Of Israeli Rap-groups, Rooftop Tents, Beautiful Slums, and Neon-Arked Synagogues. [Part 1]

(Or how I learned to stop pretending and accept my status as a foreigner in a foreign Land.)

I realize that I am leaving about a week and a half of my life unaccounted for by telling you about this past weekend, that is a small amount of time in the long run, my past weekend is still fresh in my mind, and I can sum up the past two weeks in the following sentence: “Every morning from 8:30 to 12, I sit in Ulpan half asleep; otherwise, I have played some soccer, spent Shabbat in Netanya, signed for an apartment, and went out drinking with my fellow med students.”

On Thursday, I met with my landlord, her fiancée, and her realtor, and had the silliest negotiation over an apartment that has ever happened in the history of real estate. The Hebrew speaking realtor negotiated between me and the landlord, both of whom are Americans. I was prepped by Sam, and had a laundry list of demands that I should make regarding the contract---and not take no for an answer. Sort of like that scene in the movie Tommy Boy, I not only did a terrible job, but I somehow managed to make the contract even worse for me than when I began. But---in the end---I’m getting a huge, beautiful, airy, second-floor apartment right next to the Mediterranean Sea for $600 a month. So, I’m not really sweating it. Also, the landlord’s grandmother (who is actually my de-facto landlord, since my landlord lives in L.A.) is a very sweet lady, and seems genuinely interested in taking care of me. She has already fed me…twice. So I think I came out on top, and also got a good chance to remind myself why I could never, ever go into business because I am the world’s worst negotiator.

Right after signing the contract and shaking hands, I got on a bus to Jerusalem. Once there, I walked over to the center of town/Kikar Tzion/America-in-Israel and decided to take charge of my situation (that being a guy without a bed to sleep in). Something in me---I’m not sure from where---inspired me to walk into a hostel, ask about rooms, and when told there were no rooms, took up an offer to sleep in a tent on the roof of the hostel. Which really wasn’t that bad of an idea, except at 8 AM the next morning…

When I finally got to where I (thought) I wanted to be, I was very confused, since the concert was being held on an outdoor stage, and I found it strange that a bar would also have an outdoor venue. I shrugged this paradox off, and asked the ticket-taker where I could buy a ticket. He shrugged, and then suggested a booth about 100 yards away, but added that he thought the concert was sold out. Indeed, the concert was sold out, which I really found interesting, considering that this rap group is not that popular. I probably muttered something like, “Ehhh….mah lah’ahsot?” which is Hebrew for “C’est la vie,” bought a beer, walked around this outdoor area surrounding the concert, and plotted my next move. Since I was meeting Sam at the bar, who was coming from a wedding in Abu Ghoush (which I thought was an Arab town, but is in fact not only Jewish, but also famous for their good hummous, which ended up delaying Sam even more than he was already delayed), I called him up to tell him that the concert was sold out, and that I was nursing my troubles with a beer. He warned me not to drink too much, as he wanted me to behave in front of his friends who he was bringing along for the night’s festivities.

The phone call ended with me agreeing to not get too drunk, though still confused as to when, exactly, Sam would leave the abundant, tasty, and, most importantly, free hummous long enough to get on bus to Jerusalem. I sat down to try to organize my thoughts and enjoy the music coming from the concert long enough to realize that it was decidedly not rap music…or anything even close. Confused, I walked back over to the same ticket-taker who informed me that the concert was sold out and asked him, literally, “Who is that over there making that music?” He looked at me like I was from Mars (though, judging by his accent, I would say he was from Russia, which isn’t that great, either), and informed me that it was Jethro Tull.

“Ze lowh ha’Mah’ahbadah?” [This is not The Laboratory?]. He reported that this was, indeed, not the place I was looking for after all, and that my bar and concert were a few blocks away. I was very appreciative to find out that my concert was not sold out, but I was very, very confused to have nearly stumbled into a Jethro Tull concert. I cannot honestly say that I even thought Jethro Tull was still alive, let alone touring the Middle East. I thanked the ticket-taker, made the 2 block journey to the actual Laboratory, and found a much more “Laboratory” looking venue---a very stylish, local bar that was much more Israeli than any other bar I had ever seen in Jerusalem before---probably because of its distance from major American hangouts. Instead of document all of the silly things that happened to me at this concert, I will just say that going to any concert alone, and especially a concert which is not sung in your native language, is a disorienting experience. But, I made some friends (the bartender claimed that she has known the band since before they were big, and that they are nice guys), had a few drinks, and even managed to get someone to drive me to my next destination (Mom and Dad take note: I saved $5 with this move. So when I call to ask you for more money, please don’t act like I am not pulling my weight).

I met up with Sam and two of his friends, Ross and (I forgot….?). Ross was a friend of Sam’s from high school, I believe, and the girl was connected to Sam through some Zionist conspiracy trying to subvert American foreign policy. Fortunately for everyone present, I managed to keep my promise to Sam to be presentable for his friends, and only managed to shout down one of them throughout the course of the night (Sam’s Zionist friend complained that Jewish organizations are spending money in all of the wrong places…..since Judaism should not be living in the past, and should start to conform to our (i.e. our generation’s) needs. For some thoughts on this, see my previous post, and probably future posts as well). At around 4 in the morning, the kosher pizza place and the kosher bagel place were still open, and when I went with the bagel and lox, which sounded pretty good at that moment, I was immediately accused of harboring ghetto-tendencies, but I think I came out the winner in this one, since the word “ghetto” originated in Italy, the same as their pizza.

Sam and I parted ways with Ross and the AIPAC girl, and went over to our tent on the roof of the hostel. It was quite comfortable there, but just as Sam was about to lay down, he asked me, “Wait---it’s going to get very hot in here in the morning, won’t it?” To which I answered, with the sort of logic you can expect from someone half-asleep who generally doesn’t like to be proven wrong at anytime of the day: “Oh. Don’t worry. It’s dry heat here in Jerusalem.” I’m aware that this is a mystifying comment on many levels, not the least because dry heat is how I would describe the inside of an oven, which was exactly what our tent felt like at 8 in the morning. I must say that, in case you’ve never tried it, trying to sleep in an oven is not really possible. So, ever the troopers, we got up, tried to go back to sleep in the shade, failed, then collected our stuff, mumbled something to the hotel manager about not mentioning that sleeping past 7:30 AM on the roof was nearly impossible, paid our bill, and went to purchase a breakfast of fruit, bureakas, and orange juice---all purchased in the shuk (Machane Yehudah).

I should add a small side note about orange juice in Israel. Actually---any justice I could possibly do to the difference between what Israelis think is orange juice, and what Americans think is orange juice, has already been done by Dave Chappelle, when illustrating the differences between what white people think is “grape juice” and black people drink, referred to as “grape drink.” Actually, the term “orange drink” is written on the sides of bottles of the fake orange drink that Israelis seem to love, though they call it “Meetz Tapuzim,” which translates to orange juice. Which, in the end, just makes it even more difficult to get Israelis to give you ACTUAL orange juice when you are looking for it. Either way, this is all important because Sam and I actually managed to get our hands on a bottle of real orange juice (at the cost of 25 Shekels/$6.00, which is no small expense over here, especially for food).

We ended up taking all of this food over to Sam’s friends house in Nachalot, a neighborhood in Jerusalem. Well, to call it a neighborhood in Jerusalem is to do about as much justice to this neighborhood as calling The Village a neighborhood in NYC. Nachalot is the neighborhood that is located directly behind Mahane Yehudah Shuk, and goes as far as Kadamon (near the German Colony and Emek Refaim). It is apparently the neighborhood to live in Jerusalem. It is all gorgeous, old Jerusalem-stone houses with red roofs. However, some of these houses look like beautiful new mansions, and some of them look decidedly like some sort of holy slums. Walking near my friend Chaim’s apartment (more on that later…), I noted to him that the neighborhood was maybe the most pleasant slums in the world. Basically, I’ve begun to realize that Israelis really do not care what the outside of their houses look like. They put stupid looking “dudes” (the silly choice of a word for a water heater) on their roofs, they don’t ever paint the outsides of the houses, and they often have lots of different, strange things hanging off the outside walls of their house. This is all to say that, whereas they do not care about the outsides of their houses, the insides of their houses are almost uniformly warm, inviting, comfortable, and all-around wonderful to sit around in.

That said, Sam’s friend’s apartment was one of the most comfortable apartments I have ever had the pleasure of sitting in. There’s really no way to explain it; maybe it was the cool breeze, maybe it was the beautifully tiled floors, maybe it was the comfortable chairs, maybe it was the orange juice, maybe it was all the flowers, or maybe it was the great company---either way, it was just great sitting around in that apartment. Maybe it is Jerusalem. I’ll stop speculating here. Either way, the sisters to whom the apartment belongs (Maya and Hadas…well, it is Maya’s, but Hadas seems to be staying there) were wonderfully welcoming, and let us (Sam, Chaim, and I) smell up their apartment for a good part of the morning. For the sake of all involved, I will refrain from going into too much detail of the extent of their warmness, but, needless to say, I was made to feel at home. I have posted a picture of the apartment (along with Sam and Maya) below.

Actually, I’ve posted a few pictures below. And, with that, I am going to end this post, with a promise to continue it at a later date (including the parts where I discover the popularity of neon-framed synagogue arks among the Charedim, and maybe even admit how truly foreign I often feel in a place that also often feels like home (i.e. The Paradox).

I realize this is way too long and way too detailed an account of my weekend….and it has taken way too long to write as well. I am working on finding a happy medium with writing this blog. Perhaps it is all for the best, and I will become a faster writer as the months go on.

Or I may just stop writing when med school starts. We will see. Enjoy the pictures:

Picture of Kikar Tzion (Zion Square) from my Hostel Roof-top.



Jethro Tull Concert.


Israeli Rap Concert (HaDag Nachash).


Beautiful Apartment (w/ Sam and Maya).



A view of my apartment from the outside (with Mt. Carmel in the background).

So it looks like I finally found an apartment here in Haifa. More specifically, it is in Bat Galim, and is about a 5 minute walk to the main Med School building. Oh....and it's right on the beach. Pictures taken from a bedroom window of the apartment are posted below.

Yet another reason to come and visit....

Michael

Writing this blog is always a challenge, because---when I am busy---I am both unable to update the blog, and accruing blog-worthy experiences that I feel the need to share, and---when I finally find time to update the blog---I have so many things to write about that I do not even know where to start. On top of that, I do not want to burden all of you with a book’s worth of writing about the mundane happenings of my life. So I will try to seek some middle ground in all of this, to the benefit of us all.

I realize that I have not really done justice to my short, but (very) sweet trip to Jerusalem of Gold (and of Bronze, and of Air….). I mentioned that I met up with my friend Ian Jacobi (of MIT fame), but I forgot to go into some of our wanderings (physical and otherwise). Looking for a place to eat, I decided that I was tired of dining at the America-saturated restaurants in and around Ben-Yehudah street, so we took off in the opposite direction (physical and otherwise) towards Mea She’arim. For all of you who don’t know, Mea She’arim is probably the most famous Ultra-Orthodox neighborhood in the world, due to its proximity to the normal tourist routes through Jerusalem and its militant enforcement of their modest dress code on all who happen to pass through the neighborhood; many an immodestly-dressed tourist gets lost in the Mea She’arim neighborhood and emerges, at the very least, reprimanded (usually in some combination of Yiddish and English that she could not possibly have understood), and, at worst, assaulted with old food and other slightly annoying objects used as projectiles to fight off the modern world and all of its temptations.

But, if you can ignore this insult to our modern sensibilities, the neighborhood is actually a very beautiful mess of mystics, children, American yeshiva bochers, Halachic geniuses, bal habusters, and peddlers all running around through ancient-looking houses in disrepair, hat/wig shops, silver Judaica sellers, Yeshviahs, Sefarim (Jewish Book) Stores, and restaurants----the entire scene seeming like a mixture of a Polish shtetl from 150 years ago and an Arab shuk (market) from a scene in Arabian Nights. It’s very much alive in ways that do not exist in advanced, sensible places like most of America (except, perhaps, pre-Katrina New Orleans).

Anyway, we were walking through the neighborhood looking for a place to eat. As we walked into restaurant after restaurant, we came to the conclusion that, like their modes of dress, their food is also monochromatic: brown. Every little restaurant in the entire neighborhood served the exact same thing: different forms of shnitzel, tzimmus, some different forms of potatos, and some different forms of hummus. The only variation on this theme was a pizza place. Luckily, however, we ran into a friend of Ian’s from his Yeshiah in a Seforim Store, who also happens to be something of an epicurean and incredibly knowledgeable about not only the best places to eat in Jerusalem, but also the best deals in town as well. He suggested to us a Moroccan restaurant (my favorite nationality of restaurant, to be sure) in my old stomping grounds, Emek Refaim. Honestly, I do not think I have had good Moroccan food since the Village Crown closed last year, so I immediately demanded we take his advice. So we hailed the first cab we could find and rushed over, to be treated to an dinner of fresh pita, various pickled vegetables, hummus, tahina, harif, Moroccan cigars (thin pastries rolled around ground beef), French fries, and shnitzel. While this meal may not sound that exotic, those Moroccans do something to their food that makes it taste like heaven.

But the food was not nearly as important as the conversation we had. While we spent time catching up on each other’s lives and catching up on other people’s lives as well, one particular topic that came up in conversation I find worth mentioning here. Ian brought up that he had read a certain online debate between the chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary (JTS), the ivory tower of the Conservative Movement, and the editor of one of the larger online Jewish blogs, Jewcy.com. (You can find it here: http://www.jewcy.com/dialogue/2007-06-11/joey1). The two men sent a very impassioned series of letters back and forth to each other, debating about the current state of American Jewry, and its future. The basic argument of the debate was pluralism vs. particularism; the editor of Jewcy was arguing that American society had finally and completely destroyed the “ghetto walls” keeping Jews in closed-up society, that ideas such as stressing Jewish marriage to other Jews was just a vestigial tradition left over from the shtetl, and that we (Jewish particularists….or, more regularly, traditional Jews) should get over all of these outdated traditions, stop being afraid of the rest of the world, and embrace the entire human race (specifically noting that we, as Jews, are doing a decent job with this in how we are dealing with the whole Sudan/Darfur situation). On the whole, while I found his writing to be very eloquent, his tone was nearly hysterical in his desire to defend his own existence, and was very provincial, in that I think he would have a hard time acknowledging the existence of Jews outside of the Upper West Side (I am well aware of the fact that I am not making any logical arguments here, but instead offering my vague feelings about the debate…I really encourage anyone interested to read the debates yourself, and I would love to hear your opinion via email…maybe even have our own debate).

The chancellor of the JTS, representing a much more traditional viewpoint than I would have ever expected from a chancellor of the JTS, argued that the debate that the editor of Jewcy is presenting has already occurred---100 years ago. Indeed, 100 years ago, Jews involved with the burgeoning socialist movement (i.e. The Bund) were making the very same argument, and their vision for Judaism opening up and not worrying so much about what is happening only to Jews (since, in the new socialist reality, Jews would not be persecuted) and start worrying about the entire world (or at least the working class). This, of course, ended in the gulags of Communist Russia. He also took a few shots at the other’s argument that I felt rang true; specifically, he shot down the Darfur argument, saying that if all of these people marching around Manhantten with Free Darfur signs truly, truly cared about the situation, they would be down in Darfur helping with the refugee efforts (or, at the very least, over here in Israel, which is the only country in the region that will accept refugees from Darfur and grant them political asylum. I met a girl, from Indiana no less (!!!), who was looking at the Technion Medical school who has been working in the refugee camps here in Israel, helping them deal with their new reality here in Israel).

Either way, I am not going to outline the entire argument here, but I brought it up both because I found it a very impressively written expression of this argument, and because the argument, in some way which I am not exactly clear at this moment, resonated with my desire to live in a Jewish state. Since I am quite pressed for time at this moment (Shabbat, along with my ride to Netanyah, are fast approaching).

The rest of my stay in Jerusalem was really quite wonderful: I met up with Hannah Kapnik, a friend from Wellesley who has been in Jerusalem all summer as a counselor for a group of Jewish high school ubermenschen (Bronfman Fellows), who introduced me not only to a very strange exhibit of plaster grizzly bears from around the world (by “from around the world,” I mean that whatever group commissioned the project sent an 8-foot plaster grizzly bear, paws raised as if to attack or dance [I could not tell], to each country in the world, where a local artist painted the entire bear in some sort of way that represented that country; for example, the bear sent to the USA was holding a torch, and was painted to look like a bear version of the statue of liberty, and the bear from Cuba had a cigar sticking out of its mouth, and had some communist propaganda scribbled on its shoulder, along with a very strange picture of Fidel), but also introduced me to my new favorite café in Jerusalem, which is a hole-in-the-wall off of King George Street where the café is lined with book and they serve the most amazing iced-drinks.

Afterwards, I finally tracked down my cousin Jenny, who was holed up in her hotel (since her Birthright group would not let her leave). It ended up being really wonderful to see her and get to talk with her for a while, since I realized that I really had time to talk to her for a very long time. It also reminded me how nice it is to have family around, and how much I cannot wait until the rest of my family visits me here (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). I ended up staying at the hotel for the night, since I missed the last bus back to Haifa, and Jenny was horrified when I told her I was going to just stay up all night in Jerusalem. So I appreciated the floor to sleep on as well.

Since then, I have been studying in Ulpan, and working on figuring out my living situation for the next year/next four years. I have a very long story to tell about meeting a fellow a student at the Technion Medical School….who is from Oklahoma, and about finding what I hope will be my new apartment. So now you all know what to look forward to. Also, I am going to spend Shabbat in Netanya with the Brothers Kutnicki (Chaim and Solomon). So that should produce quite a few very funny stories.

I also really want to thank everyone who has taken the time out to write to me. It is always wonderful to hear from you.

Shabbat Shalom,

Michael

I have done it: I got my own, personal cell-phone in Israel.

And its number is 050-783-3139

Please mind the 7 hour time difference, but otherwise...please call often.

More later,

Michael

This sign either says, "Warning: Pimping Zone," or something about old people....

We haven't gotten that far in my Ulpan.

Yallah,

Michael

There is something about being in Israel that compels me to write. I hate to be one of those people who kvells about the land 24/7 and acts like the air here makes life more meaninfful and the bread makes it more complete----but it's difficult to not immediately be taken in by just how beautiful everything in this country is.

I noticed that my passport was stamped the exact same day that I left Israel last year. I am trying to make up some sort of story about how this is appropriate, how it's as if I never left, etc., etc. But a lothas happened since I was last here. A year later, I am in Israel for very different reasons, staying in a very (!) different place, and I'm here for a very long time. But---to be sure---the events of last year's trip here set in motion my decision to come here, and I'm glad they did.

I will not write about all the things that happened in the weeks leading up to my departure from the U.S. Suffice it to say, there have been very few times in my life when I have been as emotional or unable to deal with an event as these past few weeks. I do want to thank everyone who has been so supportive of this huge, crazy decision of mine. I don't think I would have gotten on the plane without you.

I do recall trying to make something out of the fact that my flight to Israel included a stopover in Frankfurt, Germany. I had given up, really. But while sitting outside the terminal for my 5 hour layover at 6 AM, a group of three Chassidic men---probably Bobovers, though I'm really not sure---were going around to the other clearly-Jewish men looking to form a minyan (quorum of ten Jewish men) for Shacharit, the morning prayer. [As I was wearing a Colts hat and sitting without 30 children running around me screaming, I was naturally not approached]. Despite that, I ended up joining them in the corner of the room as the 10th man, and there were a few surprised looks when I pulled out my Tefillin bag and Siddur. As I was putting everything away at the end of the service, a British Chassid remarked exactly what I would bet most of us were thinking: "This here was an extra special davening [prayer service]---To show the Germans we are still here...and stronger than ever." I guess that is it---Frankfurt is where my mother's parents spent time in a DP camp after WWII, and 60 years later, I was on a connecting flight to study medicine in the country which, according to Thomas Friedman, has the most publicly traded companies in the world (after the US). So, while part of me wants to refrain form trying to extract this sort of intense symbolism out of a layover in Germany, I simply cannot.

So, here I am. I arrived at Ben Gurion safely without too much fanfare, took the train to Hof HaCarmel (The Carmel Beach), and took a cab to Sam "Shmuel" Korb's breathtaking apartment in Ramat Begin (near Ahuza in Haifa). If you need a visual cue to how beautiful the view is from his living room is, I have posted a picture to help you out:



Sam is a good friend of mine from back in my days at MIT (i.e. he was a brother at AEPi). He made aliyah last summer, and is currently serving with the Israeli Navy Seals in their research department. He has learned a lot of Hebrew since I last saw him, and has clearly picked up many of the local customs (especially his incredible hospitality!) We spent all day Friday cooking various items for his Shabbat "Kiddish", drinking wine, doing laundry, and listening to terrible Israeli music. All in all, it was a nice way to get reintegrated into the rhythm of Israeli life.

I am going to end now and continue later. I will just say that I am currently in the Jerusalem Bus Station, where I quickly ran off to after Ulpan this morning to meet up with an old friend from MIT (Ian Jacobi) and my cousin Jenny (who is currently in the Birthright "MEGA Event" which apparently lasts late enough that I will miss my last bus back to Haifa, and have to take the first one in the morning. Oh well----my last moments of freedom before Medschool starts.

As always, I love to hear from everyone. My email is michael.j.star@gmail.com, and I will have a phone soon.

Best,

Michael