What's On in Israel

I was at Shuk Carmel earlier in the week and I decided to buy a kilo of Mystery Fruit, since everyone else was buying them with great enthusiasm, and I've always believed that when a big group of people is doing something, you should follow suit without any questions.

Once I got home, I dumped them into THE colander to wash and inspect them. My findings: they're about the size of a nectarine, with similarly smooth and shiny skin. But their color is more of a pink-red blush with scattered saffron-colored freckles, and it has a stem like an apple or a pear. So, I was thinking, alright, it must be a very pretty variation from the peach-nectarine family. But, once I bit into it, the flesh was just like an apple—crisp and white and a little mealy. But the taste of that apple-like flesh was more like a mixture of melon and plum. And once you get to the core, the fruit has a stone pit, not seeds, and the pit is surrounded by a beautiful red corona of flesh, just like a peach!

Well, obviously, I was disgusted.

Make up your mind, Mystery Fruit! Maybe all the Israelis are always telling you how special and delicious you are, but from where I stand you just look like you're terrible at making decisions! You can't please everyone, Mystery Fruit.

Anyway, remember my 8 channels of shamefully pirated Israeli cable? Well, the shame is waning in inverse proportion to my delight over the weirdness of the programming choices. There's actually a ton of American TV, but it's sort of like playing Roulette every time you turn to the two English channels. It must have been a pretty Faustian licensing deal on the Israeli side of things. I think all the American network heads banded together and were like,“Oh, sure, HOT! (yes, that's the name of the main cable provider), you can show reruns of “Mad Men” and “House” and “The Office” and “Family Guy.” What's that? You want to show “Ugly Betty” too? No problem, we'll even throw in “Gilmore Girls.” at. Go ahead and sign that contract. Terrific!”
(Ten seconds later, with ink still wet on contract)
What? Ohhhh, that paragraph in tiny type at the end just states that you also have to buy up the syndication rights for “Jimmy Kimmel Live,” “Dr. Phil,” “King of Queens,” a few NBC and ABC shows that were canceled after one season [Ed: “Swingtown,” anyone? Exactly.] , and some CourtTV shows from the O.J. Era. And, best of all, a daily 4-hour block of selections from the Hallmark Channel [Ed: comprised mostly of the sort of truly execrable made-for-tv woman-in-distress movies that make the programs of its rival channel, Lifetime (home to “Not Without My Daughters!” and “Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?” ) look like flippin' Shakespeare]. Also, Israelis like Tae-Bo still, right? Well, I hope so, because, you've also agreed to air hours of early morning Billy Blanks workout videos

Yeah. Mwah-ha-ha.

(Chorus of evil laughter swells as the American network heads disappear in a cloud of smoke. The Hot! executives weep)

The Israeli channels are way better anyway. “In Practice,” that HBO show about a therapist and his clients, is actually based on the Israeli show of the title, and you can still catch it in reruns here. And Israeli kids' shows are basically geared to my language level, so I've actually been watching those, though there's only so many times where you can sing along with a talking cartoon bear about all the different colors in the rainbow before you feel like a real horse's ass.

I guess “Shalom Sesame” (the, you guessed it, Israeli version of “Sesame Street”) is also really popular though I haven't seen it. I did read in the paper that they just finished filming on-site segments for an upcoming kids special about the peace process and Jewish-Israeli/Arab-Israeli conflicts. Elmo and a film crew visited the Kotel (the “Western Wall”) for it. Can you imagine? Say,you're a devout Orthodox Jew, and you're, like praying the mourner's kaddish at the wall, or something else incredibly sacred and serious, and when you finish and turn your head, there's a flippin' MUPPET next to you, talking in the third person (“Elmo loves davening! Yay!”), trying to hug you with its furry, floppy limbs and basically making light of everything you hold dear, and oh PS also there are two grown men attached to this thing and they're crouching o at your feet with their hand up his butt. And PPS someone is filming all of this.

I'm surprised there wasn't a Haredi Riot. (Not as fun or colorful as a “Zoot Suit Riot,” by the way).

There's also this very popular reality show everyone in Israel watches about 4 women of different ages, with different backgrounds, who videotape their own lives with little camcorders, then turn over the raw footage to be edited by the show's producers. I mostly have no idea what the fuck is going on during the episodes, and the camera-work leaves much to be desired (haha) but there's a lot of crying and yelling and soulful monologues into the camera plus some very educational Hebrew swearing.

Oh, and there's this evening soap opera that stars the Israeli heartthrob of the moment, Yehuda Levi (only in Israel can a heartthrob have a name like “Yehuda”). He's either a former pro soccer star in real life who's playing an international underwear model in the show, or a former international underwear model in real life playing a pro soccer star on the show. Same difference, right? And I guess he has this rival (a blonde dude, ya know, so you can tell them apart) who used to be his friend but now they hate each others guts, and they like to steal each others girlfriends. And one of the only Anglo character on the show is Yehuda's crusty British doctor, who had this very dramatic scene with him in the last episode, totally in English, where he brandishes (brandishes!) a full (full!) specimen cup at Yehuda while denouncing him for “pumping [him]self full of damned steroids!” [Dah-duh-DAAAH! Dramatic cliffhanger music surges as camera pans to Yehuda who is trying to look defiant yet contrite but sort of just looks constipated!] Also, everyone says “fuck” a lot, even though the show airs from 6:00-7:00 at night, Sunday-Thursday. Also, they show boobs.

OH! And the opening credits are amazing.Yehuda and the blonde guy are standing on this pitch black soccer pitch with a thunderstorm raging around them, and they do some arty primal screaming before beating the shit out of each other in the rain while remaining very handsome-looking. And just to make things absolutely perfect, the super-dramatic, sort-of-strained male vocals of the show's opening credit song are provided by. . . you guessed it! Yehuda Levi! He's the classic triple-threat: real underwear model/fake soccer player/delusional pop musician.

And I haven't even mentioned the two Russian TV channels (both mostly featuring movies from no earlier than 1970 that have clearly not been archived properly since tthey're all grainy and scratchy, and their colors are kind of faded and distorted. Or maybe that' was just the style of the U.S.S.R. cineastes back then? (“In Israel, you watch television. In Soviet Russia, television watches you!”)

There's also an all-French public television-type programming on channel 12 (lots of classical music performances and hour-long specials about endangered species, like the somehow hilariously titled “Apparaciones Despuetre: Le Panda Rouge”--a special about the (admittedly sad) plight of the Red Panda (neither red nor a panda, by the way). It also shows classic movies late at night, but they're all badly dubbed into French, regardless of their nation of origin, with Hebrew and Russian subtitles flashing every two seconds on the bottom of the screen. It lends a really surreal air to, say, “Chinatown,” which I still ended up watching for a half hour or so (how do you say “She's my sister and my daughter” in French? Anyone?)


I need to spend more time with my Hebrew flashcards and less time with the television.

Tel Aviv Bulletin: New Year's Edition (In Which, for once, the Dog Manages to Build Bridges Instead of Noisily Destroying Them)

Shana Tova, everyone. It's the second day of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and as I walked the dog early this morning we saw many black-hatted Haredim (literally trans.”God-Fearers,” the Israeli umbrella terms for members of all the Ultra-Orthodox sects) passing through my quiet neighborhood on their way to Shul to observe the first of the Yanim Noraim (trans “The Days of Awe,” which sounds way better than the “High Holidays,” right?). Almost all the married men clutched the hands of their young sons, little boys in freshly-ironed white shirts still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Older men slowly strolled in groups of threes or fours, some walking arm-in-arm and others leaning on canes.

Everyone had their tallis, carefully folded and protected in a waterproof plastic pocket, tucked under their arms. The quiet stream of men all wore the sober Orthodox rekelech (long black blazer, suit pants, and white button-down shirt), slip-on black leather dress shoes (to avoid having to touch shoes or tie knots on shabbat). Most of the mens' hats were black felt fedoras, though a few wore brimmed hats with a rounded top, and the boys wore plain kippot (the small flat skullcaps we call by their Yiddish name, yarmulke, in the States).

Their conservative black-and-white uniforms, worn in accordance with the Orthodox belief in bodily modesty, suddenly made me acutely conscious of my own clothing-a white cotton t-shirt (ironically decorated with a photo of a nearly-naked, proudly flexing muscle man from the 1920's) and short green boxer shorts I'd worn to bed the night before, topped-off with only a pair of ersatz Ray-Bans and a messy ponytail. I thought of the dressing-down I'd witnessed at the Kotel (the Western Wall) just days ago during our school trip to Jerusalem. A fur hat-topped Haredi in a long silk coat, and a gray beard had happened upon two female tourists who'd removed the dark blue wraps they'd been given by security guards at the Wall's entrance to reveal their above-the-knee shorts and shoulder-baring tank tops. Incensed, he harangued them, jabbing his finger angrily at them as they walked backwards, uncomprehending, away from his shouting. A younger, Modern Orthodox woman flew to the women's rescue, speaking to them softly as they hastily tied the borrowed wraps back into skirts and shawls. At the same time, two Kotel security guards and a younger soldier in field fatigues surrounded the older man, walking him in the opposite direction as he continued to scold and complain.

Wincing, I turned the corner at the end of my block, intending to make a low-profile loop before returning home. Of course, I immediately met with a new clump of Haredim, who wordlessly, without eye contact, parted down the middle to permit me to pass through. Consumed by the worry that I'd just been judged as some pajama-clad Jezebel, it took me a minute to notice that a young dad and his two young sons were trailing several meters behind the group. But the little boys locked eyes with Michael immediately, and the younger of the two, still chubby with baby fat, called out, “Chamud! Kaaaay-lev! Kaaaaay-lev!” (aprox trans.”Oh, Cute! Doggy, doggy!). Hesitant but smiling, I leaned over, scooped Michael up in my arms, and squatted down to introduce him to the boys. With a nod from their dad, the two carefully stroked Michael (who's always been way calmer and more polite with kids), and touched his soft ears. The littlest one squealed happily when Michael politely licked his proffered fingers. I set Michael down on the sidewalk and stood up before waving “Bye-bye” to the boys. Their father's smiling eyes met mine, and with a nod, he wished me “Shana Tova Umetukah,” which I'd just learned in Ulpan meant “A good and sweet year.”

I headed back home with Michael straining at his leash, laughing at myself as I realized the tune of that dumb song from Oaklahoma!, “The Farmer and the Cowman Should Be Friends,” was playing in my head.

Everything Up 'Til Now II

SEPTEMBER 12

I coerced a distant Israeli relative into co-signing my lease, I exploiting the goodwill, brute strength, and luggage racks of three different cab drivers, I spent dozens of painful hours at the bank, I pack and unpacked and packed and unpacked and packed and unpacked, and I think I might have contracted stress-induced eczema.

What I'm trying to get at is that I'm writing this from the living room of my third and final apartment. And it feels terrific.

There was a last-minute, excruciating 48-hour delay in moving because of missed deadlines in the rehab of the unit next door (into which the previous tenants of my apartment just moved). I should have known to expect it: the promises of an Israeli construction contractor are doubly fishy.

The up-side is that my new next-door neighbors, Tal and Arik, have been so warm and generous and welcoming to me (possibly out of guilt, but I'll take it anyway I can get it). They gave me their old vacuum cleaner, two sets of curtains, two kitchen chairs for the breakfast nook in the kitchen, a kam-kam, a suede couch and love seat (both the color of urine, but extremely comfortable), three area rugs, a television, a dvd player, a huge bedroom wardrobe, and a silver lizard screwed to the wall next to the toilet in the bathroom whose curved tail holds the requisite toilet paper. Not only that, but Arik also patched me into their cable TV service and gave me the password to their wireless internet!

Michael is happy with our new home too. His new favorite activity is crying at my feet until I open the doors of the balcony and pull open the bottom set of the shutters so he can stick his head through the slats and wait for unknowing pedestrians, bicyclists, and stray cats to pass by so he can give them his loudest, most basso profundo WOOF and watch them jump, scowl, and hiss, respectively. It's great fun.

He also loves sniffing his way through all the construction detritus left behind by the renovation next-door. For some reason, peeing on splintered two-by-fours and half empty bags of plaster is way, way more fun than peeing on boring old trees and light poles.

Things haven't been all ponies and rainbows, though. I thought long and hard before deciding to share this with you all, but I realized that keeping it a secret would only make it worse.

I bought a pair of Tevas.

For those of you who are (blissfully) ignorant of these sartorial shandas, just imagine all the grace and style of an orthopedic walking shoe, stripped down to its clunky sole and with the addition of velcro-trimmed nylon straps.

Basically, these are the ugliest sandals in the world. They're favorites of the granola set, the type of nouveau-hippy-crystal clutching-backpacker-hydroponic gardener whose shoes have to be sturdy enough to hike and trek through the wilderness, but also permit the toe-baring integral to their deep connection with the electromagnetic energies of the earth's chi.

They are also popular with people who have horrible toenail fungus.

And here in Israel, where they were first spawned (in some horrible shoe-laboratory, deep in a hastily-converted bomb shelter, as part of some sinister plot hatched by the Israeli secret police), wearing them is basically a civic responsibility. I spotted a dozen or so pairs at the wedding I went to last weekend.

Iam all for inter-cultural understanding, but heinous footwear is where I usually draw the line. Look, living in Holland doesn't mean you have to clump around in wooden clogs, and spending time in Japan doesn't necessitate a pair of those thong sandals with the little white ankle socks.

But. I'm going on a day trip to Jerusalem tomorrow, with everyone else in my cohort, and we're going to spend the afternoon in the City of David—which is sort of like a theme park, except with all sorts of ancient ruins and architectural finds instead of roller-coasters and cotton candy stands. So, actually, it's not at all like a theme park. But the main draw at this place is the network of underground tunnels (I know, I know. First Bet Govrien, now this. What I can say? The Jews of old were a cave-loving people). These tunnels are rocky and dark, it takes about 45 minutes to travel through them, and they're filled with water—the levels are apparently between waist and knee-high, though that's vague sort of estimate when it comes from someone 6'2'' (our guide, Ilan). So, Ilan told us we were required to bring along a pair of what he crisply termed “sport sandals,” with his South African accent. Or, if we didn't have a pair, he would permit us to wear a pair of “Aqua-Sox.”

What could I do? I was stuck, as said, “between the devil and deep blue sea.”So, I sulkily chose the lesser of the two evils, and slunk into the “Steve's” outdoor store at the Dizengoff mall. Now, as a completely inexperienced, unseasoned hiker and camper, I normally love these stores. All the little collapsing cups and space-foam mattress pads and water-purifying tablets—ooh, and the rainbow selection of carabiners!—give rise to vague fantasies of tromping around in some sunny forest wearing sweat-wicking socks designed by the U.S. Army, eating beanie-weenies cooked over a campfire before snuggling into my sleeping-bag spread out under the stars.

But then I remember that I hate beanie-weenies. And that I really, really hate peeing outdoors. But until I recall all that, I can spend hours inspecting compasses, listening to the virtues and drawbacks of different tent models, and imagining what freeze-dried beef stroganoff would actually taste like, once reconstituted.

Not on this visit though. Instead, I slunk to the footwear section, where I was greeted with a veritable orgy of Teva sandals and their many imitators. It was disgusting. After I swallowed my vomit, I gingerly poking through the selection, I picked out the least offensive of the lot. Plain black nylon straps and a black sole. I brought I brought them to the register, holding them away from me between thumb and index finger in the same manner I carry Michael's bags of doody on walks. And once the sale was completed, the cashier thoughtfully placed my purchase in a plain brown shopping bag, ensuring me the same anonymity allowed to purchasers of hard-core pornography or hemorrhoids medication.

I had to swallow a little vanity, but even though they may not look good, man oh man are they a dream to wear! Lightweight, sturdy, and incredibly comfortable. And I don't even mind donning the huge pair of Jackie O.-style sunglasses and the blond wig

SEPTEMBER 3

The dog has recently discovered how to transubstantiate. Or, at least, that's my lead hypothesis at the moment, since I've come home to Temporary Apartment Number Two: Electric Bugaloo on three separate occasions to find him waiting for me at the front door, outside of the bedroom/study area where I had sequestered him behind a securely closed bedroom door. Maybe I could earn some extra tuition money by taking the dog on the road and staging spectacular escapes, like a modern-day, canine Harry Houdini. I mean, you'd pay 69.90 (plus TicketMaster charges and handling fee) to see that, right?

No?

Alright, this more mundane explanation is probably the right one. The bedroom's attached office closes with a heavy sliding glass door, rather than one on hinges. And somehow, the dog has learned to nudge ithis door open just far enough for him to wriggle out, Riki-Tiki-Tavi style. Or at least that's what I think. Mom and Dad actually bought me a tiny camera designed to attach to a dog's collar document what the dog does when its alone in the house, as a lark. But now I'm really regretting leaving it in Chicago.

So, I've co-taught two days of school so far, and as I was warned, the cultural differences between American and Israeli public schools are huge. There are lots of little things. Like, the kids have two recesses, one ten-minute one in the first half of the day and one twenty-minute one in the second half. The school day begin at 8:00and end at 2:00, instead of 3:00 or 4:00. However, almost all of the kids spend the hours between 2:00 and 6:00 in what we would call extracurricular activities, for which they pay additional tuition. Elhareezi has one of the largest offerings of after school options in the city. This year, besides playing basketball and soccer, kids can join dance classes, learn how to draw comics, make pottery, take music lessons, or help in the zoo.

Yes.

The School Zoo. Okay, this is not an Israeli school thing. The Zoo is unique to Elhareezi, and I'm not quite sure what the genesis of the whole program was, or how long it's existed. But on the grounds on the school campus, beyond the front gates, in between the basketball courts and the soccer field, is a little red wooden bungalow with an attached outdoor yard. It's currently home to several ducks, two chickens, a pair of huge, floppy-eared bunnies, and an extremely placid pygmy goat. My co-teachers told me that the zoo will incubate and hatch chicken eggs in another few months (always a thrill for grade-school kids) and shelter the obligatory butterfly cocoons (also nice) and that they sometimes also have alpacas, adolescent lambs or even ponies. Apparently they also had guinea pigs at one point, but they didn't get all one gender, so the resulting surge . . and reduction. . . in the guinea pig population was very disturbing for the children (Who wants to be the teacher who explains that some of the Guinea pig mommies ate a lot of their guinea pig babies? Not me.)One of the long-time teachers is the zoo-keeper, and she also takes care of the huge (6 feet wide and probably 7 or eight feet tall) aviary of little birds (a bunch of parakeets, plus several others whose names I don't know)adjacent to the main stairway in the school itself.

But while there is a zoo, there's no cafeteria. Israeli kids eat during a twenty-minute gap between second and third periods (so around 10:00 or 11:00 o'clock) in their classrooms, and while the period is called “breakfast,” most kids eat that in the morning at home and just have a snack at school.

Gym class is held two or three times a week, always outdoors (unless there's rain), and it begins with a mystifying series of what looks like a mixture of calisthenics, tai chi poses, and yoga asanas.

The kids buy all of their textbooks before school begins, instead of using school copies, and they organize their work in six-inch tall two-hole binders and write tiny little notebooks that look just like college exam “blue books,” only with plastic covers. . . usually covered in pictures of “High School Musical,” or the like.

But the Israeli kids themselves are the biggest difference. One of the older teachers struggled to describe their temperament to me on the first day of school. Finally, she told me, “We say they are like little animals. I'm not sure what they are called in English, but we say they are like groups of a sort of kind of wild goats.”

Great.

I guess the best way to put it is to just say that Israeli children really have a lot more chutzpah. A whole lot more. They are, to to borrow from the AKC's description of the purebred dachshund:

“Highly vocal, intelligent, and brave to the point of brashness.”

The organization of the classrooms do nothing to quell these qualities. Like primary schools everywhere, the walls are covered in pictures, charts, student work, written reminders like,“No fighting,” written in stark red letters in a 6^th grade room) and institutional propaganda, such as “Math is Fun!”( written in glittery paint on one on of the fourth grade walls). But the rooms themselves are only big enough to comfortably seat say, twenty or twenty-five students. Instead, the typically host around forty kids. And their desks. And their straight-backed chairs. And their backpacks. And their personal cubbies (in lieu of hallway lockers). And all the other flotsam and jetsam elementary-school kids seem to accumulate.

This makes for a very crowded room. What's worse, the kids are seated in pairs at small tables, rather than desks, making cross-talk during lessons irresistible, and cheating during exams almost effortless.

Just working silently, or heeding the (constantly, constantly repeated) admonition to “Raise your hand and wait to be called on before you speak (goddamnit)” is a huge challenge for Israeli kids. In America, following directions, listening to the teacher, waiting for your turn, and working well with others are (for better or worse) constantly drilled into kids heads from the first day of preschool. But in Israel, early childhood education isn't standardized, kindergartens are all private, and the preschool teachers are more circus ringmasters than instructors.

I'm fortunate because, once the beginning of the year English language placement tests are processed, I'll take the native English speakers and the students who are deemed “advanced” outside of the large English classes to do more specialized instruction—in so called “Native Speaker English Enrichment” classes. I'll be able to lead writing projects, plan my own lessons, and tailor the classes to the individual goals and interests of each child. I even get to choose my own textbook (which I can follow or deviate from as required).

The full-time, salaried teachers are not so lucky. I can't imagine having six (50-minute) periods a day of barely-contained chaos. Plus, the teachers have to stick pretty closely to strict (but constantly changing) Ministry of Education-mandated curriculum and standards, and don't have the extra help to implement lessons more ambitious than the ones set out in the subject's text and workbook, which sounds very stifling. And, in spite of unions that have grown far more powerful in recent years, teachers in Israel are paid the lowest salaries of anyone in the so-called “Developing World,”though, to be fair, salaries across all professions are much, much lower (in spite of a fairly high cost of living) all across Israel.

One thing I do love about Israeli schools is the hand-raising system. In Israel, students generally raise their hands while pointing their index finger. However, when they raise their hand to ask permission to go to the bathroom, they raise their index and their middle fingers together (like in the Boy Scout pledge). So, it's easy to wordlessly nod yes or no to bathroom requests without interrupting the flow of the lesson. I think this should be implemented in American schools post-haste.

However, amidst all these differences one bit of teaching wisdom was the same.. The head of the English department, Vered, advised me, as so many vets have advised first-year teachers, to not smile until a mid-year holiday. Only, instead of saying to wait 'til Thanksgiving or Christmas, like everyone says in the U.S., she told me to wait until after Chanukah.