One Year In: Weathering Cultural Differences

I've lived in Tel Aviv for a little bit over a year now, and with this much time under my belt, I feel like I'm starting to glimpse some of the key cultural differences between the United States and Israel. In the name of international relations, I've compiled a partial list of these below:

1. Honey comes in glass jars. When you ask the grocer in halting Hebrew if he has, "The honey that is in a bear of plastic," he will say no, and then treat you with the bright, slightly condescending kindness he reserves for the mentally handicapped.
2. Sidewalks are for pedestrians. . .and bicycles, and electric bicycles, and electric scooters, and s egways, and vespas, and motorcycles. Also, for parked cars.
3. Movies theatres have assigned seats and intermissions. But they do not have Milk Duds.
4. There are two kinds of state-sanctioned gambling: the national lotto, and the national postal service. (Your odds are better with the lotto)
5. Pizza can be delivered to your door via motor scooter.  So can dog food, kitty litter, potted plants, air conditioners, and kegs of beer.
 6. Lines are for suckers.
7. You can always count on honest opinions of your hair style, clothing choices,  makeup job, and weight. Whether you ask for them or not.
8.If you sleep with your windows open at night, you might be awoken by three a.m. caterwauling cats or three a.m. caterwauling Mizrahi music . (The Mizrahi music is worse)
9. In Israel, as in Europe, the date is written as day/month/year: you will need to remember this when you check the expiration date on the carton of milk in your fridge.
10. Don't be disappointed when a boy you like introduces you to his male partner. "Partner" is the literal translation of the Hebrew term for "roommate."

Sushi in a Sukkha and Krembo Season

It's that time of year again here in Israel. The new year of the Jewish calender has just begun. The fasting  that accompanies Yom Kippur has been broken. Perhaps more significantly in secular Tel AViv, the scabs and bruises incurred by bike-riding, skateboarding, and skating kids who spent that holiest-of-holy days temporarily occupying the closed streets have all started to heal. We're halfway through the week long Sukhot holiday, and palm-topped Sukkhas can be sighted on small high-rise apartment building balconies and in the dusty courtyards of neighborhood shuls. The largest, most lavishly-decorated Sukkhas line the wide streets in the city center, where they shelter diners at almost all of the cafes and restaurants. They are, with barely an exception, lovely--their roofs supported by bamboo poles and their makeshift walls formed by blond palm fiber mats, their roofs a grid of green palm fronds, and the interiors decorated with ruby-red pomegranates and apples hanging on strings from the ceiling, sprays of golden date branches bound to the corner supports, and garlands of paper chains and crepe paper pinwheels, brightly-colored foil stars and strings of fairy lights. Of course, the rationale for the temporary transformation of these establishments' outdoor patios and streetside seating is based on worldly, not spiritual concerns. By providing a Sukkha, the restaurants and cafes ensure that Israelis observing the scriptural instruction to sleep and take all their meals in a sukkha for the duration of the holiday can patronize their businesses.

It's all old hat for native-born Israelis, who think nothing of brushing aside curtains of plastic beads, or ducking under rainbow-striped bunting to sit inside these little palm huts and calmly consume a cappucino (no doubt, their 8th or 9th of the day thus far) and biscotti. But I still have to giggle when I see steaming hot pizzas and lacquer bento boxes full of sushi being served inside the confines of the sukkhas. It goes to show that the Conservative and Reform Jewish sects have a point when they argue for the necessity of interpreting Jewish scripture in light of contemporary mores and concerns. I doubt Moses, in even his wildest dreams, could ever have imagined a contingency for the far-ahead in the future day when the descendants of his wandering people would survive to practice their religion (well. . . in a fashion) in their own nation-state, and furthermore would  faithfully mark the start of fall with a week spent in little forts designed to honor the improvised shelters that housed the 12 tribes of Israel he ledduring their 40 years of wandering, and furthermore would want to maintain that tradition even when satisfying a hankering for Japanese food.

Now, the advent of Sukkhot happens to roughly coincides with the annual arrival of the Krembo. No, Krembos are not a type of rare migrating bird, and they're not a band of Eastern-European avant-garde clowns. They are, in fact, a seasonal chocolate marshmallow cookie, but to describe them merely as such is the same as calling the Beatles "some British rock band." Krembos are nothing less than an Israeli icon--the confection has been popular in the country since before it achieved statehood. In pre-Israel Palestine, Jewish mammas would make homemade version of this treat--topping thin vanilla biscuits with sweet marshmallow fluff and enrobing the whole thing in a thin shell of chocolate. The treats began to be mass-produced in Israeli candy factories in the mid-sixties. Today, they comprise, along with savory n' salty Beesli snack mix, and air-puffed peanut-flavored Bamba, the holy triptych of Israeli snack foods.

Adding to their appeal is the limited production window. Scattered cardboard cases  begin to arrive in bodegas and grocery stores in mid-September, they can be seen in every kiosk, street stall, and candy shop by the beginning of October, and the supply is exhausted sometime in late January.  During "Krembo Season," they become a form of child currency. Temper tantrums and meltdowns are quelled with promises of a Krembo, they are served as classroom treats for student birthdays, and many enterprising student council candidates are known to increase their constituency through the schoolyard distribution of Krembos bearing home-computer printed campaign stickers.On college campuses, earnest petition-clutching student activists coax otherwise apathetic fellow students over to their informational booths with the promise of a free krembo, and the Magden David Adom paramedics who man on-campus mobile blood-donation trucks reward blood donors with krembos in order to restore their depleted blood sugar levels.

They are the ultimate impulse buy--speaking from personal experience, it's hard to resist adding one to a grocery purchase every so often when your sweet tooth calls out. The Ha'aretz newspaper claims that the average Israeli eats a dozen every year during the 4-month window of availability, and I regret to say that my Krembo consumption seems to be on par with that statistic. It could be worse, at 115 calories the delicate little foil-wrapped domes aren't as deleterious to one's diet as, say, a pistachio ice cream cone, a hunk of halva, a chocolate rugelach, or a Kif-Kif candy bar, all of  which are a few of the other constant favorites in the Israeli sweets rotation. And, despite their diminutive size, the little Krembos pack a sugary wallop. In fact, tne of my friends eats them with a wince, since the super-sticky marshmallow filling makes the unfilled cavities in his molars throb with pain. Interestingly, this does not appear to curtail his consumption.

There are only a few risks associated with the treat. Of course, anyone who hazards a Krembo binge will end up with a stomachache and the frantic rush of a sugar high, and the consumption of more than one or two Krembos in one sitting should be strictly avoided. Additionally, it's crucial to do a thorough inspection of any child who will be in close contact with you post-Krembo consumption. A quick scan of the child's mouth and hands is not enough. If you are lax, you will inevitably find yourself combing a knot cemented by a little bit of hardened marshmallow out of the back of your hair or blotting at a smear of chocolate on the side of your formerly clean shirt. But if you an steer clear of these two dangers, I recommend you seek out the elusive Krembo for yourself. They're a very popular export, and I'm told they can be found during the fall in many kosher delis and bakeries.

Just remember that there are two schools of thought on the proper consumption of the Krembo: one that advocates eating the biscuit first, and one that recommends sucking up the marshmallow fluff and leaving the cookie base for last . Like the conflict over which direction to hang the toilet paper roll and whether to place forks in the dishwasher tines up or tines down, this argument has divided many a household and created untoward tension in romantic relationships. Some Israelis, almost universally boys between the ages of 8 and 10 years, diplomatically avoid the entire question by embracing the practice of shoving the entire Krembo directly into their mouth, sort of like the hippos I saw at Hamat Gader who consumed entire melons in one saliva-stringed chomp. I do no recommend this practice in polite company.

Tel Aviv Celebrity Sighting!

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?

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.

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?

Michael lifeguards

Photographic proof michael had fun at the beach