חַג שָׂמֵחַ or Why Violence is Sometimes the Answer

I have had this post written for a while now but have not had the time to sit down and actually post. I honestly don't know how I am even going to fit five months worth of activities and events. I probably won't but I have about one or two entries left, I think.

I've enjoyed going back and reading about my earlier experiences and then laughing to myself about my own awkwardness and my effortless ability to get myself into absolutely stupid situations that no reasonable person would ever be in.

But this post is going to be dedicated to the High Holidays because it's worth sharing and I want to go back and read it, interpret it, and think about my actions and what I could do differently. Or simply remember the happiness that I felt when I took a sabbatical in this beautiful, complicated country.

Celebrating chagim, or Jewish holidays, in Jerusalem was a unique and special experience that I will never forget. It was the fact that I had more than 2 synagogues to choose from where I wanted to go to services (and I could WALK to all of them). It was the fact that the entire city was celebrating and there was so much excitement and happiness in the air. But it wasn't just the fasting, eating, praying and being in Jerusalem, it was the events, good and bad, that made it so memorable.

Rosh Hoshanah and Adventures on the Autoboos:

Rosh Hoshanah, the Jewish New Year, kicks off a 10 day period of prayer, self-reflection and repentance for all the times that you were an asshole during the year, leading up to Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement (where you're really really sorry).

This would be the first time I would be spending Rosh Hashanah without my family.

My family, being awesomely Soviet, would cook a big Russian dinner for the New Year, which is also what we do for every major Jewish and non-Jewish holiday. The only Jewish things on the table for Rosh Hoshanah would be apples with honey and forshmak, an Eastern European Jewish spread of chopped herring, mayo and onions that is best served on black Ukrainian bread. My family is secular, as most Soviet born Jews are, and while we never went to shul, we still enjoyed the excuse to eat and drink together. As much as I missed them this New Year, it was exciting and meaningful to celebrate Rosh Hoshanah in a more traditional way.

Jewish holidays always start on sundown of the previous day and I had a free morning and afternoon before the start of the chag. So as usual, I'm all about being productive and I decided that I would go grocery shopping and get a Rav Kav. A Rav Kav is the equivalent of a Smart Trip and you can load money onto it instead of digging around your purse for a spare shekel or frantically counting out 6 agurot and then dropping change everywhere right as the bus pulls up. Each bus ride costs 6.60 shekels (though it just recently went up to 6.90) and you also receive a ticket which is valid for a free bus/light rail transfer for 90 minutes.

At this point, I had been in Israel for a week and was excited to explore. Martine told me to take the number 8 bus, which stops at both the shuk and the Jerusalem Central Bus Station. Being unsure, I asked two people at the bus stop if the number 8 would take me to the Jerusalem Central Bus Station and they told me it wouldn't. I decided to ignore them and trust Martine, which turned out later to be a wise choice because they were wrong.

"Israelis never know where the bus is going," Martine later said.

The main Israeli bus company is Egged and they are the primary form of bus transportation in Jerusalem. There are also Arab buses with signs in Arabic that run in and out of the city but I have never seen them stop for non-Arabs. If you want to get onto one of the Arab buses, as I did whenever I went to Bethlehem and Nablus, you have to go to Damascus Gate, which is where all of the Arab buses and sheruts stop. One of the stops is close to me, but I have to go all the way to Damascus Gate and then the bus passes by where I live so what would be a 10-15 minute journey turns into 45 minutes of transfer from Egged bus, to light rail, to Arab bus. Fortunately, you can get off anywhere on the way back to Jerusalem and that takes 15-20 minutes without any transfers if you're travelling from Bethlehem (Nablus is a different ball game entirely). The Arab buses serve the nearby Arab towns. All buses, Arab and Egged, are pretty much always on time, except if the traffic is particularly bad, and at most stops there is an electronic sign telling you when the bus is coming. Sadly, as the months have gotten colder, the signs have become more and more inaccurate, especially when the weather is crap.

Two months ago, I downloaded the Moovit app, which is the best thing ever created ever. Ever. It tells me the easiest way to get to a specified address, with bus and walking directions. And you get to rate the bus stop and the driver! Sadly, I did not have it at the time of my first Jerusalem bus adventure.

<3

To get back to the story, I took the number 8 bus into town and sat in the front facing the back of the bus on the right hand side, and at one of the stops, a girl I dubbed The Only Goth In Jerusalem (TOGIJ) got on and sat across from me. She was curvy and wearing a black skirt, a flowy black top, and black leather boots. Her hair was black and her eyes were heavily painted with black eyeliner. She was listening to music and singing along in a high pitched, whispery voice.

On King George Street, the bus stopped for a while and in front of the window on the left hand side was a small group of young religious boys who didn't look to be any older than 19 or 20. One of them pressed his face against the window, cupping his hands around his eyes to see inside.

I watched them as they stood and stared into the bus. The boy who had pressed his face against the window locked eye contact with me and winked. And then made a kissing face and winked again. I had my chin leaning on my fist, my head tilted slightly to the side. I was bored and the bus didn't seem to be moving as the bus driver answered questions from prospective passengers. I continued to stare at the boy, unmoved and unamused, still thinking that he was just making these gestures to himself. I didn't realize that while the window is tinted, it was still transparent and he could see me, my bitchy resting face and blank stare apparently enticing him.

And then the boy reached his hand up into a backwards peace sign, his tongue flailing wildly between two rigid fingers, promising an unsatisfying sexual experience.

Before I had a chance to even raise an eyebrow, a high pitched shriek emanated from the direction of TOGIJ as she lunged at the window and began to yell and bang her fists against the glass. The boys  laughed as the bus pulled away. TOGIJ spun around to face me, almost losing her balance as the bus lurched forward, sat down and began to yell towards me. I write 'towards' because I don't think she was yelling at me, but yelling about the boys. I'd like to think that her reaction was a result of sensing that there was a former goth sitting in front of her whose honor she desperately needed to protect.

"I don't know!" I said in Hebrew amid her outbursts, cringing every time her voice rose. "I don't understand." What I really wanted to say was "Calm down lady! I've only been here a week! This is my first time on a Jerusalem bus! Must there be yelling?!"

I couldn't understand what she was saying but it was something about yeshiva bochurim, kippas, and holiness (the only three words I understood), probably saying something along the lines of "Look at how holy they pretend to be but then they just offer oral to anyone!" She turned to a religious lady who had witnessed the entire thing and continued to angrily rant about the boys, pointing emphatically at the window.

The religious lady, her eyes half closed in apathy, had no reaction whatsoever through all of this. She shrugged as TOGIJ spoke angrily and rapidly. Everytime TOGIJ would yell, the religious woman would say something very softly in a dismissive, 'don't worry about it' kind of tone, shrugging her shoulders as if to say "It happens" or "Boys will be boys" or "Oh, I get propositioned by yeshiva students all the time. NBD"

A few stops later and TOGIJ got off the bus, still ranting about the boys. While I certainly wasn't pleased by the boy's gesture, I wasn't about to clutch my pearls and cry about what some sexually frustrated 19 year old, who probably hadn't even touched a girl in his life, does to impress his friends. I had much more important things to worry about, like getting a damn Rav Kav and finding my way home.

But this is not the weirdest thing that I have seen on a bus here.

A while ago, I was on my way to the shuk. An Ethiopian woman was sitting with her three children near the front of the bus. She was talking loudly on the phone, with a toddler on her lap and the child began to cry. It took her a while to get off the phone and once she did, she began to talk sternly to the toddler, who continued to cry louder and louder. She shoved the little girl angrily onto the lap of her older son, who looked to be about 8 or 9. The third child, who I think was her other daughter, was younger, about 5 or 6. All three children were crying at this point.

When the bus stopped, the woman got up and started to walk off the bus without her children, when suddenly a Russian woman screamed out and went after her. The Russian woman began to scream at her and the Ethiopian woman got back on the bus, which took off shortly after. She stood near the entrance of the bus, smiling, laughing, and speaking calmly in Hebrew with the Russian woman, who was anything but calm, and then got off a stop later with her children.

The Russian woman was fuming and ranting in Russian about the incident to her companion, who did not appear to speak Hebrew. The Russian woman had asked the Ethiopian woman, "How could you? How could you, as a mother, even think of abandoning your children? " And the Ethiopian woman had answered, "I'm a mother. You wouldn't understand. It's none of your business."

I don't know, lady. If you're going to abandon your children, don't do it in a place full of witnesses. Alternatively, perhaps it was a cry for help. All I know is that the woman did not seem the least bit remorseful and was laughing and smiling when she was talking to the Russian woman. It was disturbing.

The other incident occurred on the way back from the shuk after the death of Rabbi Ovadia Yosef zt'l was announced. It took forever for the bus to come because he had died at 1 in the afternoon and the funeral was set for 6. This is part of a Jewish custom where the dead must be buried as soon as possible. They began to shut down many of the roads in the city immediately after the announcement in preparation for the funeral procession. This caused a massive traffic jam and it took more than an hour for the bus to arrive. Meanwhile, there I was with my groceries, weighed down by a sack of potatoes, two jars of pickled vegetables, and other stereotypical Eastern Euro food items. I was relieved when the bus finally arrived but knew that I still had a long road ahead.

As we crawled through the city, I saw a wedding party in two fancy cars with bows on them, sitting in traffic along with the rest of us sad plebes, looking visibly upset. They were all on their phones and looked devastated.  It was terrible luck to have a wedding on that day.

I was off in my own thoughts when the entire bus, which was crammed with people, began to scream and yell. This is never a good sign in Israel so naturally, I started to panic. But it turned out that it was because of a motorcyclist that had gotten himself wedged between two buses. Some Jerusalem streets are very narrow and often times, two vehicles will only be separated by a few inches. He was wearing a helmet and was pressed against the side of the other bus. As our bus moved forward slowly, the entire bus was sure we were about to witness a man being crushed to death, but thankfully, though his helmet was almost touching our bus, he was fine. The bus driver had seen him and had moved the bus just in time. After it was confirmed that he was okay, people shouted "Idiot!" and "Moron!" and other angry insults in Hebrew.

Watching the almost daily near death experiences of people on bicycles, mopeds, and motorcycles in Jerusalem made me feel that I made the right choice not to get a bike of any kind. I think it would have ended badly and I'll take my chances walking and taking the bus.

The latest bus incident wasn't that bad but was still odd. An elderly woman getting on the bus in front of me had dropped her Rav Kav. When I picked it up and handed it to her, she looked into my eyes and said, in perfect English, "Thank you, young man."

Ouch. Perhaps it was a mixture of my 80s flasher coat which is now too big on me or perhaps it was my square manly jawline that had her confused about my gender identity, but either way....it has made me decide to get a new fall coat because this one apparently makes me look like a creepy man.

Hello little boy

Also dogs:

And no this person is not blind and this isn't a helper dog.

(Same dog as above) Wearing a muzzle and that is my earphone cord in the way

And someone with the same shoes as me:

I know yours are crappy and aren't waterproof either!

Other than the weirdness that happens, Jerusalem buses are clean and punctual (traffic permitting) and I was dropped off right in front of the Central Bus Station in no time. The bus station was busy that day and upon entering, I saw that there was an empty line for security and an open door where people were walking in. The security guards looked bored and were either on their cellphones or flirting with each other. I'm not sure what their purpose was. Usually, when entering bus stations or shopping malls, your bag is searched and you go through a metal detector. I would have thought that a place like the Jerusalem Central Bus Station would have better security than some crappy mall in the industrial area of Jerusalem, but apparently not.

I walked up to the second floor and proceeded to attempt to stand in line. I have since learned that lines don't actually exist in Israel. So after 3 groups of soldiers cut in front of me, I watched what others did in other lines and proceeded to vertically spoon with the person in front of me by pressing myself as close to them as I could without having to make contact so that I would be next in line. I even made sure to breath extra hard on their neck for good luck.

When I finally made it after almost 20 minutes of technically being next in line, I was told that Rav Kavs are only sold on Sundays.

WHICH IS A LIE. Because so many people I know have bought Rav Kavs on other days.

Feeling dejected, I decided to walk to the shuk and explore. It was my first time there in almost 6 years and I was so overwhelmed by all the cheap and delicious looking food and produce that all I bought was candy and chocolate, which I ate as I walked around exploring.

Shuk!

Walking through the uncovered market

Dried fruit and nuts!

Spice mixes!

Halva!

After about an hour of wandering, I decided to head back home. I waited for the bus for 30 minutes because of traffic and when it finally came, I was temporarily relieved.

My thought process went from positive: "Hey this looks familiar! I'm really starting to feel like I know the city!" to confusion "Didn't I walk by that restaurant earlier?" to doubt "Wait a minute...I remember that intersection. Am I going the right way?" and finally acceptance "I'm on the wrong fucking bus and am heading back to the bus station. Why do I do this to myself!?"

Still, I couldn't help trying to stifle laughter as I stepped off the bus in front of the bus station, probably looking slightly crazed. I have really bad luck with buses and my sense of direction is apparently crap and sometimes, but usually not, it's hilarious.

With my candy in tow, I decided to just walk home. The walk itself was an hour and 15 minutes, but it was all downhill thankfully. On the way, I watched stores close for the New Year and managed to grab some cheap shwarma. The walk itself gave me a better lay out of the city so it wasn't a complete waste of time.

Walking down Yafo

NOMNOM NEVER ENOUGH BEETS NOM

When I got back, I showered and got dressed for services. The shul I decided to attend is called Yedidya and is about a 20 minute walk from where I live. A 20 minute walk, which used to trigger my laziness in DC, is not a big deal for me anymore. It's standard for walking pretty much anywhere since I live past the Green Line.

Yedidya has very modern architecture and is a modern orthodox congregation with a mechitza down the middle but not one that is isolating. The bimah is also in the middle of the room as well.

After services, a woman invited my friend Tamee and me over for Rosh Hashanah dinner. While she knew Tamee, she did not know me but was still kind enough to invite me to dinner. Her and her husband, along with her daughter, her daughter's husband and their two children lived in a lovely bungalow with a huge courtyard 10 minutes from Yedidya.

"We used to be the only ones on this street until they started building all around us," Eti said.

Inside, Eti made kiddush over the wine as Shlomo, her husband, rushed around the kitchen getting food on the table. Her daughter, her daughter's husband and their children walked in later. Eti and Shlomo are an Israeli couple in their late 60s, and though Shlomo is already 70, he is fit and quick on his feet. He attributed it to walking 10 km everyday to work for 50 years. Eti is a professor of Israeli history and has published two books about the Israeli right wing movement and Shlomo worked in the Geological Survey for 50 years until retiring and starting his own landscaping business. While they weren't orthodox, they were traditional and I could see that Eti had lit candles for Shabbat earlier. Together, they have three children, a daughter and two sons, all living in Jerusalem. Eti's English was better than Shlomo's, but their kindness, generosity and warmth spoke louder than words.

And we all had shots of vodka in my honor once they found out I'm originally from Ukraine.

The food was a mixture of sephardi and ashkenazi dishes. Shlomo is an Egyptian Jew and had made a delicious kube soup along with several spicy salads. Eti is Ashkenazi and her family had been living in Jerusalem for many generations prior to Israeli independence. She had made several salads and meat dishes which reminded me of my mom's kotleti. She had also made homemade gefilte fish. They reminded me so much of my parents in the way they spoke with each other and worked together. It made me miss being home.

After dinner, they cut herbs from their garden and made tea, which we drank sitting outside in their courtyard. It was a lovely evening.

Afterwards, Shlomo and Eti's brother walked Tamee and I halfway home up to Derech Hevron.

The night after, I went to services at Nitzanim. This started off the point where I consistently kept bringing the wrong prayer book to almost every service for about two weeks. To top it off, it was an orthodox shul, but it was the most closed off one I had ever been to at that point (but it wasn't even the worst, as I would later find). The mechitzah was completely covered and it was impossible to see the men's side. All that was visible were the outlines of men praying on the other side. Each orthodox/traditional congregation has its own version of the mechitza and while I don't mind praying with one, I don't like it when they're completely opaque where I feel like I'm being completely shut out.

When I attended a Yemenite Shabbat service two months ago, that was an experience that made me realize and think about the 'spectrum of mechitzas' that pushes past my comfort level. One of my friends had been talking about the Yemenite shul that he attends and how he had enjoyed and connected with the prayer style. I decided to join him, despite his warning that it may not be welcoming to women.

'Not welcoming to women?' I thought. 'That's silly! I'm sure I'll enjoy it anyway! I've never been to a Yemenite shul! What an interesting experience it will be!'

Yea.

Interesting was certainly a word for it.

When we got to the shul, the women's section was locked. One of the men standing near the entrance looked at me sheepishly, mumbled an apology and got the keys to open the door.

Inside, the women's section was tiny. It had the feeling of a gynecologist's office, with long benches facing each other and a book shelf full of [religious] books. Not that a gynecologist's office has religious books, but it almost felt like the books/siddurim were there for a bit of light reading rather than true prayer.

The mechitza was completely covered and I couldn't see anything. It was extremely isolating. What added to this was that for the first 15 minutes of services I was the only woman. Another woman did come in with a baby but she promptly fell asleep with the baby on her chest. So basically, it was just me. Following along with the prayers was easy and I did like the chanting, but I felt that I would have enjoyed it more if I had been in the middle of the action. In the men's section. As a man.

Despite my momentary penis envy, the service itself was admittedly powerful. Yemenite Kabbalat Shabbat is very different from the Ashkenazi service that I am used to which involves singing different tunes to each prayer. The Yemenite tradition is chanting and the 'tune' never changes. You kind of plow through without stopping and there is a meditative aspect to it.

I came out of the experience feeling a bit shocked but also intrigued. It was definitely an experience, though not one I would want to have again. In the end, I'm glad I went.

There are some shuls that manage to make both sides of the mechitza feel included and there are others who do not. This one did not, but I heard that this is common in Sephardi shuls, though I have experienced it in Ultra Orthodox and Orthodox Ashkenazi shuls as well.

When I was in Tzfat trying to decide whether to attend services at the Abuhov shul for Havdalah, I was told that women have been accidentally locked in the women's section because the men didn't even realize there was anyone in there and never bothered to check. Needless to say, I did not attend those services. Instead, I attended services at Beirav, which is an Ultra Orthodox Carlebach shul. The mechitza was a little transparent and I could at least see a little from the back. But in the end, women still weren't really participating and while the men sang and danced, only some of the women did so once someone found a non transparent sheet to drape over the mechitza.

Being in Israel has definitely affected how I view the mechitza and made me wonder whether it's really imperative for there to be one when I'm praying. And whether I'm willing to give up other elements of a traditional service just to feel included.

But here I digress. What was I supposed to be writing about? Oh right, Rosh Hashanah...

This was the first Rosh Hoshanah where I went to services consistently and had heard the shofar blown and most importantly, it was the first one where I felt like I wasn't the only person celebrating. Buses and store fronts were emblazoned with "Shana Tova" and cashiers and shop keepers would wish you a happy new year. And it wasn't even January! There is something incredible about that.

And this feeling continued into....

Yom Kippur

There was always a subtle irony whenever someone would wish me a 'Happy Yom Kippur!' in the States. I don't correct people because I know they mean well. I know if I'd try to explain it, it would be a lengthy explanation on repentance and the life cycle that they probably don't care about. I know that in most cultures, holidays are supposed to be a joyous event and you're supposed to be happy. Happiness for all! Yay happiness!

But there's usually (but not always) a hint of a depressing undertone to each Jewish holiday. "They tried to kill us. We won. Let's Eat!" is the usual spiel for most holidays but Yom Kippur is different and not only because it's a fast day. It is the ultimate unhappy holiday. It's when we remember all those times when we were assholes that year and ask for forgiveness.

On the Thursday prior to Yom Kippur, I met with a few fellow students to hear Sephardi selichot, or penitential prayers and poems, recited at Bet Knesset Ohavei Zion, a small synagogue in Nachlaot upon recommendation from my Mishna teacher, DLK. He had us meet with a speaker who told us the history of the shul. It was founded by Persian Jews from Shiraz 107 years ago. They were poor and the shul was therefore built small to fit the needs of their community. However, it was on the decline until recently. The great grandson of one of the founders, and the husband of the speaker, revitalized the shul and now there is a growing and flourishing community.

Alleyway in Nachlaot outside Ohavei Zion

Random people walking about around the shul

Sneaking a peek at the men's section

From the lady's section

Packed

Post prayer mixture

This was something new for me as I had never been to a Sephardi prayer service. There aren't too many opportunities for that experience in DC, which caters mostly to the majority Ashkenazi population. And since I am Ashkenaz, I have only attended Ashkenaz services and have only prayed with Ashkenaz siddurim. The services differ in not only the tune of the prayers but also by different prayers recited so as I searched frantically in my machzor (a specific kind of siddur designated only for prayers for certain holidays, in this case YK), I realized that this was not going to be similar in any way.

Thankfully, a fellow classmate had grabbed a Sephardi selichot siddur and I was able to follow along. It basically sounds like this:

Except the shul was completely full and people didn't look bored or awkward like they do in this video. But I guess I would be equally awkward if someone was trying to film me praying. Also, at Ohavei Zion, the praying was really, really loud and people sang with so much spirit. And there was a women's section.

So basically this was nothing like it in any way except for the tune of the prayers and the fact that there were guys with mohawks wearing kippas.

Whatever. Go on YouTube and find a better video. 

Yom Kippur is the day of atonement. It's the day that we are the closest that we will ever get to a Higher Power/greater energy/whatever so we apologize profusely and promise we'll be better next year. It's the day where we are reminded of our mortality. During Yom Kippur, we're forbidden to eat, drink, wash, put on lotion or makeup, have sexy times, use technology, wear leather, gamble, smoke, in addition to all of the things we're also forbidden to do every Shabbat. We do these things not only to repent, but also to imitate death, not as a punishment, but as a reminder that it is a fate we all share.

אָדָם יְסוֹדוֹ מֵעָפָר, וְסוֹפוֹ לֶעָפָר בְּנַפְשׁוֹ יָבִיא לַחְמוֹ מָשׁוּל כְּחֶרֶס הַנִּשְׁבָּר כְּחָצִיר יָבֵשׁ וּכְצִיץ נוֹבֵל כְּצֵל עוֹבֵר וּכְעָנָן כָּלָה וּכְרוּחַ נוֹשָׁבֶת וּכְאָבָק פּוֹרֵחַ וְכַחֲלוֹם יָעוּף.

"A man's origin is from dust and his destiny is back to dust, at risk of his life he earns his bread; he is likened to a broken shard, withering grass, a fading flower, a passing shade, a dissipating cloud, a blowing wind, flying dust, and a fleeting dream."

This is my favorite line from the Unetanneh Tokef liturgy recited on both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. It's a reminder of how short life is and not to take it for granted.

And if you prepared for your fast appropriately, you'd be meditating on this instead of dreaming of what you're going to break your fast with.

The key to a happy fast is ensuring that you are properly hydrated and sated before it starts.

Martine and I drank tons of water, watched several episodes of Queer as Folk and walked to her friend's house in Baka to have a pre-fast meal. I was peeing every 5 minutes, which I usually do anyway (shutup friends!) but it was a bit miserable and reminded me of my first date with Andy where I couldn't stop peeing because I was drinking bottles of Woodchuck hard cider and water.

Afterwards, when the fast started, Martine's friends and myself went to Yedidya for the Yom Kippur service. You're supposed to wear white on Yom Kippur to symbolize death and renewal of your soul through repentance.

But. I completely forgot and wore all black instead. Oops.

After services, we walked in the streets along with other Jerusalem residents. No one drives on Yom Kippur and it is the one time that you can walk in the busiest streets in Jerusalem. This also goes for Tel Aviv as well where people walk and ride bikes on the highways. The entire country essentially shuts down. The airport closes, all Israeli television and radio stations turn off, and all of the stores are closed for 25 hours. I probably saw two cars that night and they were both Arab cab drivers hoping to pick up tourists.

These are just photos I stole off of a Google search "Yom Kippur empty streets":

Walking on Emek Refaim, one of the busiest streets when it comes to traffic, was surreal. It was filled with people in white walking around with their families. Adults and children alike rode bikes and I saw so many children fall. Apparently, Yom Kippur night is when the most number of bicycle accidents occurs. People get a little too over excited about being about to ride bicycles in Jerusalem without the threat of getting hit by some insane driver.

On the way, we stopped and said hello to friends that we saw. I saw some of my fellow Pardes students and teachers. It seemed that everyone was out walking around. Walking home, we crossed Derech Hevron, a very busy intersection, now deserted except for people walking and children playing in the street. Since I live in a mixed neighborhood and am past the Green Line, I saw a few more cars driving but not many.

Usually, Jerusalem shuts down for Shabbat, but since many people don't keep Shabbat there will still be several cars and music will be blaring from several apartments. But Yom Kippur is the most important holiday in Judaism and even people who are usually non observant will not drive, will attend services, will fast and abide by the YK laws for the holiday.

The next morning, I went to services and then after, decided to go to the Kotel because, I thought, how amazing would it be to be at the Kotel for Yom Kippur?

I remembered how to get to the Old City, but the Kotel itself was tricky at that point. I was worried about the heat because it was very hot so I did take a purse with a water bottle and my phone. My phone was, of course, turned off and the water bottle was in case I started to get sick and desperately needed water. I ended up not needing it but it was there if I needed it. Being at the Kotel for YK was something I wanted to do safely.

Similar to this but empty

I walked in the middle of the road all the way there. Just because I could. Down Emek Refaim, down Derech Hevron and then to Jaffa Gate. The streets were completely empty except for a couple of tourists wandering around trying to find a cab.

 It took 45 minutes to get to Jaffa Gate. It was extremely hot but I felt good. I powered on and walked through to the Old City. And then promptly got extremely lost.

I ended up in the Muslim Quarter, wandering in circles until finally, I saw a sign for Western Wall. I began walking towards it.

"You can't go that way," an young Arab man selling sweets said to me as I walked by. "The exit is closed today for everyone. And if you keep going further, you'll reach the mosque and you can't go in there either unless you are a Muslim."

"Okay! How do I get to the Western Wall entrance?"

"Over there," he pointed and sure enough, behind me was another entrance to the Kotel.

But before I had a chance to go, he got up and quickly blocked my path.

"Wait," he said, walking in front of me, "Where are you from?"

"I'm an American."

"No you're not. Where are you from?"

I sighed. "I'm originally from Ukraine."

"Oooooooh! Ukraaaaiiiiinnniiiiiiiiaaaaa!" was his response.

I hate telling people I'm from Eastern Europe.

It seems to be an open invitation for unwanted flirtation. Or for someone to tell me about some evil Ukrainian ex who broke their heart. I usually respond with an "I-I'm sorry??" even though I don't really know what I'm apologizing for.

Or they try to strike up a conversation by telling me about the Ukrainian woman on Ein Gedi (a 3 minute walk from my flat) who murdered her two children 4 months ago and then tried to commit suicide. So glad that the only thing you could think of to talk to me about was some psycho when you learned of my origin!

But the flirting is the worst and I'm generally not a fan of flirting in the first place. Probably because I'm not very good at it and end up supplementing my lack of flirting abilities with unnecessary fascinating facts that only I find fascinating.

Example:
Flirtatious person: "I like your lipstick. You look really nice with it."
Me: "OH DO I?! THAAANKS! DID YOU KNOW THE AVERAGE WOMAN EATS A POUND OF LIPSTICK PER YEAR AND THAT SOME LIPSTICKS HAVE LEAD IN THEM AND ARE DANGEROUS? DID YOU KNOW THAT!!?? DID YOU?!?!"
Flirtatious person: *backs away slowly*

But this doesn't work here because people find facts about Ukraine fascinating.

Me: "Ukraine's main exports are metal products!"
Flirtatious person: "Really?? Tell me more!"
Me: "...err...dammit..."

I wonder if the flirting is because of Israel's human trafficking issues in that women from Eastern Europe become synonymous with prostitutes and thus become sexualized in non-sexual situations. Like when they get lost on Yom Kippur looking for the Kotel.

I don't exactly know how they know I'm not "American," but I'm guessing it has to do with my bitchy resting face. Though I doubt smiling would be helpful.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked.

"Yes. And I have to go....."

"Wait! Is your boyfriend here in Israel?"

(This is before I learned to lie when asked this question)

"No, he's back in America."

"Ooooh back in America? YOU ABANDONED HIM??"

"Well not really-"

"Or wait! HE ABANDONED YOU?! How horrible! How could he abandon such a pretty girl? I would never do that to you! I would treat you right! You would be like a quuuuueeeen!"

"Yep. I have to go pray now."  Could this be the lamest excuse ever?

"Wait, please don't go. Let's grab coffee!"

"I have to go...and pray. To someone....G-d, I think," I was blabbering mindlessly and then eventually somehow maneuvered around him so that he was no longer in front of me.

"Very well. I will find you after you pray."

I walked away quickly and hoped that he wouldn't find me, making a note to myself to avoid this entrance from now on.

I walked to Security and put my bag on the belt.

The two guards looked extremely bored, had their feet up and were playing on their phones.

"Wait," one of the guards said to me when I tried to go through the metal detector. "Where are you from?"

"America."

"No you're not," he beamed at me. "Where are you from?"

"America."

"No but really?"

Oh G-d. Not again.

"Ukraine," I mumbled.

He looked horrified for a moment. "SILWAN!?"

"Ukraine," I repeated louder, looking out impatiently at the Kotel. "Can I go?"

He ignored my question.

Sigh.

"Ahhhhhhh Ukkkkkraaaaaaaiiiinnniiiiiiaaa."

One of his eyes convulsed into some semblance of a wink and he motioned for me to go through the detector.

Once past the metal detector, I reached for my bag, but the guard snatched it away.

"What are you doing here at the Kotel?" he asked playfully.

"I'm here to pray," I said curtly, not really feeling up to being nice anymore. "It's Yom Kippur."

He looked me up and down. "Pray huh?" and gave me my bag back.

I know I shouldn't have to explain this, but I really wasn't dressed inappropriately. I was wearing a white sleeveless dress which went to my knees and was carrying a cardigan which I would put on once I was at the Wall. I was showing no cleavage. My hair was tied up, I was wearing sunglasses and my head was covered with a scarf so that the sun wouldn't affect me as I walked. I wasn't even wearing makeup.

As he handed my bag back to me, he added, "How about you come back here after you...pray and we can have some fun?"

"Haha I have to go..." was my response because I wasn't really computing what he was saying and it was just too creepy for me to handle at that moment. He winked at me again. I grimaced and the other guard laughed.

Gagging. Gagging forever! I felt nauseous when I walked away. How did I manage to encounter two weirdos in the span of not even 5 minutes!?

I went down the stairs onto the plaza. The disgusted feelings quickly dissipated as I looked out at the almost empty Kotel.

It was breathtaking to see it mostly deserted.

Interestingly enough, there were more women than men at the Wall. And it was almost completely silent.

It was the first time I didn't have to fight to get to the front because there was almost no one there. I simply walked right up to the Wall without having to wait for someone to finish praying.

I took a seat under the shadow of the Mughrabi bridge, where I sat and meditated for five hours. Every time I started to feel hungry or thirsty, I massaged pressure points under my collar bone, a technique that my Chumash teacher taught me. These pressure points got me through the entire fast.

The peace was interrupted briefly by some crazy Israeli lady screaming something about wanting G-d to save her. But for the most part, it was one of the most peaceful and introspective moments of my life. It was the first time I was able to truly clear my head and think. I never had the time to simply sit for hours straight and do nothing but think and meditate. Ain't nobody got time for that.

But I felt so happy and grateful to be able to experience that. Time seemed to fly. There was a lot to think about, to dwell upon, to consider.

Afterwards, I decided that I would go pray minha (afternoon prayer) with a minyan. I first went to the local Chabad, thinking that it would be like the Chabad in America. But alas, I have come to find that Chabad is very different here for reasons I won't go into in this blog. Suffice it to say, that the women's section was a tiny room where one could barely hear anything.

After five minutes of watching desperate women moving the curtain to peak at the men in the next room, I left.

Instead, I walked to a shul near the Kotel.

And then realized it was a Sephardi shul and my machzor was useless. I looked on with another lady's YK machzor, but that got uncomfortable so eventually, I decided that I would just do my own thing at the Wall.

When I got to the Kotel, the women's side was slowly filling up. I took a seat closest to the Wall and started minha. During this time, church bells rang throughout the city, and that, coupled with the hum of prayer that surrounded me, sounded beautiful. It is one of the sounds of Jerusalem that I will always remember fondly and cherish.

It was starting to get darker and as evening approached, I started maariv (evening prayer).

I was surrounded by Chabad women. And they were struggling to hear the different minyanim happening on the men's side. I was hearing at least two separate Sephardi ones and several Ashkenazi ones happening all at the same time. They were all in different places. The women, sitting close to the mechitza, looked frantically at each other's siddurim, trying to find where the particular minyan that they were following along with on the other side was.

At first, I tried to follow along but realized it was futile and it was only frustrating me so I sort of just concentrated and did my own thing.

A small Chabad girl sitting next to me was staring at my machzor. She looked to be about 8 years old and was pressed up close against me, seemingly hoping that I knew where the minyan that she was listening to was in the service. And then turning pages in her machzor. And then looking at the mechitza. And then at my machzor again. She looked visibly confused and upset. I felt terrible for her.

"I'm davening on my own," I finally told her as she stared at my siddur and her face fell when she realized that she couldn't follow along with me since I wasn't following along with a minyan.

When it was evening and YK and Shabbat were over, I walked away from the Kotel platform.

I saw the little girl's father waiting for her.

"Did you manage to follow along with a minyan?" he asked.

She lied cheerfully. "Yes!"

Afterwards, I turned and saw a group of tourists taking pictures of the Wall. People were still finishing up Maariv and Havdalah (which they were taking forever to do because Jews) and there was a lovely scene to capture.

I whipped out my phone, took a couple of pictures and then put it away and stood there for several moments, taking in the sounds and scenery.

"Stop it! It's not over yet! Wait 10 more minutes! What are you doing?!"

From my right, I see a women in her mid to late 30's running up to the tourists taking pictures and screaming at them.

First of all, the sky was pitch black. Shabbat and YK had been over for more than 25 minutes. Not only that, but she didn't even look religious. Her shoulders were bare and she was wearing cargo pants. Her eyebrows were freshly painted and she had a face full of makeup. She was wearing jewelry and her hair looked immaculate. In fact, she looked very well put together for YK, a holiday where you are pretty much obligated to look like shit.

The tourists looked utterly terrified. One of them lifted his hands and began to apologize, as if being arrested. A nun, one of the people taking pictures, looked on in shock.

This annoyed me. Not only was she trying to put non-existent bullshit rules on non-Jews, but she was also being a  hypocrite. Not to mention the fact that she was committing a huge hillul hashem. It's fine if she celebrated YK in her own way, but that didn't give her the right to come up to people and scream at them. These tourists weren't Jewish and would probably now walk away with a terrible memory of some insane Israeli/Jewish asshole screaming at them at the holiest place in Judaism. That was going to be their association with Jews. And that pissed me off.

"Actually, Yom Kippur and Shabbat both ended at sundown at 7:24. It's now 7:50. So they're allowed to take pictures," I said calmly.

She whipped around towards me and approached, screaming, "No! It's not over!"

I took out of my phone and took a picture.

BLAM

 "How dare you?!" She was freaking out. "You are not allowed!"

"It's dark out," I pointed out.

"No! You are NOT allowed!"

"Fuck off," was my response which made her freak out even more.

"Fuck off?! You're telling ME to fuck off?! You fuck! You fuck off!"

"You're wearing tight pants and a tank top. You have a face full of makeup. Your eyebrows aren't even real! And you're telling people who aren't even Jewish to keep Shabbat and Yom Kippur, which were both over 25 minutes ago?" I said. She was being a hypocrite. And me pointing this out made her even angrier.

She sputtered and then started yelling,"This is MY DAY."

"Your day ended 25 minutes ago," I explained to her, calmly and rationally." It's dark now. It's been dark for 25 fucking minutes. And look at you, screaming in front of the Kotel. You should be ashamed."

I didn't think I could make her any angrier at that point. She got closer to me, practically in my face.

And then she put her hand on my shoulder. Not hard or painfully, but firmly.

And when she did that, something snapped. I tend to get moody when I'm hungry, but that's usually after a few hours without food. This was a 25 hour fast with no food or water and lots of walking and praying. I was on edge the moment she started to scream at me and get closer to me. I was running on adrenaline at that point and when she grabbed me, it didn't even register in my head what I was doing.

But I did it.

And I never raised my voice. Even when I told her to fuck off. Even as she screamed at me. Even after my fist collided with her clavicle. I never yelled back or screamed.

Do I get a cookie?

Oh, I really shouldn't but I'll take one anyway. I think I was calm mainly because I was so stunned that 1. someone was screaming at me in such a manner and 2. I had just punched someone in the chest for the first time in my 27 years of life.

Even worse, I had just punched someone in the chest at the Kotel right after Yom Kippur.

In truth, I hadn't really meant to do it. What I wanted to do was push her away, but then my hand balled up into a fist and then she was stumbling backwards, almost falling, coughing. It happened very fast. And honestly, I didn't hit that hard. It really was more of a shove. But you know, with my fist.

Her friends, who were religious, pulled her away immediately before she had time to react and that was the last I saw of her.

"You could have been arrested," Martine said after I had come back to the flat and told her what happened.

"Meh," I replied, before tearing into my lamb burger. It did not stand a chance.

"That's how Israelis are," she explained. "She probably didn't mean any harm."

And maybe this is where there is a cultural disconnect. Because in the States, someone screaming at you and putting their hands on you is an act of aggression which tells you to protect yourself. Her behavior told me that I needed to defend myself and if punching her in the fucking chest was going to stop her from hurting me, then I would do it as many times necessary to ensure my own safety. I'm not going to stand there and let someone yell at me and touch me because their shitty cultural norms say it's okay.

And I'd do it all over again because I don't take well to people screaming in my face at the top of their lungs, nor should I have to. Nor should anyone. I think because I'm small and looked young (sans makeup), she thought I would back down. And I probably would have under normal circumstances. Like if she was yelling at a greater distance. Or if she hadn't put her hand on me. Or if I hadn't been fasting.

As I walked home from the Kotel, feeling surprisingly alert, all I could think about, besides the lamb burger, fries and Fanta that I was going to get at Daisy Burger, was that after reciting selichot, after days of repentance and prayer, after 25 hours of fasting, I couldn't go 25 fucking minutes without doing something for which I would have to repent for next year.

Ain't that a B.

Snapped this on the walk home. "Violence and lamb burgers"

I ate the entire thing in 5 minutes.

Now that I have had more time to think about the incident, I semi-regret it but also not.

Mostly not.

Here are some more pictures I took:

Siddurim at the Kotel

Shawls for which you cover yourself if your arms are bare

Rebellion

Which leads me to a less exciting....

Sukkot

You know, not my favorite holiday. But I'm learning.

I'm sure I would appreciate it more if I were a kid. I went to a couple of lunches and dinners in sukkahs, temporary structures built to remember the days of an agricultural society and of course, the structures Jews built in the desert when wandering for 40 years.

Meals are traditionally eaten in the sukkah for the entire duration of the holiday and people say blessings over the Four Species. It's definitely one of the funner and happier holidays.

It was quite fun to see people's sukkahs all around Jerusalem.

Restaurants also made sukkahs outside

 Simchat Torah was spent at a bar in Tel Aviv watching a football game with Martine.

Molly Bloom's Irish Pub

And I never did get a Rav Kav.


Lessons Learned:
1. Jerusalem bus windows are transparent.
3. Creepers are creepers no matter the nationality.
4. Continue telling people I'm an American even if they don't believe me.
5. Sometimes the only way to get someone to leave you alone is by punch-shoving them in the chest.
6. Lamb burgers, fries and Fanta are the best way to end a fast.
7. All holidays are more exciting, intense and meaningful in Israel.

יש לי עגבת and Why Google Translate Isn't My Friend

As I type this, my flatmate is wearing her red Manchester United jersey, yelling at the television and belting out Man U chants and songs as we watch the Manchester United vs Leverkusen game (Note: I wrote this post a while ago). Earlier we were marathoning the third season of Queer as Folk, eating kebabs and burgers, and drinking vodka with apple juice.

So I'm doing well.

Especially in regards to neglecting this blog. It's a bit daunting to start writing about what has happened so far because there is so much to write about and organizing it all into something that doesn't resemble some nonsensical blob of information is going to be difficult. But it probably will be a nonsensical blob of information anyway because I'm basically writing in a poorly edited stream of consciousness kind of way, adding pictures in order to detract from the fact that I'm not a writer and don't always know how to make transition between paragraphs.

OHWOWSOCOOLDONTNEEDACONNECTINGSENTENCE

Deciding to take a five month sabbatical to live and study in Jerusalem may be the best present I have ever given myself. I figured that this was probably the time in my life to take a sabbatical seeing as I have no obligations. I am not responsible for anyone's financial or physical well being but my own, nor is anyone responsible for mine. I saved for months, contributing greatly to my already existing savings account, in order to ensure that I could support myself and live comfortably in Jerusalem. I wanted to reward myself for the years of studying and working with something I've always wanted to do but could never afford: to live and study abroad. And rewarding studying with more studying makes complete sense. Right. Anyway.

It wasn't that I wasn't happy with my life in DC. On the contrary, my life in DC was amazing and I am completely grateful for it. It consisted of family, Andy, friends, fitness classes, the gym, work, concerts, etc. But I felt that I needed a change of pace and environment. And when I realized I had the opportunity to engage my quarter life crisis, I went for it.

Using Craigslist, I found a tenant for my DC condo, which means my mortgage and condo fee are covered, and I make a small profit out of renting, just enough to cover my cellphone bill and most of my food expenses per month. I found my apartment in Israel by looking at several postings on the Pardes housing list serve and had my mom's first cousin's *insert the rest of how we are somehow related by family* Gadi check out the places before I made a decision. I don't know what I would have ended up with if it hadn't been for him! This trip took a considerable amount of planning and coordination and it was good to know that when I have to/want to, I can be extremely organized and proactive. Though I may be judging this solely off of my ability to deal with Comcast and the Israeli embassy at the same time a week prior to my departure.

And it was worth it. The stress, the worry and the sleepless nights were all worth it because I am so unbelievably happy here as I learn to relax and get out of work mode. At the start of the semester, there were several frantic moments where I would rummage through my purse looking for my work badge because it had the keys to the women's bathroom. How would I enter the building? How would I pee?! After several seconds, I would suddenly realize that I didn't need a badge to get into the building, or a key to use the bathroom and that oh my goodness, I was so well trained.

But that was nearly a month ago. And so far I have been enjoying a quality of life that I did not have in the US.

Kind of. Because OMG THE FOOD. The food is amazing here: fresh, delicious, and cheap (if it's from the shuk). I think I could write several entries on the food alone. The fruits and veggies actually taste like they're supposed to. And they make up a huge part of my diet, which, in addition to all the fruits and veggies, consists of candy, falafel, and MEAT. SO MUCH MEAT. And it's everywhere! It's just REALLY REALLY great to be surrounded by kosher meat.

Most of all, it feels really nice to be in a place where no one feels the need to comment on my diet. Here in Jerusalem, when people have you over for dinner, they ask about any additional dietary restrictions beforehand. And they don't try to make you feel guilty or weird about it. Almost everyone keeps kosher and even those who do not are still respectful. What is this magical place?!

Food is such an integral part of connecting and uniting people and I think some people, especially people that were never exposed to a diversity of culture or food, take it to heart and get offended when you don't eat the same thing as them. Or they get upset if you can't eat their signature dish or some food that they felt was particularly delicious that they swear you would compliment them on if you would only just try it. Or they assume you're judging them or they think you're trying to be different on purpose.

But here, no one gives a fuck. Because it's a city full of yiddishe mamas who just want to feed you.

In Jerusalem, there is kosher food for those who want it, but also plenty of places that sell and serve non-kosher food. Pretty much every restaurant has vegetarian options and there are gluten and sugar free products easily available in several stores and bakeries. And they are much, much better than the cardboard tasting gluten free crap in the US. Eating certain foods with gluten makes me very sick, but I usually leave the pain for future Nataliya because the baked goods here are pretty amazing and I figure she can handle it. Future Nataliya usually hates past Nataliya a lot, but figures she will become past Nataliya at a certain point and there will be always be an opportunity for revenge. And I help keep the peace when I can by purchasing yummy gluten free challah and gluten free Italian bread that is baked with rosemary, sun dried tomatoes, oregano and garlic.

So it's not hard to be well fed here. And this is just a sample of what I eat:

SALAD

Falafel with fries

OMNONOM <3 Hamburger from Daisy Burger

MOAR SALAD!

Veggies and eggs (though tomatoes are technically a fruit)!

And while I'm doing well on the food front, the sleeping could use some work. I've picked up the rather bad habit of staying up till almost two in the morning which I've been trying to break. Tonight will be no exception because the game won't end until midnight and trying to fall asleep among guttural shouts of "Come on, Reds!" and "That's my Rooney!" and a lively rendition of "Glory, Glory, Man United!" is futile. And I know better than to get between a Manc and their football game.

"I can't help it," Martine explains. "I just get so nervous. What if they lose?"

In the first week, I would wake up in the middle of the night in a panic, completely disoriented. It would take me a few seconds to realize where I was. But now I sleep through the night, occasionally awakened by the sprinkler system at three in the morning if I leave my window open. This is becoming less of a problem as the nights grow colder.

Awesome food and crappy sleep aside, I am still exercising and keeping in shape. My body is something that I really love and am proud of. I work hard to stay healthy and fit and it's important for me to maintain a positive body image and in order to do so, I try to exercise at least three to five times a week. It also helps that I spend over an hour everyday walking.

I've started on P90X and so far, I'm pleasantly sore. I am especially enamored by the Ab Ripper X exercises because abs are my favorite muscles to work on. However, the exercises are rather uncomfortable because they involve a lot of leaning on my "mutant" tailbone (note: tailbone's nickname courtesy of Andy). In my junior year at UMD, I went on a month long trip to Uruguay with a group of friends. On a trip to Punta del Este, being the naturally suave person that I am, I had jumped backwards onto a hotel bed, not knowing that one of the wooden bed posts was covered by the duvet. This resulted in a broken tailbone and though it has healed since, it's bent out of shape and juts out of the bottom of my spine so that when I do ab exercises on a hard floor, it scrapes against the surface and is quite uncomfortable. I usually have to put a pillow or a towel down and this helps, but I can still feel it. This also goes for oblique exercises since my hips are bony. It's still worth it to work out this way because I love the feel of sore ab muscles and the results I get.

Running, on the other hand, is still my greatest fitness love and running in Jerusalem is a fulfilling challenge.
Running downhill - you see the city expand before you and everything is beautiful.
Running uphill - you hate everything, including the person walking leisurely downhill on the same path as they watch you struggle to run up some stupid 45 degree slope.

I usually run down the main road in my area in my neighborhood which is Derech Hevron, but I also run on the Rakevet, which is the old Jerusalem railway station whose tracks have been made into bicycle, walking, and running paths and the station area is home to several restaurants, bars, and art vendors. It's now a place for families and young people alike to walk around and hang out in.

I have also been running around the Haas Promenade, otherwise known as the Tayelet, next to my apartment complex. I'm a little obsessed with it. It has a view of the entire city, is quiet and peaceful and the shrubbery smells like fresh cinnamon, lavender and rosemary. Numerous walking/running paths wind down the side of the hill, making for a pleasant and scenic run/walk. Sometimes after an especially long day, I descend down the Tayelet, sit on one of the benches that has the most pleasing view to me, and listen to the adhan echo throughout the city while watching the sunset. This has to be timed perfectly and it makes for a beautiful and relaxing experience. It's always exactly what I need to ground myself.

The hill upon which the Tayelet sits is known as the Hill of the Evil Counsel, where Judas plotted against Jesus along with the High Priest Caiphas. This was the site where they decided to arrest Jesus. How do we know this? Because during the 4th century, Emperor Constantine sent his mother, Empress Helena, to the Holy Land in order to locate Christian relics, and she picked out sites where she found crosses and nails and built churches over them and/or declared the sites as holy to Christianity. She supposedly found the true cross and nails upon which Jesus was crucified. I say supposedly because there are other denominations of Christianity who claim to have the real cross and nails. She also had a huge entourage with her and destroyed a bunch of Roman temples and built churches over them as well. And that's as much as I remember about her from my early Christianity class at UMD.

In the morning, there is almost no one around the Tayelet and usually it was only me at 5:45ish starting my run and watching the sun rise over the Jerusalem. I often got lost in my thoughts and didn't realize how far downhill I was until I looked around me and suddenly panicked when I saw how alone and far off I was from the main road. I never even did this in DC. But it's hard when the view is so beautiful and there are so many paths to run. However, due to continuous warnings to be careful, I decided to start avoiding it all together in the morning because it's simply not worth the risk to become a cautionary tale of that American girl who didn't heed safety warnings.

                           

  

I was told that it's also dangerous there during the evening. When I first walked along the Tayelet, I miscalculated the time it would take to get back to the top and it was already dark by the time I began to make my way home. Groups of teen-aged boys and young men in their early 20s were gathering in different parts, smoking and blasting music, growing quiet and watching me as I power walked past them. I still take walks along the Tayelet in the evening, but mainly around the well-lit area closest to the road, only rarely slipping away downhill to catch a glimpse of the city away from the light pollution.

                               
Talpiot, the neighborhood I live in, is a mix of working and middle class families. The area is diverse, with Jews, Arabs, Filipino migrant workers and settled refugees from Sudan and/or Eritrea commonly seen walking about. A ten minute walk down the street from my apartment is the Green Line, the line that indicates the pre-1967 border of Israel, and along the line are several Arab villages. It's odd to think how tiny this area really is. Bethlehem is only a ten minute drive down the road from me. A 15 minute walk in the other direction is the Ramat Rachel kibbutz, an archaeological park, cherry orchards and the Palestinian neighborhood of Tsur Baher.

Overall, I feel that my neighborhood is safe (*knocks on wood*). But during holidays, late nights in class, and Shabbat, I walk home in the dark by myself and it is definitely creepy. Not because there are creepy people, but because it is completely empty. There is almost no one walking or driving. Sometimes I'll hear the occasional cat skitter away or meow loudly, but overall, it is complete silence except for the sound of my own footsteps. It still freaks me out a little bit and I usually hurry to the apartment as quickly as I can.

But other than all of that, I feel safe and happy here.

I am not being bombed by Syria, mom. I do not feel as if I need a gas mask and the room I am renting is the mamad (read: bomb shelter). The door is so heavy that I had a hard time closing it when I first arrived and the window was made to withstand chemical weapons so there is no airflow in the room when the window is closed. While this is a good thing in case of a chemical weapon attack, it is also a bad thing since I still need to breath when chemical weapons aren't present. The room is suffocating when the window is closed so I pretty much always leave it open just a bit. Since we are on the ground floor, my window has bars, built in blinds, and it peeks out into the garden which is surrounded by stone walls and a wooden fence. In the garden, my flatmate grows pomegranates and has a lemon tree, among other things.

"I used to stock bottled water in your room in case of emergencies but then I would just end up drinking it all," Martine said, when explaining safety here.

I can't speak for all Israelis, but the Israelis I've spoken to in Jerusalem rolled their eyes at me when I've mentioned gas masks. "Don't worry!" is what most people have said to me. "We'll probably just get rockets from Hezbollah."

Israeli citizens can pick up gas masks at specific locations (or alternatively can have them mailed to their doorstep for ~40 shekels) but tourists and students will only get them if the government feels there is a significant threat of chemical weapon use. They did hand out gas masks to tourists and students at the beginning of both Gulf Wars but do not feel it is significant enough of a threat at the moment.

Truthfully, I'm more worried about crossing the street. I was told to take precaution as a pedestrian since "more Israelis have died crossing the street than in all of the wars combined." I don't know how true that is, but this has made me forever paranoid. I am very careful as most people drive like maniacs, and on holidays and in the evenings, since roads are empty, the people who happen to be driving seem to think Jerusalem streets become Formula 1 race tracks. However, the thing that surprised me the most is that cars do stop for me if I am at a crosswalk which is more than I can say for DC drivers.

But the sense of adventure that I get every time I need to cross the street is starting to wane and I'm starting to get used to the driving, like with everything else here.

The adjustment into living in Jerusalem has been much slower and more gradual than I expected. Much of it has to do with the language barrier and the initial jet lag.

I barely remember anything from the day after I arrived.

I woke up at 8 for the orientation at 9. I somehow managed to drag myself out of the house. It was a beautiful, sunny day with a lovely breeze but I couldn't really focus and everything seemed foggy. A man winked at me and said something under his breath as he passed by me. I crossed a street. And another street. And another. I met teachers and fellow students and forgot their names and faces almost immediately.

After orientation and some caffeine, I wanted to be productive. I wanted to get things done and begin to settle in. I wandered over to Super Sol Deal, a grocery store on Pierre Koenig street next to Pardes, to grab food and toiletries. I walked into the toiletries aisle and stared at the huge selection of shampoos, conditioners, and soaps.

I usually have an issue with indecisiveness in the States but this was worse.

Smelling everything did not help. Coconut Vanilla smelled like Milk and Honey, and Milk and Honey smelled like Pomegranate.  All of the body soaps smelled the same and all of the shampoos and conditioners smelled like the body soaps, with the exception of one that reminded me of elderly Russian men who wear too much cologne, smell faintly of moth balls and boiled potatoes, and smoke 10 packs a day. One of the workers at the store came to watch me as I opened and smelled each individual bottle. I guess no one does this here.

After half an hour of inhaling soap fumes, I finally selected the products I wanted and went to the checkout line, figuring I would get food somewhere else since the produce section was packed with people. If I had been less jet lagged, I would have realized that it was a Thursday afternoon, which is the worst possible time to go grocery shopping since it is the day before Shabbat and everyone acts like there will never be food again. The lines were ridiculously long and all of the carts were filled to the top. The cashiers were moving the items in slow motion. I had never seen anything like it.

"Nope," I muttered to myself. "Nope nope nope." I went to a nearby cart, dropped everything I had in my arms and walked out. This wasn't happening today.

As I walked up the street, I saw a small grocery store and started walking towards it. Next to it were two men, about my age, sitting on a bench. They looked at me, then at each other, smiled and stood up as I approached, looking like they were going to talk to me.

Nope. Sorry friends. Not happening.

I turned on my heel and walked the other way. I didn't know if they were going to sell me insurance, drugs, or if they were secret Israeli Jehovah's Witnesses wanting just a moment of my time to discuss their Savior and my hell bound soul. I just knew that I couldn't process anything at the moment, much less deal with creepers.

My last attempt to be productive ended at the ATM. Since Martine does not accept PayPal and I find it useless to set up an Israeli bank account since I'm only here for 5 months, we agreed that I would pay in cash. In my attempt to withdraw a stupid amount of shekels, I accidentally went to the 'information' ATM and not the real ATM (also called a caspomat). There are apparently two different kinds of ATMs here and as random words appeared on the screen whenever I pressed a button, I gave up.

(I would also like to add that some ATMs accept my card only at certain times. The same ATM that accepted my card in the morning will express its anti-American sentiment in the evening by telling me that my card cannot be accepted.)

After I came back to the apartment, Martine and I went to Daisy Burger, which is a 5 minute walk away, and my eyes went immediately to the mushroom burger on the menu before I realized that this place was kosher and I could actually get meat. This was my first introduction to the fact that for the first time, kosher meat was going to be easily accessible to me.

I was in heaven.

I wanted to try everything. I wasn't used to having so many options since in the States I usually always ordered one of a few vegetarian items off the menu. But this place had lamb burgers. And chicken wings! It was very exciting.

But the initial excitement ended when I actually had to order because it made me realize how crappy my Hebrew is and how much more I needed to learn. My goal for the end of my time here is to be able to order food without using charades, pointing emphatically or making various gang signs. While I have managed to order food exclusively in Hebrew, it could still use a lot of work.

When testing my Hebrew skills (or lack thereof), one of the teachers told me to read a passage in a book.

"That's very interesting," he said when I finished. "Your English tells me you're American, but your Hebrew tells me that you're Russian." That was embarrassing, but not necessarily a bad thing.

There is a large population of Russians and/or Russian speakers in Israel and I hear Russian spoken around me constantly. It has been a huge help to be bilingual here because Russian people stick out like sore thumbs. This is especially true for older Russian people. Their clothing, their bitchy resting faces so similar to my own, and their accents in Hebrew are all very recognizable and they always know where the bathroom is/where the bus is going. On the whole however, pretty much everyone has been interacting with me in Hebrew, only occasionally switching to English when they see that I'm just staring at them and saying "yes" repeatedly. And apparently almost no one in the service industry speaks Russian.

Except one Bulgarian check out lady who was convinced that I was Asian.

"Are you Asian?" she asked.

"Um..well I'm from Kiev originally, but if you're wondering about my accent it's because I've actually been living in-."

"There are many people of Asian descent in Bulgaria," she loudly interrupted as she scanned my produce and handed it to me. "So I can tell. Somewhere in your bloodline is an Asian. I can see it. You have that look. Someone in your family was an Asian. *pause* Okay? Come back again soon!"

But it was really nice to finally understand a cashier, even though it was an odd, mostly one sided conversation.

My go-to Hebrew word for when I don't understand anything is 'ken' or yes. This works half the time. If I notice they say 'ken?' in an odd way, I quickly change to 'lo!' or no. This works 0.05% of the time because usually they are asking me an open ended question.

When I finally went to buy toiletries at a pharmacy, they asked me how I would like to pay and if I would like to pay in installments. There is an option for people that if you cannot afford to pay for something all at once or if you would like to break the total up into separate payments, you can pay in as little as 3 installments, or as high as 36.

So when I answered "ken!" when the cashier asked me how I would like to pay, switching to "....lo?" did not help. Thankfully, a lady shopping nearby felt bad for me and helped but interactions like that make me frustrated and wanting to learn more.

In the beginning, when people approached me in the street to ask something, I told them that I didn't know or that I didn't understand. My bitchy resting face does not deter people here. This may be because many others here also have bitchy resting faces so they assume that it is a native expression.

Thankfully, as my Hebrew improves, I still tell people that I don't know or understand what they're saying, but I have given directions several times when I do understand what they're asking and it makes me feel accomplished. At the same time, it also makes me feel guilty and nervous and I always hope that I'm telling them to go to the right place. Because in reality, I still don't understand 90% of what people are saying to me.

Two weeks ago, a woman at the supermarket shoved a cup of yogurt (unopened) in my face and asked me something in Hebrew.

"Ken!" I said, hoping that would make her go away.

She stared at me.

"Ani lo mevina," I finally told her. I don't understand.

"Anglit?" she asked.

"I speak English."

"What do you think of this?"

"Errr...it looks okay?"

I don't think I gave her the answer that she wanted because she then smirked at me and walked away.

In all honestly, I didn't even know it was yogurt until Martine told me it was. In fact, I had bought a couple of cups of what I thought was yogurt but it turned out to be cottage cheese instead. It was delicious and I ate it anyway.

But the language barrier is something that I've been struggling with and trying to improve. I've been here for a month and so far, I have learned to ask a vendor at the market if they have a particular item, to give directions to my apartment, tell a food vendor the ingredients that I want in my falafel/shwarma pita, tell the vendor that I want that order to go, and how to order a shot of vodka.

This is (almost) everything I want on my falafel/shwarma

I have been studying Hebrew in my off-time and trying to memorize and learn as much grammar and vocabulary as possible. Google translate has been my fair weather friend through all of this. I don't always trust it since the grammar is often icky and it doesn't recognize first person gender conjugation. And now I trust it even less due to one terrible moment when I was about to order the vodka shot. I was with a group of fellow students and I looked up how to say "shot of vodka."

כוסית וודקה (kusit vodka) was what it came back with. But just to make sure my pronunciation was correct, I checked with one of the more fluent members of our group.

He looked at me oddly for a moment and then burst out laughing.  "What...why are you saying that?"

"This is what I got from Google Translate." I showed him the translation on my phone.

"Don't say that," he said, laughing. "Well actually, do say it. It'll be interesting to see how our waitress reacts."

Apparently, the word כוסית (kusit), while it can mean glass, is Hebrew slang for the C word.

That is definitely not the kind of vodka I wanted.
Google Translate, how could you!?

Thankfully, I was instructed on the proper way to order a shot. A shot in Hebrew is called a chaser (צ'ייסר), so when I said "אני רוצה צ'ייסר אבסולוט ולימון גם ,בבקשׁה," (I want a shot of Absolut and a lemon also, please), I got exactly what I wanted. And now I'm going to remember that sentence forever. Especially since vodka shots are something I always order because 1. they make me pee less  2. I don't get hungover with all the sugary mixers and 3. they are a good way of making sure the bartender isn't screwing me over which is sometimes hard to tell with a mixed drink.

The cost of alcohol here is only marginally less than DC, but I was also at a bar off of a busy street. The shot cost me about 18 shekels, or about 5$, which isn't bad since shots can be anywhere from 7-10$ in DC depending on where you go. The cost of buying in a liquor store is the same as DC as well and there is also a larger kosher wine selection. But if you specifically want non-kosher wine, there are stores that sell that as well. While I keep kosher to a strong degree, I am not strict when it comes to alcohol.

And with my British-Israeli roommate, I am learning more and more about the different kinds. Such as mixing Pimms with Sprite and apples to make a sort of English Sangria. Or mixing beer and Sprite to create a shandy. Or the already mentioned vodka with apple juice.

From that bar where I ordered a shot, I decided to cab it home since night buses take longer and I still have to walk about 20 minutes to get home from the stop.

I have had three experiences with Jerusalem cabs and the latest was unsettling.

My friend Rosella was visiting Jerusalem with her family and we had agreed to meet at Hatzot for dinner. This was right after Shabbat and buses usually start running an hour after Shabbat ends so I grabbed the first one out. I found the restaurant easily, met up with Rosella, and we both ordered the Jerusalem mixed grill, which is various chicken pieces (heart, liver, etc) grilled to perfection. We were also served various delicious sides.

Afterwards, we walked down to Ben Yehuda to wander. It was filled with babies. And by babies, I mean the 18-21 crowd. The last time I had been down that street, I was the same age as these babies. They were mostly kids learning in seminaries and yeshivas. It also seemed like there were more bars and restaurants than there were 6 years ago. Loud music blared loudly from several streets. We also saw a Chabad dance party/concert.

We walked to Cafe Kadosh where Rosella ordered fresh carrot juice and I ordered a shot of vodka with lemon. We sat and talked for a while before we decided to call it a night. She walked back to where she was meeting her family and I decided to get a cab.

The first cabbie refused to use a meter so I refused to get in the cab. I found a cabbie that did and got in. This guy also spoke English. I thought this was a good thing.

"Why don't you sit up front with me, sweetheart?" he patted the front seat as he drove away from the sidewalk. "I want to see your face. I want to look at you. You're very beautiful."

This was probably the last thing I wanted to hear at one in the morning.

"I'm okay here," I said, clutching my purse to my chest like it was some kind of security blanket. He was speeding down the street and I momentarily contemplated opening the door and hurtling myself out but then thought about the prospect of hitting a light pole or a parked car.

After not being able to convince me to sit up front, he asked me where I was from. I told him that I'm from DC.

"You're married?"

"No, but I have a boyfriend."

"Here in Israel?"

I stupidly didn't lie. "No, in the US, but I'll be back in a short while and he's coming to visit me very soon." The conversation descended from there.

"Just a boyfriend? You must be feeling lonely. So long without the loving touch of a man. It's perfectly natural. People have needs. I have needs. You have needs. Why don't you and I get together-"

"You can stop here," I said, feeling very uncomfortable at this point. We were almost near Derech Hevron, where I could have caught another cab easily.

He refused and drove faster. "This isn't even close to where you're going." He smiled at me into the rear view mirror." I'll take you home."

I quietly panicked as he continued, interjecting every once in a while in a spew of Hebrew. I had never been happier to not understand what someone was saying. "You and I should do something together. You're just so *hebrewhebrewhebrew* I would just love to *hebrewhebrewhebrewhebrew*"

"WE'RE GETTING MARRIED NEXT MONTH,"  I practically shouted at him.

"Oh," he said, disappointed. "Oh really? How old are you?"

"36."

"You look so young!"

"I get that a lot."

"That's a good time to get married and have kids," he sighed. "I bet you've already done and seen all there is to see and do."

Whatever the fuck that meant.

I was disgusted but so grateful that he didn't realize that my 'boyfriend' turned into a 'fiance' in the span of minutes. And he didn't ask to see a ring. I was thankful for his stupidity.

"So how are you enjoying Israel?" And with that, the conversation became normal henceforth, as if he didn't just proposition me earlier. I had him drop me off on the corner of Beitar and Yanovski, ten minutes away from my apartment, practically threw the money at him, and ran out of the cab without saying thank you or goodbye.

It was only after I told him that I was getting married, that I essentially 'belonged' to someone else, that he backed off. In the Shuk or in the street, the men who talk to me always ask if I'm married when I tell them I'm not interested (because that must be the only reason why I wouldn't want to give them my number). When I tell them I have a boyfriend, their response is usually "So? You're not married." It makes me feel like I'm in that Positive K song, especially because sometimes they'll follow me when I try to walk away. I wonder if "boyfriend" is actually Hebrew for "temporary penis holder." Perhaps Google Translate has misled me once again.

Of course, alternatively, I could always tell them that I have a terrible case of the clap or some other STD.

"אני מצטערת .יש לי עגבת."

"I'm sorry but I have syphilis. Can I have my fucking tomatoes?/Can I shop in peace?/Can you just drive and stop talking to me?/Sometimes syphilis can be transmitted via eye contact\is airborne\you now have syphilis."

It frustrates me that simply saying "I'm not interested" isn't enough to get someone to leave me alone. I suppose I could try to point out to them that they're being disrespectful but I think that kind of mentality starts in the home and I'm not looking to start arguing with anyone. I can't be responsible for someone's failure to bring up their sons to see women as people. I just want to be left alone.

Which is why I decided to start wearing a fake wedding/engagement ring when I'm out.

"Baby, I'll buy you the best cubic zirconia money can buy," was Andy's response to my plan. 

I thought about getting a Lord of the Rings ring and just telling guys in my nerd voice that I'm planning a Lord of the Rings wedding, "but my friends don't speak Elvish so we'd have to perform the ceremony in Klingon instead. Peons!" 

But I chose the cheaper alternative and went to Top Ten, a store similar to Claire's.  

Oh, you shouldn't have!

It's an admittedly stupid idea, especially because two of those rings are disco balls but I can just tell them I'm Ukrainian and they'll understand why my ring is so gawdy. But the taxi incident and other interactions which I will write about in later posts could have possibly been avoided if I had just lied and flashed some 5 shekel ring. 

My proposal to myself was short and to the point. I didn't get down on one knee or anything but I made sure I had a cat staring at me during my inner monologue. That counts as a witness, right?

"Nataliya, will you do me the honor of marrying me so I can avoid creeps?"
"Yes! YES! I thought you'd never ask!"

I celebrated my marriage/engagement/ownership ritual to myself with a falafel wrapped in a laffa and hoped for the best in my new hopefully harassment-less life with myself.

Falafel wedding feast

And now the game is over. It's almost midnight and Manchester United has won 4-2 against Leverkusen which means I get to go to sleep in relative silence. I write relative because Martine usually doesn't go to sleep until 2 and sometimes laughs out loud at the television, watching reruns of shows like Will and Grace or Little Britian with Hebrew subtitles. Thankfully, this is why I keep earplugs on my nightstand, for those nights that I hone into every little noise on purpose. I'd like to blame the fact that I don't sleep on someone else, but the truth is that even when Martine is gone for the evening, I still don't go to sleep until 2. And I'll probably stay up even later typing up this entry. I hope the wife doesn't mind.

Lessons learned:
Always tell creepers you're married
If encountering a new word, always ask for its proper usage
Sometimes it's okay to not be productive and have a hamburger instead