Within this tiny country, Tel Aviv is the home of most Israeli television and movie studios, and the city of choice for many Israeli musicians, actors, politicians, and other noteables. Friends are always pointing out the celebrities and other well-known personages who we see in the CellCom store, walking up Dizengoff, and stopping for falafel at the Schwarma Agenda. It's hard to get too excited about catching a glimpse of the Israeli Eurovision contestant, or someone recently kicked-off the Israeli version of "Big Brother," or the winner of last year's season of Israeli "Survivor." Not all the sightings have been of reality TV contestants, of course. My colleagues love to tell me about the famous parents who send their kids to our well-off primary school, and it seems like every time I'm at the Cinematheque or one of the big theatres ,my friend and I share a row with some soap star or comedian or musician . And though the Israeli attitude towards celebrity is to politely ignore the famous person and let them eat their meal/walk their dog/purchase their mattress/pay their cell phone bill in peace, my Israeli friends are always disappointed when I can't share in their (discreet) excitement. Whispered explanations of the famous peoples' accomplishments do nothing to spark my enthusiasm. Often, the frustrated friend feels the need to later send me several YouTube clips showing the star we spotted at work, as if to prove my apathy was misplaced. Well, after almost a year of failing my friends, you can imagine the happiness I felt when I had my first bona fide celebrity encounter today!
GUESS WHO I MET TODAY IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD? I was walking the dog home from the beach, and I saw two (Israeli-looking) guys walking toward us, one of whom was wearing a "New Yorker Festival 2008" t-shirt. So, just like a sports nut who encounters a like-minded fan far from home, as I walked past I gave him a big smile and said, "וואו! IThe ניו יורקר ". זה המגזין האהוב עלי! (Wow! The New Yorker! It's my favorite magazine!") Only when I heard the short, t-shirt wearer hesitantly respond, "Thank you?" in English did I add his American accent to his poufy hair and slight build and realize: OMG! It's MALCOLM. FREAKIN'. GLADWELL!*
Slight fan girl freak out ensued, during which I told him how much I covet the packages of New Yorker back issues that get sent here from home, complimented him on his cancer therapy article from a few few weeks back), told him I loved "What the Dog Saw," and informed him that his books are in the English sections of all the Israeli bookstore chains.
Perhaps slightly overwhelmed by my effusion, Mr. Gladwell was nonetheless extremely kind, gracious, and modest. He also complimented Michael, who,in a miraculous display of good behavior,permitted himself to be pet by the poufy-haired stranger and even condescended to lick the man's proffered fingers.
All in all, it was a thrilling encounter. The only thing that could have made it any better would have been to see Malcolm Gladwell while in the company of an Israeli friend, so as to have the satisfaction of rolling my eyes and giving them a hushed, abbreviated bio of the famous writer when met with my friends' bemused indifference.
*In retrospect, I have to add that Malcolm Gladwell wearing a New Yorker festival t-shirt in public is sort of like seeing Thom Yorke in a Coachella t-shirt. . .Do famous people really do this?
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Ulpan-a-Go-Go
My language-learning frustrations reached new heights over the course of second semester as final exams, research papers, elementary school parent-teacher conferences, report-card writing and translating, and the frantic search for summer jobs eclipsed my routine for Hebrew study.
Suddenly, (both) school years were over, summer intercession arrived, and I came to the disquieting conclusion that my ten months of residency in Ha'aretz had not coincided with the exponential growth of Hebrew fluency I had expected for myself.
Much valuable study time had been spent at the beach or in the fine establishments lining the length of Nachalat Binyamin or within the ganeem of Sonya's and Bar Giora. Much of the energy required for flash cards, conjugation drills, and writing practice had, instead, been devoted to cultivating (an admittedly lovely) bronze glow, testing all of the nieghborhood frozen yogurt stands, and acquainting myself with the pleasure of strolls down Rothschild and bike rides across the Tayelet.
In short, I have been a lazy bum.
But all that is going to change! I've just signed up for Hebrew Boot Camp!
Okay, most people would call it an ulpan intensive, but it's all semantics. Basically it consists of two solid weeks of all day, every day Hebrew instruction and studying. The idea is to take advantage of the brain's hunger for repetition and linguistic immersion, and capitalize on the gains to be had from intense, one-on-one lessons with a native Hebrew speaker.
If I manage to survive it all without blowing the fuses in my neurological circuit board (is that even an accurate metaphor? do circuit boards, in fact, have fuses?) I'm hoping that I will emerge out the other side with a vastly enlarged vocabulary and an overall improvement in "linguistic competency," (which is the applied linguistics terms for the ability to express basic needs and questions, but the inability to speak with true., practiced and sophisticated fluency).
The only Ulpanim to offer these sorts of cram sessions are the private ones. I've chosen Ulpan Or (Ulpan of Light, in English), whose slogan is "Hebrew at the Speed of Light" (hardeeh har har) and who equipped me with a cotton tote bag advertising this promise, two stacks of textbooks, and an mp3 player already loaded with the language dialogues, vocabulary lists, and other orally-transmitted flotsam and jetsam designed to help me learn.
I will report back soon from this adventure in language acquisition, so sit on your hands 'til then and wait breathlessly to hear about the results.
Suddenly, (both) school years were over, summer intercession arrived, and I came to the disquieting conclusion that my ten months of residency in Ha'aretz had not coincided with the exponential growth of Hebrew fluency I had expected for myself.
Much valuable study time had been spent at the beach or in the fine establishments lining the length of Nachalat Binyamin or within the ganeem of Sonya's and Bar Giora. Much of the energy required for flash cards, conjugation drills, and writing practice had, instead, been devoted to cultivating (an admittedly lovely) bronze glow, testing all of the nieghborhood frozen yogurt stands, and acquainting myself with the pleasure of strolls down Rothschild and bike rides across the Tayelet.
In short, I have been a lazy bum.
But all that is going to change! I've just signed up for Hebrew Boot Camp!
Okay, most people would call it an ulpan intensive, but it's all semantics. Basically it consists of two solid weeks of all day, every day Hebrew instruction and studying. The idea is to take advantage of the brain's hunger for repetition and linguistic immersion, and capitalize on the gains to be had from intense, one-on-one lessons with a native Hebrew speaker.
If I manage to survive it all without blowing the fuses in my neurological circuit board (is that even an accurate metaphor? do circuit boards, in fact, have fuses?) I'm hoping that I will emerge out the other side with a vastly enlarged vocabulary and an overall improvement in "linguistic competency," (which is the applied linguistics terms for the ability to express basic needs and questions, but the inability to speak with true., practiced and sophisticated fluency).
The only Ulpanim to offer these sorts of cram sessions are the private ones. I've chosen Ulpan Or (Ulpan of Light, in English), whose slogan is "Hebrew at the Speed of Light" (hardeeh har har) and who equipped me with a cotton tote bag advertising this promise, two stacks of textbooks, and an mp3 player already loaded with the language dialogues, vocabulary lists, and other orally-transmitted flotsam and jetsam designed to help me learn.
I will report back soon from this adventure in language acquisition, so sit on your hands 'til then and wait breathlessly to hear about the results.
Washing your Israeli Floors: A Primer
I'm a firm believer in cleaning the house every 9 months, whether it needs it or not.
Okay, don't cringe in horror just yet. Even though I'm a little lackadaisical about my housecleaning routine, I do regularly sweep the floors to get rid of Tel Aviv's omnipresent dust and sand.And though I'm more sporadic about bathroom upkeep, I keep the floor clean of my long brown hairs, I scrub the toilet, I even wipe the mirror down when the smudges become unbearable. But there's one cleaning chore I loathe.
I don't do floors.
Pre-Israel, I was lucky enough to live with a boyfriend whose chore of choice was mopping and scrubbing. I'd tackle the laundry, the dusting, and the vacuuming abnd in exchange? He gladly tackled the hardwood floors in the living room and kitchen, and all the tile in the kitchen.He would even scrub down the balcony! Here, I'm not so lucky. And between the sand being tracked in throughout the year, the detritus shed during my various prep activities for school ( glitter, tiny nuggets of oil pastels ground into the spaces between the living room tiles, plaster of paris splatters and tempura paint blotches), and the dog's shed auburn hairs, the floor is pretty . . . well. . . It's disgusting, okay?
But washing the floor in Israel bears little resemblance to the ol' mop and bucket routine I knew and loathed back in the states. First of all, a mop head can not be procured within the confines of Tel Aviv for love or money. It has no utility within the time-honored floor-cleaning methods of the Sabras. Instead all cleaning is accomplished with:
1. a giant squeegee (not to be confused with one of my favorite photographers, Weegee) on a long broom stick
2. Buckets of soapy water
3. The all essential floor drain and or an open front door.
The Process: Move all your furniture to the edges of any hard-surfaced area in your home, or relocate them to your bedroom, if it's carpeted. Now, sweep. Fill up a large bucket with warm water, a little soap (Dr. Bronner's is good, and imports its unique brand of crazy-labeled castille goodness to Israel's fair shores), and maybe a little vinegar (white, not balsamic. don't be an idiot).
Now, in spite of your misgivings, dump that bucket of water all over the floor. Then repeat this process 3 or 4 times. You will now be standing in an inch or so of standing water that has spread through your bathroom, tiled living room, and hardwood-floored kitchen.
Don't Panic.
Attempt to spear a rag (a smartut) to your freakishly large squeegee and start. . . squeegeeing. Throw your smartut into the corner of the room in disgust after it falls off multiple times. Now you'll be forced to scrub at any stubborn patches of dirt with the corner of the foam blade, but mostly you'll be busy pushing the soapy water across the floor, until, with a slapshot, you sweep it out the open front door or into the waiting open drain in your bathroom.
Check outside first to keep from splashing your grumpy neighbor with dirty water as he walks by holding his mail.This is a key step.
Also, remember to temporarily maroon your dog on a high piece of furniture or confine him to the DMZ of your bedroom. Otherwise, he will augment your work with a series of small, dirty paw prints and repeatedly try to lap up the soapy water.
Once all the soapy water--now tinted a light brown by the filth formerly on your floor--has been sluiced away, repeat the process.
But this time omit the soap.
Really.
Finally. After two rounds of playing solo shuffleboard in your home, you will (ideally) have clean floors. You will also have given your triceps a nice workout, and will immediately require a shower and change of clothes.
Is this method superior to the Red-White-and-Blue mop and bucket technique? I can't really say-for one thing, most American homes aren't equipped with floor drains in the kitchen and/or bathroom so it's not like it's an option in the US. My Israeli friends ALL emphatically poo-poo mops as inferior, saying they just push the dirty water around your floor. However, there is certainly an element of insanity to any cleaning practice that temporarily floods your home, swells the wooden legs of all your living room furniture, and requires sturdy rubber footwear.
The one thing I can say with certainty is that--like so many other head-scratching, profoundly baffling customs and practices--it is eminently, authentically Israeli.
For more pointers check out:
http://igoogledisrael.com/2009/10/life-in-israel-go-mop-that-floor-with-a-squeegee
www.amotherinisrael.com/this-is-the-way-we-wash-the-floor
(hyperlinks aren't working today, so give these the cut-and-paste treatment, okay?
Okay, don't cringe in horror just yet. Even though I'm a little lackadaisical about my housecleaning routine, I do regularly sweep the floors to get rid of Tel Aviv's omnipresent dust and sand.And though I'm more sporadic about bathroom upkeep, I keep the floor clean of my long brown hairs, I scrub the toilet, I even wipe the mirror down when the smudges become unbearable. But there's one cleaning chore I loathe.
I don't do floors.
Pre-Israel, I was lucky enough to live with a boyfriend whose chore of choice was mopping and scrubbing. I'd tackle the laundry, the dusting, and the vacuuming abnd in exchange? He gladly tackled the hardwood floors in the living room and kitchen, and all the tile in the kitchen.He would even scrub down the balcony! Here, I'm not so lucky. And between the sand being tracked in throughout the year, the detritus shed during my various prep activities for school ( glitter, tiny nuggets of oil pastels ground into the spaces between the living room tiles, plaster of paris splatters and tempura paint blotches), and the dog's shed auburn hairs, the floor is pretty . . . well. . . It's disgusting, okay?
But washing the floor in Israel bears little resemblance to the ol' mop and bucket routine I knew and loathed back in the states. First of all, a mop head can not be procured within the confines of Tel Aviv for love or money. It has no utility within the time-honored floor-cleaning methods of the Sabras. Instead all cleaning is accomplished with:
1. a giant squeegee (not to be confused with one of my favorite photographers, Weegee) on a long broom stick
2. Buckets of soapy water
3. The all essential floor drain and or an open front door.
The Process: Move all your furniture to the edges of any hard-surfaced area in your home, or relocate them to your bedroom, if it's carpeted. Now, sweep. Fill up a large bucket with warm water, a little soap (Dr. Bronner's is good, and imports its unique brand of crazy-labeled castille goodness to Israel's fair shores), and maybe a little vinegar (white, not balsamic. don't be an idiot).
Now, in spite of your misgivings, dump that bucket of water all over the floor. Then repeat this process 3 or 4 times. You will now be standing in an inch or so of standing water that has spread through your bathroom, tiled living room, and hardwood-floored kitchen.
Don't Panic.
Attempt to spear a rag (a smartut) to your freakishly large squeegee and start. . . squeegeeing. Throw your smartut into the corner of the room in disgust after it falls off multiple times. Now you'll be forced to scrub at any stubborn patches of dirt with the corner of the foam blade, but mostly you'll be busy pushing the soapy water across the floor, until, with a slapshot, you sweep it out the open front door or into the waiting open drain in your bathroom.
Check outside first to keep from splashing your grumpy neighbor with dirty water as he walks by holding his mail.This is a key step.
Also, remember to temporarily maroon your dog on a high piece of furniture or confine him to the DMZ of your bedroom. Otherwise, he will augment your work with a series of small, dirty paw prints and repeatedly try to lap up the soapy water.
Once all the soapy water--now tinted a light brown by the filth formerly on your floor--has been sluiced away, repeat the process.
But this time omit the soap.
Really.
Finally. After two rounds of playing solo shuffleboard in your home, you will (ideally) have clean floors. You will also have given your triceps a nice workout, and will immediately require a shower and change of clothes.
Is this method superior to the Red-White-and-Blue mop and bucket technique? I can't really say-for one thing, most American homes aren't equipped with floor drains in the kitchen and/or bathroom so it's not like it's an option in the US. My Israeli friends ALL emphatically poo-poo mops as inferior, saying they just push the dirty water around your floor. However, there is certainly an element of insanity to any cleaning practice that temporarily floods your home, swells the wooden legs of all your living room furniture, and requires sturdy rubber footwear.
The one thing I can say with certainty is that--like so many other head-scratching, profoundly baffling customs and practices--it is eminently, authentically Israeli.
For more pointers check out:
http://igoogledisrael.com/2009/10/life-in-israel-go-mop-that-floor-with-a-squeegee
www.amotherinisrael.com/this-is-the-way-we-wash-the-floor
(hyperlinks aren't working today, so give these the cut-and-paste treatment, okay?
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