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).