Meaningless errands take on meaning...

I so live here

Since I haven't been to Israel in way too long, I thought I'd share some nostalgia with everyone and show off my Nativ thoughts! Wow, five years...

Journal Excerpts

Surprisingly enough, I was quite frazzled earlier tonight, trying to make it out the door to hail a cab downtown, clutching an open backpack, my bright yellow Walkman with two tapes and broken headphones falling out of my hands, my Monica Drew keychain dangling from my mouth, and my cell phone falling out of my pocket, all in a rush to do lots of errands before the stores closed.

In my humble opinion, I was the epitome of an American in Israel.

Miraculously, I hailed a cab in this condition, and in my new terrific accent I asked to get to the center of town. "Kikar Tzion, b'vakasha." ("Zion Square, please.") I said, determined to never speak English again to anyone ever, tossing my bag across the backseat. Inside I asked "Kama zeh?" ("How much?") and worked eagerly to fish out the hamesh-esreh shak (fifteen shekel, or around $4) from my wallet so I wouldn't have to work to do it later.

I caught the cab driver smirking at me through the rearview mirror. I couldn't help but smile back as I stopped rummaging through the lists of things to do and the poncho, letters to mail, and set of markers that were all cluttering my massive backpack of destruction. I let out a sigh, let go of my bag, and closed my eyes as I rested my head on the seat. "You are busy," he said in impressive-for-a-cab-driver English. "Where are you from?"

I tried to explain to him, b'ivrit (b'vadai!), (in Hebrew (of course!)) my situation. "Ani gara baKibbutz Sa'ad akhshav, aval hashavua haba, ani gara b'Yerushalayim." ("I live on Kibbutz Sa'ad now, but the week to come I live in Jerusalem.") I paused. "Ki akhshav - like, akhshav, akhshav, hayom akhshav, ani gara b'Yerushalayim. Yesh z'man hofshi… kol hakvutza sheli." ("Because now - like, now, now, today now, I live in Jerusalem. I have free time… my whole group.") He was smiling. I felt somewhat embarrassed about my horrible Hebrew, but he looked almost proud of me, in that I had tried to speak this much. I was encouraged, and since I had forgotten to use the other six words I knew, I babbled on some more. "Aval, ani m'Boston, m'America, b'vadai." ("But, I am from Boston, from America, of course.")

I became visibly calmer as he talked to me in English and let me answer in Hebrew. It was great. He was really nice. And, given my recent negative run-in with the evil, pedophilia-stricken cab driver Moshe, I was all-too-eager to have my faith in the taxi-driving breed of humanity renewed and restored. He dropped me off and I sprung forth from the cab, sense of urgency returning - ironically enough all-too-quickly - and I checked over my ever-growing list of things to do in my planner.

There is absolutely no need to make anyone suffer through a play-by-play of the next few hours of my life. I mean, hello, I already did it once and essentially, I had dinner and did errands, the entire time flying solo. The point of my amazement lies not within my activities, but within the mere idea behind them. Fishing through my bag I found a key which I needed copied, and I knew right away that, across from Casa Italiana (my favorite Italian restaurant - get the ravioli in the orange tomato-basil-cream sauce, yummy) and next to the Rock Bar (drinks are weak but cheap, it's your call) there was a small opening and an old man and his two best friends sit there and do keys. I was happy to pay him a visit, since I often wave to him as I run up Yoel Solomon on my way to the ATM. From there I proceeded to King George and Jaffa to grab tweezers and isopropyl alcohol (splinters much?) at the pharmacy and to look for "The Tenth Insight" (another chapter in the cheesy "Celestine Prophecy" saga) at the Jordan Bookstore, which always seems to have good English titles (and even better Hebrew ones, not that I'd ever get any benefit from them).

Next door I went into an optical center in the hopes of picking up an eyeglass repair kit, as my ultra-sketchy yellow-lensed sunglasses were in two pieces in my purse. The woman behind the counter took them from me and said "Shtay dakot, shvi" ("Two minutes, sit") while her husband fixed them. When I reached for my wallet to pay, she told me the fee - but requested that I place it in the tzedakah (charity) box she was holding, not into her hands en route to a cash register. Instead of two shak, I dropped in ten - and a hefty but totally unnecessary "Todah rabbah" ensued, as I thanked her instead for her assistance and for the opportunity to give tzedakah.

Finally it was time to return to Emek Rafaim to hit my grocery store and my photo place. It's weird, having "my" places… I guess that's what my entire point of describing a night of checking off "things to do" boxes is… I remember telling my mother that the true gauge of my independence was the mere fact that I had my own dry cleaner. (Note to self: Black pants need to be dropped off in enough time to wear them Tuesday night for jazz at Ticho House!) After picking up dishwashing soap and AA batteries, I got my 20x30 enlargement of a very cute photo of pre-Shabbat cooking madness and grabbed my favorite fifteen shak (shekels, again, four bucks) delicacy - felafel and diet Coke from Adir's. Munching all the way up Hizkiyahu Hamelekh, I called back a few friends to make plans for the Israel Museum and possibly Yad Vashem (Holocaust Memorial Museum) later in the week and actually decided to forgo the cab and walk it home up Bilu and finally to Yirday Hasira, where my new key would become useful.

So where am I now? I'm sitting on the balcony of the apartment I'm currently sharing with my friend Roee, looking out onto the starlit courtyard of a group of buildings. My laptop is, in a rare moment of true-to-its-name significance, resting on my lap, and I'm noshing on a Milky pudding snack and listening to the newest Lauryn Hill CD. Although you wouldn't guess me in a million years as a resident of Jerusalem - in my Gap jeans, borrowed-from-Roee AEPi t-shirt, and Nike Airs I look nothing short of a well-dressed American college kid, and with the exception of the diet Coke can having Hebrew writing and my computer being powered via the help of my 50 watt adaptor, I could be outside any urban flat - tonight, more than ever, I really began to move into my home here in Israel.

It freaks out my Mom, I think, when I tell her how I could totally spend the rest of my life here, but she loves when I call, especially when I call from random stores to tell her about Purim costumes or how my voice mail message has "todah rabbah" ("Thank you very much") with a great accent.

I so live here.

And I could not be happier living anywhere else in the world.

May we all be blessed to be able to do meaningless errands in Jerusalem soon!

[Posted 4/30/03]