hassidim, druzim, aravim, and me

I have stories...for those of you who care to listen, boy do I have stories. I think I told you all how it works here. You show up and BOOM! the absurdity, the insanity, the unbelievable nonsense of this place unfolds before you with all its power...in everyday life. The natives don't see it so much. The immigrants grow used to it, as I have to a degree, but anyone with a different cultural background and a sense of humor can't help but be stricken with laughter over some situation or another on the street, at a bar,what have you. I've been back in Israel for nearly a month now. When my mom was here, we traveled all over the place taking pictures with reckless abandon and surviving on pita, coffee, and cigarettes. Funny thing about this place: If you smoke a few a day back home, you find yourself polishing off an entire pack before noon. If you don't smoke at all, you show up in Israel, start bumming here and there, and before you know it, you're buying your own daily pack of "American Tobacco" Israeli cigarettes. Natalie Portman, point in fact. The next time you go to see one of her films ask yourself, 'Does she sound a little more raspy than usual?'
During a recent interview on "Inside the Actor's Studio" she was asked her favorite swear word. "Coos Emek" was her response, explaining it as the commonly used Israeli profanity which is actually Arabic. "It means 'Your mother's vagina'" she proudly translated to a thrilled crowd of fanatic thespians.
My mother and I jumped on a bus and headed north fromTel Aviv on our way to a moshav near Haifa, the city where my father grew up. A young Frenchman charmingly engaged my mother in an hour and a half long conversation about everything under the sun while I listened to two Ethiopian Israelis chat back and forth in half Hebrew, half Amharic and wondered whether or not I should give the fellow next to me a heads up on the wonders of modern-day deodorant. We finally arrived at the moshav where an Israeli friend of my parents from Denver had built himself a beautiful home among the acres and acres of banana plantations. He and his two middle-aged friends from childhood were hanging out at the pad, reclining on leather sofas and watching "It's All About the Benjamins" (or whatever that Ice Cube movie is called) with the volume on his surround-sound system blasting through the countryside, across the Mediterranean and fading out somewhere near Portugal. Nonetheless, what a guy. He woke us up early the next morning for a personal tour of the area. My favorite part was when he revved the engine on his little four-wheel drive mini-SUV ("a woman's car, but I bought it without seeing it first") and bounced us along the deep sand of the beach toward the shore...where it then got stuck. I now have a very treasured video of a man in nothing but Speedos pulling the car out of the sand with his boat-hauling tractor after an initial failed attempt ("I know wot I am doing! I do thees awl my life, don't worry!") during which he ripped the grate off the front of his beastly machine. Heh. Speedos.
Several days later we rented a car with my friend, Lauren, from Denver, who is finishing up med school in Tel Aviv. We planned a trip to the North, specifically Tiberias, a city located on the Kinneret, otherwise known as the Sea of Galilee where Jesus is supposed to have walked on water and divided a minimal serving of bread and fish among thousands. Earlier this summer, my grandfather told me a story from many years ago when he and his buddy had gone for a dip in the Kinneret, only to discover afterward that there had been a sewage leak there and his friend ended up with a wicked head-to-toe rash for days. Ah, if only he'd taken his cue from good ol' Jesus and walked on the water instead of in it. In any case, I navigated and Lauren drove and quite suddenly we were there since the country isn’t much bigger than the map we were using. During our trip to the North, we spent a day in Pki'in, my Druze friend's village, where we were still entirely unsuccessful in discovering a damn thing about the Druze religion. It's a very secretive religion and any Druze you question is of no help because, "Ehhh…it's a secret." "Oh yah, we know, but can't you tell us something?" "Well, I would, but I don't know either." Hmm. Ok. How that works out for them...I have no idea, but we did buy a lot of Druze soap (you see...never mind). A couple days later I drove my mother and childhood friend to Der Al Asad, an Arab village where my friend, Mahib, lives. We were invited to after-Ramadan dinner at his mother's house where we met the entire family, had a lovely dinner, and smoked a huka with our Arabic coffee afterward. It was amazing. Jews and Arabs sharing conversation and food...you don't say! Shhhh...Don't tell my father.
One of the most entertaining memories so far, however, happened two nights ago when I went out for a beer with my old flat-mate, Jackie. There we were at the good ol' Blue Hole in downtown Jerusalem catching up over a Goldstar and Corona. In walk two Hassidic (really orthodox) men. For those of you who do not know what I'm talking about, these are the guys with payes, those twirly strands of hair that come down the sides of their face, those big black hats, and full beards. Of all the available tables, they decide to sit down at the one directly next to us. This struck me as odd because men like these do not touch women who are not their wives or very close relatives, and they had just increased their chances of an accidental, "excuse me," walk-by touching should one of us get up to go the bathroom or something. In any case, during Jackie's vigorous and convincing lecture on the financial benefits of making Aliyah and essentially acquiring dual citizenship, I overhear one man ask the other for a cigarette to which the other replies he has none and gets up to buy a pack. I stop him by offering my smokes across to their table. How could I have known that this small gesture would lead to a full-blown conversation about their lives, beginning with how many children they have (the one from London is 34 and has 7 kids, the Israeli fellow is 28 and has 4), continuing into a discussion between Jackie and the Israeli about a mutual great great something or other, and eventually, openly conversing about their wives' sexual complexes, the women they sleep with on the side, and how they (especially the younger of the two) love to go to clubs and would we like to go out dancing. "Are you kidding?" is my response, "We have a reputation to maintain in this town. We can't be seen with the likes of you." And we all laugh because, well the hell if they shouldn't be thinking the same thing. We politely decline on account of Jackie's boyfriend "who will kill me if I don't get home soon" and my uh, non-boyfriend "who will kill me if I don't get home soon, too." But then Jackie does her Jackie thing and requests a ride home. "Let's take a cab, Jackie," I say, but she's up and following them out the door. As we walk behind them, I fall back a little, noticing the stares which are following us from all those passing by and I tug at Jackie, "You do realize what this looks like," since everyone knows; they've just never seen it go down in front of them before. I try one more time to change Jackie's mind and threaten to leave her, but she's climbing into their van and I can't let my buddy go solo so I do too. I'd like to point out here that as weird as the situation was, I'm not naive, and intuitively I knew these guys were ok. Still, I'd have rather not taken any chances but here I was, in the back of a Hassidic van meant to carry a family of twelve, naturally, as the Israeli takes off down the street, cruising along as though he were driving a damn sports car on the Autobahn, blasting his pop American and Israeli tunes and singing along, while typing up a sexy text message to send to his girlfriend. "She's Russian, isn't she?" I accuse jokingly. The more toned-down Brit is probably as amused as we are, and gripping his Oh-Shit-Bar as tightly as we in the back. Through the music and a nervous laugh Jackie says to me, "Shit, what if we get pulled over?!" "Well, Jackie," I reply, "We'll probably get charged with prostitution." They drop me off and after a promise from Jackie that she'll call as soon as she arrives home, I cross the street and head toward the Druzes' apartment where I've been staying, laughing my ass off and shaking my head with utter bewilderment. Turns out, these 'holier than thous' are just like any other married, Israeli gigalos. Every time I pass one on the street now, I can't help but wonder where he's off to in such a hurry…? That's all for now. Respond if you wish—tell me what you think, or let me know if any of y'all have any stories of your own to share with me. All my love, Tali