ikea. I somehow (okay, in a car, how else?) travelled about 100 minutes to the nearest Ikea, actually, the country's only Ikea. This post won't be about Ikea and its Swedish (un)delights, because I'm pretty sure everyone who is reading this knows the ins-and-outs of buying bookcases and chairs with bizarre Volvo-esque names (i.e. my chairs are named "Snille, which my friend points out is similar to the German for "fast" or "schnell."). But what is important is to know that due to a constrained budget I bought little along the lines of decoration. Just put this in some area of your head where you can bring it up in a bit, but don't put it away so well that it will take up valuable hard drive space up there.
The story continues, readers. The following Tuesday after my Sventastique experience at Ikea, I went to the supermarket for what I thought would be a routine shop. But, alas, I was greeted by a poster at Mister Zol (the name of my local supermarket means Mister Inexpensive, although he should work on that) that said that on Tuesday, the "Shuk [Hebrew word for "market"] comes to Mister Zol!" The deal was the following - several fruits and vegetables were on sale, 1 kilo for 1 shekel (the Israeli currency)! Oh boy, was I in for a treat. So, I bought fruits and vegetables I would not have ordinarily bought as they were on "sale."
One such fruit was a pomela. Everyone close your eyes. Are they closed? Okay, picture a grapefruit. Now picture it on steroids so that it is about 5-7 times its normal size. This is a pomela. It sounds delicious if you are into citrus - a giant piece of tangy heaven that is sweeter than a grapefruit, juicy when picked well, and more tart than an orange. Wouldn't you like to dig your teeth into that?
Well, let me ask you a different question, when was the last time you had to write in eating a citrus fruit into your day's plan? Chances are, not anytime in recent memory. In order to enjoy this fruit, you really have to have a lot of time, and a bit of that virtue I have slowly been acquiring here, patience. You see, peeling the fruit can take about half an hour. The rind can be about 5 centimeters (1.5ish inches) thick (okay, so I had a ruler handy). You have to attack it like a vulture attacks its prey. Then as if that was not enough, in order to eat it, you actually have to peel the transparent stuff around each segment so that you eat the little juicy pulpy morsels individually with no sheath to protect it from your mouth, which at this point should be watering. If you don't do it this way, I am told it will be bitter and disgusting. What can I say, it takes determination, it takes a mental effort, it takes time.
So, rather than eating it, because, lets face it, who has that kind of time, I thought, "Hey, this is nice to look at!" and it became my "decoration." For the last week, it sat on my dining table. And it really did look nice, it gave the table some color and I was getting used to coming home to my pomela. I thought about naming it "Pamela."
"Hey Pam, what's shakin?" I would ask.
"You know, the salt and pepper next to me, you know, because they're in a shaker!" She would chuckle and tilt her little stem back. She would have been a good friend.
But, alas, after about 8 days peeled it I did. And, guess what? It was dry and insipid! After all that work, it was actually really bad. I know, right? It did get me thinking, however. I mustered up all the patience in the world devoted to citrus fruit and I went at it like a ravenous citrus-eating monster. And, in the end, it was not that great. I wonder, would it have been better if I would have just eaten in without waiting that week looking at it sitting on my table? Maybe, but I'll never know. In a way, as fickle as it seems, it can sort of help me describe to you what it is like to live aborad, or in Israel. One can take on a task (opening a bank account, getting your B.A. recognized b the Student Authority, eating a pomela, etc.) and take time doing it, but in the end, it may not work out the first time. Set back after set back, sometimes, it's important to realize that eventually it will work out. I know that I will eventually learn to pick the juiciest of the pomela bunch.
In a way, it is something I like about not living in the U.S. I think sometimes things can be taken for granted in the States. Like, for example, it is relatively easy to open a checking account, get a cell phone, and as it should be, don't get me wrong. Here, some of these mundane activities can take hours upon hours. But, after opening an account, I realized it is not because Israeli bankers are extrememly inefficient (although they can be), but sometimes it's because they approach things on a more human level. I went to the bank the other day to make a deposit. A simple thing. Well, it was raining, so I came in soaked. The banker saw this and before even asking me what she could do for me she offered me tea. And, she put in fresh mint leaves and was distressed she had no Equal for me to sweeten my tea. After talking about the rain for, oh, about 5 minutes, she asked me how I was doing here. About 10 minutes later, she talked to her colleague about the rain. I was beginning to get distressed but the patience god(dess) looked down upon me. "Take a breather, Alberto," (s)he said. About 20 minutes later, we started the banking procedure. A full half hour later, I was out of the bank having only done about, oh, 2 minutes of actual banking.
We're not in Kansas (actually, anywhere in the U.S.) anymore, Toto (Alberto).
Really, my life these days is about patience, in the bigger sense, not just about fruit rinds and personal finances (although when I put it like that does it mean that with time my personal finances will grow?). Israel is a country where people get started later on in life. When people are 18, they go to the Army for a few years. Then they go travelling to get everything out of their system (or into their system as it would be) that life in a military did not allow them to do. Then they come back to Israel and maybe work for a while and finally, maybe at the age of 23 they begin college. So, people my age are actually in the middle of their undergraduate studies. When I ask them if they aren't getting anxious to get on with the show, as I am, some of them seem puzzled and look at me as if wanting to say, "You have your whole life. Chill out."
Well, chilling out is hard to do in the Middle East. Newsflash: It's warm here!
But, they're right. I do have my whole life ahead of me. So, with that, I should make time for human interaction at the bank, maybe even peel my fruit merrily. Breathe in, breathe out.
Or, I could just learn to peel the darn thing more efficiently.
The story continues, readers. The following Tuesday after my Sventastique experience at Ikea, I went to the supermarket for what I thought would be a routine shop. But, alas, I was greeted by a poster at Mister Zol (the name of my local supermarket means Mister Inexpensive, although he should work on that) that said that on Tuesday, the "Shuk [Hebrew word for "market"] comes to Mister Zol!" The deal was the following - several fruits and vegetables were on sale, 1 kilo for 1 shekel (the Israeli currency)! Oh boy, was I in for a treat. So, I bought fruits and vegetables I would not have ordinarily bought as they were on "sale."
One such fruit was a pomela. Everyone close your eyes. Are they closed? Okay, picture a grapefruit. Now picture it on steroids so that it is about 5-7 times its normal size. This is a pomela. It sounds delicious if you are into citrus - a giant piece of tangy heaven that is sweeter than a grapefruit, juicy when picked well, and more tart than an orange. Wouldn't you like to dig your teeth into that?
Well, let me ask you a different question, when was the last time you had to write in eating a citrus fruit into your day's plan? Chances are, not anytime in recent memory. In order to enjoy this fruit, you really have to have a lot of time, and a bit of that virtue I have slowly been acquiring here, patience. You see, peeling the fruit can take about half an hour. The rind can be about 5 centimeters (1.5ish inches) thick (okay, so I had a ruler handy). You have to attack it like a vulture attacks its prey. Then as if that was not enough, in order to eat it, you actually have to peel the transparent stuff around each segment so that you eat the little juicy pulpy morsels individually with no sheath to protect it from your mouth, which at this point should be watering. If you don't do it this way, I am told it will be bitter and disgusting. What can I say, it takes determination, it takes a mental effort, it takes time.
So, rather than eating it, because, lets face it, who has that kind of time, I thought, "Hey, this is nice to look at!" and it became my "decoration." For the last week, it sat on my dining table. And it really did look nice, it gave the table some color and I was getting used to coming home to my pomela. I thought about naming it "Pamela."
"Hey Pam, what's shakin?" I would ask.
"You know, the salt and pepper next to me, you know, because they're in a shaker!" She would chuckle and tilt her little stem back. She would have been a good friend.
But, alas, after about 8 days peeled it I did. And, guess what? It was dry and insipid! After all that work, it was actually really bad. I know, right? It did get me thinking, however. I mustered up all the patience in the world devoted to citrus fruit and I went at it like a ravenous citrus-eating monster. And, in the end, it was not that great. I wonder, would it have been better if I would have just eaten in without waiting that week looking at it sitting on my table? Maybe, but I'll never know. In a way, as fickle as it seems, it can sort of help me describe to you what it is like to live aborad, or in Israel. One can take on a task (opening a bank account, getting your B.A. recognized b the Student Authority, eating a pomela, etc.) and take time doing it, but in the end, it may not work out the first time. Set back after set back, sometimes, it's important to realize that eventually it will work out. I know that I will eventually learn to pick the juiciest of the pomela bunch.
In a way, it is something I like about not living in the U.S. I think sometimes things can be taken for granted in the States. Like, for example, it is relatively easy to open a checking account, get a cell phone, and as it should be, don't get me wrong. Here, some of these mundane activities can take hours upon hours. But, after opening an account, I realized it is not because Israeli bankers are extrememly inefficient (although they can be), but sometimes it's because they approach things on a more human level. I went to the bank the other day to make a deposit. A simple thing. Well, it was raining, so I came in soaked. The banker saw this and before even asking me what she could do for me she offered me tea. And, she put in fresh mint leaves and was distressed she had no Equal for me to sweeten my tea. After talking about the rain for, oh, about 5 minutes, she asked me how I was doing here. About 10 minutes later, she talked to her colleague about the rain. I was beginning to get distressed but the patience god(dess) looked down upon me. "Take a breather, Alberto," (s)he said. About 20 minutes later, we started the banking procedure. A full half hour later, I was out of the bank having only done about, oh, 2 minutes of actual banking.
We're not in Kansas (actually, anywhere in the U.S.) anymore, Toto (Alberto).
Really, my life these days is about patience, in the bigger sense, not just about fruit rinds and personal finances (although when I put it like that does it mean that with time my personal finances will grow?). Israel is a country where people get started later on in life. When people are 18, they go to the Army for a few years. Then they go travelling to get everything out of their system (or into their system as it would be) that life in a military did not allow them to do. Then they come back to Israel and maybe work for a while and finally, maybe at the age of 23 they begin college. So, people my age are actually in the middle of their undergraduate studies. When I ask them if they aren't getting anxious to get on with the show, as I am, some of them seem puzzled and look at me as if wanting to say, "You have your whole life. Chill out."
Well, chilling out is hard to do in the Middle East. Newsflash: It's warm here!
But, they're right. I do have my whole life ahead of me. So, with that, I should make time for human interaction at the bank, maybe even peel my fruit merrily. Breathe in, breathe out.
Or, I could just learn to peel the darn thing more efficiently.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Welcome. Mi blog es su blog.
I've always been a bit weary about blogging. First of all, why are my mundane thoughts interesting enough for others to read? Second of all, it can be a bit intimidating to expose oneself like this. I love to write, but this may be the first time I actually write for someone, if there is anyone out there reading this.
I live in Jerusalem, Israel which is maybe one of the craziest places on earth. It is a very intense city where feelings and emotions are running at light speed and where everyone has an opinion about everything that they are willing to share with you. I made "Aliyah" to Israel exactly one month ago today. In Hebrew, the word "Aliyah" means "rising." So, in a way, moving to Israel is in a way like "rising" your soul to some sort of next level.
Well, let me tell you, this stuff here is definitely on the next level. It's impossible to be here without thinking at least several dozens of times a day, "is this for real?" Sometimes, it's when someone eats a whole tomato on the bus (the eastern Mediterranean is blessed with the best tomatoes on planet Earth), or other times it's when you see two couples walking on the street, one of them dressed like they came from 1747 Warsaw, Poland and the other looking like they frequent a shop where every garment for sale is 100% certified organic hemp. Sadly, sometimes it's when there is a military operation just a few kilometers from where you are living and you feel like you are so "far" from it because a Qassam rocket cannot reach your apartment.
Before I continue, I think I should make something clear. This blog, while yes it is about my life in Israel, is also about what quotidian ups and downs are like for a guy who was brought up in the sunny San Diego suburbs, who attended some over-privileged university and who lived in New York City after graduating can deal with a place as crazy as this one - far from friends and family, in a region of the world that certainly has some issues, but with a zest for adventure and for living around the best tomato products. Of course, the people are interesting and I believe in this place, too.
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