Ha Sheelat Million Ha Dollar: The Million Dollar Question

Day Fourteen: Day Yud Daled

Nevo and Joanna decided to book a hotel in the heart of the city for a few days to experience all Tel Aviv has to offer. That gave Don and I the chance to visit some of my family in Tel Aviv, and also explore the city more on our own before my intensive Hebrew classes started. We took a cab to Gane Tzahala, my aunt’s neighborhood in Northern Tel Aviv, and the cab driver commented, “Why would you want to go there? There is no “gan” (garden) and there is no “Tzahal” (army) there.

Don and I arrived and were greeted by my aunt Vered, uncle Pini, cousin David, and their friendly but very old dog, Buddy. I spent a long while chatting with my family in the living room, and “ha sheelat million ha dollar,” also one of my vocab terms for Ulpan, seems to be, “are you going to ever move to Israel?” Philosophically, I’m all for it for several reasons. With an existential threat to the small country, I think the best way to show support for Israel is by moving there and productively contributing to society. Also family life is much closer and more open in Israel, the food is fresher, and people seem to enjoy life a bit more- taking frequent vacations all over the world, chatting in cafes until 2 in the morning, and indulging in gourmet restaurants on a regular basis.

Vered told me that she lived for five years in Los Angeles in the same house and never met her next-door neighbor, until there was a severe earthquake and he came to see if they were ok. In Israel, Vered’s neighbor calls her from across the street to tell her she can’t see her through her window and is wondering where she went. There is a sense of interconnectedness between people here that often crosses the line into nosiness, but nevertheless feels warmer than in the United States.

On a practical level it’s not so easy to make aliyah. The cost of living in Israel is higher than in the United States, and adjusting to a new language and culture is easier said than done. Having just graduated college, I’m open to the many directions my life could take me in the coming years. Maybe someday I’ll call Israel my home, but in any event, a couple weeks brushing up my Hebrew in Ulpan can’t hurt.

The Grass Is Always Greener...

Day Thirteen: Day Yud Gimmel

Wanting to get back to Tel Aviv, Don and I decided to hitch a ride with Nevo and Joanna. They had spent some time at a bed and breakfast on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, also known as the Kineret, the largest freshwater lake in Israel, so we met them there on their way back South. Nevo told us that the night before, they stopped at a beach recommended by their friend, but they were really disappointed by it because it was a camping beach filled with lots of broken bottles and litter. He really wanted to find a better beach to relax on before the long drive back, so we stopped at a coffee shop to ask for directions. A barista told us that, “all the nice beaches are on the other side of the Kineret”. We pulled out a map, located the names of several places on the opposite side of the lake, and set off in search of a more glamorous beach. About a half an hour later, we arrived at the opposite side of the Kineret, only to find more beaches with discarded diapers, broken bottles, and food wrappers floating in the water. We asked a local, “so, where are the nice beaches around here?” He pointed in the direction we just came from and responded, “The nice beaches are all on that side of the lake.” I guess the grass is always greener on the other side of the Kineret…

We gave up on the beach plan, and instead decided to go for a hike. This specific hike was recommended to us because the trail is shaded and you cross through rivers, so don’t suffer in the heat. We arrived to a parking lot filled with tour busses, and could see large guided groups preparing to do the hike. We rushed to get ahead of the big groups and start down the “wet path”. Instead of a path that occasionally crosses a river, you literally walk in the river the entire length of the hike. I had sandals on, and kept stubbing my toes and stumbling over submerged rocks and tree branches. Parts of the river were almost too deep to stand in, and many hikers swam. I thought it was a pretty fun adventure, but Joanna kept asking Nevo, “Why are you taking me on a hike through a swamp??” I’m just glad there are no wild crocodiles in Israel, because I felt like it was a place they would like to live in. Joanna was relieved when we reached the end of the hike, and we drove back to Tel Aviv in our soggy clothes.

Sabras

Day Twelve: Yom Yud Bet

Sitting on the patio for breakfast, Don’s uncle Nissim patiently spoke to me in Hebrew, telling stories of his visits to America. In 2001, he was in Chicago and went to go see the Sears Tower. On the elevator ride to the top, they played a video about the construction of the building and Nissim remarked, “If something bad ever happened to this building, it would be a great tragedy”. The next day he flew to New York to visit his daughter’s famiy. They took him to the twin towers and asked him if he would like to go up to the top. He said, “I was just at the tallest building in Chicago, why would I want to go up these?” Instead, they sat at a café at the base of the building and went on to see other attractions. The next day was the morning of September 11th. Nissim turned on the TV and saw the first tower on fire. He did not understand English, and thought he was watching a strange movie. He tried to change channels, but every channel seemed to be playing the same movie. It was not until his daughter came home from work that he understood that there was an attack on the buildings. I looked at him in shock, unsure how to respond with my basic Hebrew vocabulary. I guess living in a country that is constantly under attack, makes one conscious of the false sense of security felt elsewhere. People in Israel have needed to adapt and become tough to continue on with everyday life, and in recent years Americans have also realized that they take a lot of freedoms for granted. It reminded me why they sometimes call Israelis “sabras”, the fruit of a cactus, because they are sweet on the inside, but have thick skin.

I sat on the patio chatting, until I could no longer tolerate the heat. The weather in Kiriyat Shmona is deadly in the summer because it’s extremely hot and humid. The last time I visited the area, three years ago, I got what the Israelis call a “sun attack”, and suffered from headaches, dizziness, fever, and dehydration. I remember trying to sleep it off in the coolest, darkest, and quietest place available in the house- the bomb shelter. This time around, I came more prepared and brought a bottle of water, hat, and portable fan with me everywhere I went, and avoided leaving air-conditioned rooms in the middle of the day whenever possible. I took a siesta, and awoke in the evening when it had cooled off outside. Don was anxious to borrow Felix’s tractor and go for a ride in the orchards before sunset, and I decided to join him. Felix backed the tractor out of his garage, pointed us in the right direction, and we drove off. Much of the land surrounding Kiriyat Shmona is agricultural. We passed orange groves, apple orchards, apricot and plum trees, and fields of cattle. The surrounding hills looked exactly like the ones behind my family’s home in Carmel Valley, San Diego. So much so, that it made me feel homesick. It’s funny how you can travel halfway across the world and see something that looks just like your backyard.

The Road to Kiriyat Shmona

Day Eleven: Yom Yud Alef

Having many more of Don’s aunts, uncles, and cousins to visit, we set out for Kiriyat Shmona, which also happens to be the city Don’s mom and dad first met in. Nevo was driving on the twisting roads down the mountain from Baram, and he spotted a sign that said "Naftali Scenic Lookout", and pointed down a gravel path. Nevo has a tendency to veer off the road and stop at every scenic viewpoint he can find, so we began driving down the bumpy, narrow pathway. It took us along the edge of the mountain where we could see the entire Hulah Valley below. Since there was no place we could turn the car around, and the path appeared to continue down the mountain, we kept driving to see where it would take us. After winding down the switchbacks, Kiriyat Shmona came into sight, and we discovered an exit through a residential neighborhood. We arrived in Kiriyat Shmona safely, but were later informed that we accidentally drove on a gravel path only meant for bicycles and army vehicles, and it could have potentially taken us into Lebanon if we continued going on it. At least it had a scenic view.

For our afternoon activity, we drove nearby to Beit Hillel to go rafting on the upper tributaries of the Jordan River. Galila went to purchase our tickets, and I could hear her arguing at the counter.

Galila: “We are staying in a bed and breakfast in the area, don’t you offer discounts for that?”
Employee: “Yes, but you need a coupon book”.
Galila: “But I left it by accident…”
Employee: “What’s the name of the bed and breakfast you are staying at?”
Galila: “Um…Felix’s Bed and Breakfast”
Employee: “I’ve never heard of that…”
Galila: “You haven’t heard of it? It’s an amazing place!”

This went back and forth for a while, and eventually the employee gave in and let her have a small discount. The river Dan, also my boyfriend Don’s namesake, was more of a mellow, shady stream than the raging torrent advertised by the boat rental company. Galila, Nevo, Joanna, Don, and I were in one big inflatable raft. Nobody but me felt like paddling, so we spun in circles, occasionally knocking into tree branches, other rafters, and an abandoned mattress floating downstream. I eventually gave up, and just let the current help us creep along. Toward the end of the journey, we were warned of rapids. I was picturing class five rapids, but instead it was a mere three-foot drop over some submerged boulders. A photographer on the riverbank patiently waited for each group of rafters to pass over the sole rapid, so he could snap a picture of how extreme the experience was, and sell it to them in the gift shop. At the end of the route, some tan and jocky Israeli guys hoisted our raft out of the river, and directed us towards the bus that would take us back to the parking lot. We passed by the kiosk selling our pictures, but we were told “come back later, the computer isn’t working”.

We left souvenirless, and drove to Don’s uncle Felix’s bed and breakfast, which is not actually called “Felix’s Bed and Breakfast”. We arrived to a warm welcome, and were given our own bungalow, with a Jacuzzi tub oddly situated in the living room. We reconvened at Felix’s house, and were joined by more, and more of Don’s relatives. Don’s aunt Rina, who is an excellent cook, began to bring out plates of salads and appetizers, as the men set up a charcoal grill. While we were waiting for the burgers to grill, Don’s cousin Moor took us to see his friend’s pet donkey. I felt bad for the poor animal as Moor, who is large for his age, tried to ride it around the block. I’m not sure who was more stubborn, Moor or the donkey. We returned to Felix’s to discover some new items on the menu for the evening: grilled chicken hearts and liver. Though I was told they are a delicacy, and kosher, I decided to pass on the opportunity.

Family Meditation Time and Druze Pita

Day Ten: Yom Yud

Don’s aunt Sonia is a relatively renowned energy healer, mystic, and UFO researcher in Israel. The first time I met her, she told me I looked like an alien. The comment caught me totally off guard, unsure if it was an insult of compliment. She took the family to her studio on the kibbutz for a group meditation session. We laid down on padded mats on the floor, and she guided us to deepen our breathing and relax our bodies. Though I didn’t understand all of her Hebrew, the guided meditation was familiar to me from the yoga classes I attend in Chicago.

At first, meditation is difficult because your mind is cluttered- you think about your foot itching, how you need to remember to clean your room, how the air conditioner is humming too loudly. But like anything, the more you practice, the easier it is for your mind to clear, and for you to sit in silence for extended periods of time without fidgeting. After about twenty minutes, I could hear loud snoring from two directions in the room, and Don chuckling to himself. I tried to ignore everything, breathe deeply, and remain still. Eventually Sonia’s voice broke the silence, and instructed us to slowly bring ourselves back to the present moment. We sat in a circle holding hands, and I could feel my fingers tingling from what Sonia called “energia”. She said it was the first time she worked with an entire family at the same time, and that she could feel our “ahava gedola”, the strong bond between us. I walked away from the session feeling totally refreshed, as if I had an entire night’s sleep.

That afternoon, Don’s cousin Sagi insisted on taking us over the windy mountain roads to his favorite pita stand in a nearby Druze village. The Druze are a secretive religious group which is an offshoot of Islam. They have their own culture and traditions, but still play an active part of Israeli society, and serve in the army. The Druze people are famous for their hospitality. The pita stand was a small cement booth with a shady patio and some plastic tables and chairs. An older woman was sitting in behind a giant convex metal grill, lighting the fire underneath it. We placed our orders, and plates of homemade pickles and olives were brought to the table.

The woman motioned to me to come over and watch how she made the pita. She pulled out a plastic container of dough, put it on a floured table, and got to work slapping it into a flat circle. She then lifted it into the air; twirling it on her elbows, and stretching it to three times it’s previous size. She acrobatically threw the paper-thin pita onto a circular pillow, flipped it onto the grill, and pulled it off with her bare hands. The whole process took under two minutes. The pita was smeared with labne, olive oil, and zataar, then rolled into a burrito shape and wrapped in paper. It was a delicious and filling snack. I wonder if it would catch on in the United States, you would just need to find some talented pita twirlers.

We drove back to Dovev, a moshav, or small farming community by Kibbutz Baram to meet Don’s aunt Ziva, and his grandmother. Don’s grandmother spoke no English, but she kept staring at me, making funny faces, and giggling. She told Don to “tie me up so I don’t get away”, and after an awkward pause, she elaborated, “I mean not with rope, with hugs”. They turned on the TV to watch Cochav Nolad, the Israeli version of American Idol, and I opted to go outside and play with their friendly dog.

Kibbutz Baram

Day 9: Yom Tet

For a complete change of scenery, we drove North to Kibbutz Baram, literally a stone’s throw from the Lebanon border. Don’s cousins, Sagi, Limor, and Limor’s dog Lola, joined us at the train station in Tel Mond. We somehow managed to cram five people, seven bags, and a dog, into our small, Israeli style car for a rather uncomfortable drive. Lola looked remarkably like my family’s black lab named Toby, and it made me realize how much I missed having a dog around, even if she was panting in my face for the two-hour drive.

Sagi and Limor grew up on the kibbutz, a lifestyle that is slowly becoming extinct. Kibbutzim were first established by Russian Jews, who were trying to develop the barren land. Nobody had a salary; they just woke up early, worked the fields, and had communal meals, housing, and daycare. Over the years, many kibbutzim failed and those that remained became more capitalist, even selling off plots of land to families. Kibbutz Baram is one of the last working Kibbutzim in all of Israel, and second richest, next to Kibbutz Sasa, which builds and sells defense technology to the United States.

We arrived in Baram, and were greeted by Don’s athletic uncle Moshe, who once a year rides his bicycle to Eilat, nearly a 300 mile journey. He took us for a meal at the cheder ochel, a dining hall reminiscent of the one from my college. The whole Kibbutz actually had the vibe of a college campus, with small uniform apartments, young volunteers smoking by the pool, bicycles strewn on every lawn, and a predominantly laid back attitude. Don’s dad proclaimed the Kibbutz has the best schnitzel he’s ever had, and he cleaned his plate after multiple trips to the buffet.

That evening, the Kibbutz organized a “summer party”, with a carnival for the kids, and a disco party after their bedtime. A kibbutz would be a wonderful place to grow up. The self-contained community with multiple parks, a zoo, a museum, tennis courts, a swimming pool, a soccer field, a movie theater, and an excess of playmates, gives the children free reign. At dusk, every child on the kibbutz seemed to be congregated around the stage on soccer field, waiting for the magician to start. Club-like strobe lights flashed, and electronically remixed children’s songs pumped on the speakers, when the magician appeared and began pulling scarves out of his mouth. He chose a lucky boy named Ori to assist him in his act. Ori had an infectious giggle, and the magician played jokes on him, making things appear and disappear out of his closed fists. Don and I helped ourselves to some popcorn and ice cream, and left shortly after they broke out the kegs of beer for the adults.