End of Kipple #9

March 23, 2011
Phones are ringing off the hook today, calling, being called. Mine goes dead from all the traffic. But before it does, my friend calls me to make sure I'm all right.

Sculpture of Sampson on Mamilla

"Unfortunately, you get used to this," he says. "Life keeps going but it's sad because now, you'll feel the change. People will stop going out." And indeed, the streets are rather empty tonight, but I can pretend it's because of the cold.

"Welcome to Israel," another friend tells me. "Now you're really a part of it."

Yes. But fortunately, today, I took a detour before heading to Har Nof to return my borrowed cell phone and I was not on the 74 or at my bus stop waiting. I was not a part of shattered glass and the ended life or of the lives immediately interrupted by shrapnel.

"Unfortunately, you get used to this." In response I say, "In a way, I already am."

I know how life holds us all precariously, like unweighted feathers resting lightly on her palm in the wind. I know how death waits patiently with his fingers wrapped around our throats so that we get used to him. So that we hardly notice him anymore. So that that he almost always catches us by surprise.

We talk about life-as-usual. We go on our dates. We enjoy starlight above the Old City.

Let me come clean on this one: I am over the Green Line. Way over. But I couldn't tell you where I cross it. I let the bus route take me.

Outside the Old City

From up on my hill, the land sprawls out beautifully. There are no borders. Borders are made my man, built, imagined, razed. All I see from up on the hill is beauty--and it's impossible to imagine the workings of the human race that build and destroy so whimsically.

It feels different as an Israeli. This is my city, my bus stop, my bus, my friends, my family. And I wonder how we have sustained this madness for so long, how we can perpetuate it merely by being incapable of imagining another way.

March 30, 2011
A week later and we're back to normal. One bomb can't stop the party. Or maybe we're over it. The glitch was just a gentle reminder: be vigilant. Keep an eye out. Keep both eyes open. Don't ever sleep deeply.
There's no rush, just an urgency. We don't discuss it. Why discuss the obvious?

So? We could die in a minute? We always can.

God twitches a little. It's involuntary. What to do? And we're in the way. Insignificant little fleas.

We go ahead with vacation, as planned. Eilat. Maximum south.

In truth, we can walk to Jordan or Egypt. We've walked farther before. We can swim there, in the chilly water.

The Egypt-Israel Int'l Border

I swear, the Red Sea is the bluest water I've ever seen in my life. It's too vibrant to be real and in the water, the borders are really imaginary. The water is too clear for borders, but the proud flags flying remind us when we come up above the surface that we're human. We have to choose.

One of my roommates and another immigrant have the same birthday. They've spent months planning this weekend in Eilat. It begins with a טיול (tiyyul-trip, hike, outing). We're freezing in the pitch black, like the ninth plague. But we can move.

To escape the strongest wind, we decide to camp in a crater. Sleeping bags are laid out, food is prepared by flashlight. We huddle together, body-to-body, warmth begets warmth. We make tea, but only for our hands.

At 5:30, we pretend to wake up and by 7:00, we're off. We are hiking to Eilat from the mountains. It takes 12 hours, including a total of 2 hours of rest. Strenuous, raw, beautiful. Beautiful beyond description. Silent, divine.

Israel from the Eilat Mts, the Red Sea and Jordan

Divine.

Seven years ago, Uriel told me that it and its brethren were born here, in the desert. All of them left me alone this time, gave me space, let me connect with the earth in a Human way for once, instead of saturating me with holy commentary. Except when I needed them.

"Help me," I say, "to climb down the ladder." So they help me because I've never overcome my fear of heights.

They help me climb up and down but the help is minimal. They have learned to listen after all this time, or perhaps seeing all this for myself was the message this time around.

Either way, I made it.

Once in Eilat, we check into the hotel, take showers and quick naps before going to dinner and to sleep. At least I went to sleep. I have no idea what everyone else did.

Eilat Mountains

In the morning we fight with boat captains about enough space and the price of a cruise. After much ado and more ado, we get off our reserved boat and end up taking another. Great sun, air, food, and company. There is a large group of Estonian tourists with us. Apparently, Estonia has opened itself up to massive amounts of tourism to and from "the Holy Land". I wonder how we look to them.

When vacation is over and we return to Jerusalem, I return to the fact that my absorption is nearly complete, according to the Absorption Check-List. I'm employed, I have friends, and my Hebrew is steadily improving.

Now I'm looking for an apartment and prospective roommates. Furniture or a furnished room. I'm figuring out Pesach plans. Life is good. Life is so good.



Because I have a job, I don't have to worry about paying my National Insurance, and the door has opened up to going home for a visit and possibly even going to Turkey to meet the best person in the world for one day in July. So, I have to go back to the Misradim (offices) and get a travel document or passport. I can also afford to transfer my driver's license to Israel. Wish me luck. And come visit after June.

End of Kipple #8

March 7, 2011

I feel the need to clarify: these entries obviously convey frustration. Many readers seem to be interpreting frustration as "misery" which is absolutely not the case! 

Almond Flowers!

Maybe it would make you miserable. I can't say I wouldn't blame you. But: It is all in good humor and the average Israeli complains more than he smokes, which is really saying something, in case you didn't know. 

Ok, so it's lonely and irrational, chaotic, downright insane. But I love it and I've never been happier or more sure of any decision I've made in my life. Yes. I'm crazy. But aren't we all? So, I don't love Jerusalem? I have the Galilee, Tel Aviv, the Negev.

I hope that helps to calm some of your worries or doubts regarding my state of mind and how wonderful it is to live here. I encourage you to visit--once I'm settled in an apartment situation.

'Nough said.

March 2, 2011

Slowly but surely, things fall together. In many ways, Aliyah is like being born all over again. You get spat out, full of scum. This time, no one will wipe you off or unclog your nostrils. No one will hold you when you cry, so you have to clean yourself, hold yourself.

Tu Bishvat at Beit Canada 

Being cradled in the arms of air is all right. I can't fall anywhere because I'm already as far down as we can go without digging. But pens run out and Truth changes. This gift for this moment, then a loss--and another gift for that moment.

Jerusalem opens up for me. I meet a friend. Someone is waiting for me behind a counter, on the street. I get a tour of the Old City. It's quiet there, full of ghosts, history, many orders of angels. The present meets the past and together we make the future. I am in love with this place and I don't know why.

I am in love with the way fathers here can show affection. The children know they're loved.

I am in love with the streets, with the people on them--the way they don't know how free they are while I grew up free on paper.

Everything's a matter of perspective here and I am entitled to mine. Here I feel really free and not just rhetorically free. They can yell at me and I can yell right back.

Bunnies in Yokneam

In America we yell all the time. even with hundreds of millions, there is still so much empty space. I think that space got into me and never filled me up. I mourn for America now. There is nothing I can do to fix her other than speak softly for her, halfway around the world. The American Dream went East. If we will it, Eden is within us.

February 28, 2011

There are a million ways to hold your breath if you're waiting for something that won't ever come. I swear, I've tried almost all of them but I'm over it. There's a whole planet of air to breathe and, dammit, I'm gonna breathe it until we've burned it all out.

I'm a magnet for absurdity. No question. Keep it coming. I must have a sign in Invisible Neon flashing brightly on my forehead calling desperately for every weirdo to break into the territory. Unbeknownst to me, of course. I just mind my own business and they flock.

There be madness on the streets here, but we haven't imploded-exploded like everyone else around us. Count it as a blessing. Count it as a curse.

Me!

Paint me any which way you want--now I'm a part of it and I'm glad. Something about the dust rolling off the streets here makes people glow. I've been told I'm one of them. But if everyone glows, it's nothing special.

One week has brought its usual healthy supply of marriage proposals by old men that could be my grandfather. Let's put it this way: if I said yes, they'd be doing pretty well in life and I wouldn't, until they kicked the bucket and I inherited his "fortune". It would be a case of "Lyin' Eyes" and driving towards the other side of town. What are these idiots thinking? I will never be that desperate. But I suppose they will...they are. And have been for years, most likely.

End of Kipple #7

February 19, 2011
Let me begin with the way it is.

I am on a bus. A boy sits next to me. Yedidiah. He is fifteen years old. We exchange a few sentences and he helps me with my Hebrew homework. He does what all of us of the digital generation do: stuffs his ears with headphones and sinks into the music.

I know how it feels.

He smiles at me and then turn into himself. The world disappears and the bus keeps driving. It carries all of us forward, each in our own private universe with the volume turned up. He falls asleep on my shoulder.

This doesn't bother me like it would where I come from. We are already friends. Distant cousins. The bond is strong. Soul is thicker than water, not blood. We have had too much of that and know there will be more, so we thicken the substance of ourselves, layer upon layer. Breath mingles in the air and we are sure to keep ourselves aware of deeper connections than those of red rivers running through our veins.

Yedidiah wakes up and asks me for my contact information. We exchange. Now we check up on each other every once in a while. It is nice to know that strangers aren't strangers here, that no one ascends alone.

At home in Jerusalem, life is difficult. I feel like I am five years old again because I'm learning the basics. Hebrew is different from English in so many ways. The grammatical structure, the letters, the conjugation of verbs. I am frustrated because language is my specialty and Hebrew is never going to be a language that I own. It will always own me. I will never be able to mold it like clay with my eyes closed. It will always be ever-so-slightly just beyond my reach.

At home, in Jerusalem, life is lonely. In order to make friends, I listen to people talk. But in general, I don't talk about anything that is really important to me. In order to make friends, I sacrifice being known. I've got to get out more. This is my situation amongst the other Olim. We all have at least one thing in common: being insane enough to move here and become citizens. This is where the commonalities end. I am getting out more. I am making some Israeli friends. Developing older ones.

I wonder how it's possible to have more in common with people who grew up half a world away from me than my own compatriots. I wonder how's possible to be born so out of place.

At home, in Jerusalem, I tell my teacher that she has a horrible teaching style and what to do to change it. She listens for a little while and then she forgets. I decide to move down a level. I need the review and better teachers. It is not worth the frustration.

I deal with the medical system. I start early with scheduling appointments because I know it's going to take forever. How wrong I was. It doesn't take forever. It takes a million forevers. Eight days out of ten I'm in some office or other. It drives me insane. But if you live here, you have to learn to just go-with-the-flow. You have to learn to be assertive.

When the nurse refuses to do your blood test three days in a row for no apparent reason, you yell back. When she tells you to take home a cup for a urinalysis and cart your pee across a city twice when you're standing in the lab: you don't comply. You scream and throw the (empty) cup in her face until she gets the point. You don't try to conceive of logic. There is no logic to anything here. Chaos is the natural order of things.


So you don't ask why the window doesn't quite fit the window frame. And you don't ask why the lights in the bathroom vanity don't turn on. You don't ask why they're not even wired to an electrical outlet. But they sure do look pretty.

You also don't ask why the city has shut down a main traffic artery to motor vehicles for a train that never opens to the public for whom it was built. You don't ask why you can see this train running back and forth constantly filled with workers in yellow vests taking naps with their feet up on the plastic-covered seats. You don't ask why the bridge built for the train can't support the train's weight and why it thus serves no purpose whatsoever. You don't bring up the point that this causes the whole line to lead nowhere.

You just don't ask.

You come up with theories: they're running it back-and-forth to convince us that they're "working on it". No problem. There's no problem. We fix later.

Jerusalem crawls with the mundane commingled with the Holy. Holiness is a practicality here, like the rule to let everything slide. Holiness drips off people like rain and floods the streets.

Jerusalem is slippery when it rains because Jerusalem stone has no traction. Thankfully, it has rained a lot this year. May it rain, may it rain, may it rain.

Jerusalem is not my city--but for now, it'll have to do.

End of Kipple #6

January 13, 2011

Manneqipples

Very noticeable upon Israeli streets are the extremely true-to-life storefront displays. Mannequins here have nipples. With color differentiation. Impressive, no? Life is all about the details and when the details make you smile and you can have a conversation on a crazy sherut ride for twenty minutes about "mannequipples," it's not so bad.

On the bureaucratic front, it remains as hellishly annoying as always but still delightfully entertaining:

In order to fix my תעודת זהות (Teudat Zehut--Identity Card), I had to return to our friendly משרד הפנים (Misrad HaPnim--Ministry of the Interior). The first time I went (in Netanya), they looked at me, looked at the תעודה (Teudah--card), and told me they couldn't me. I had to go to Jerusalem.

I called Nefesh. They call me back-and-forth twice.

"Go back. It's all ready. You can go anywhere in the country to get it."

I went with Jake and he wisely advised me to take two tickets: one for the right side of the office and one for the left of the crazy line. We passed the time playing Bust-A-Marble on the iPad. I think we--maybe just I--got a little too into it.

Pretty sure this is a scarab.

Before too long (but only because of the marbles) my number on the right came up. We sat down but got up about five seconds later because, no, she doesn't print the card (even though she's friggin' sitting with the printer) because she only processes "families, children, and babies". She tells us to go to the left and take a number. Luckily, we already had one.

We wait again and let my other friend know what's going on because she's coming in from Jerusalem to help me move into my absorption center.

Finally, the number is called and we go to a desk. The woman is on her cellphone with her grandkid or something, all "Ok, Motek"-this and "Motek"-that. She says very loudly to me to give me the number, which is not unlike yelling in America and wouldn't fly, but here it's not considered yelling--all while she's still on the phone "motek-ing". She's still on the cellphone, the Misrad phone rings and she asnwers that, too, and meanwhile, we're still sitting there.

Somehow, she figures out what I need, clucks and tisks at all the errors, and disappears for a few minutes while I throw passport photos and my botched Teudah on the desk.

She comes back and isn't on the phone for once, although this only lasts for about sixty seconds. During that sixty seconds, she takes a look at my Teudah, give me the equivalent of a "WTFF Niyald?" in response to what they did to the name "Daniel" and whisks everything away.

Disappeared. Again.

She comes back and has the new one. Yay. My  name means "truth" again instead of garbled gibberish. And she's back on the phone.

January 14, 2011

View of Jericho from the settlement, Mitzpeh Yericho

On Tuesday, after the Misrad Hapnim's success story, I moved into my Merkaz Klitah (Immigrant Absorption Center). I have three roommates, all within a year of my age, and all from the United States. Our chemistry seems to be good. We all lucked out, too, as we got the only renovated room in the entire Merkaz.

Like anything else in Israel, moving in and beginning the Ulpan involves even more bureaucracy. Before we can do anything at all, we have to sit down and sign a contract that pledges us to attending every class, every day sans "special circumstances," to not having visitors past 23:00, and to not have those visitors eat in the dining hall with us.

It sounds like college again.

Although I read the contract in its entirety, I apparently missed the clause forbidding us from employment for at least two months. This may have just been tacked on arbitrarily after-the-fact of signing as things often are. Anyhow, I signed--not that I had a choice int he matter--and then received my Ulpan/Absorption Center ID.

After this, I waited around for another thirty minutes for the מנהלת (Minahelet--supervisor/principal/etc.) to usher me and three other new immigrants into her office for another debriefing and room key reception. With me were two other Americans, including another Tali, and a Parisian guy.

We were told the terms of the contract again (no no-work-for-two-months clause, though) and instructed to go to the bank to set up our payments and to go to the post office to submit our initial deposit. I still have yet to arrive at a post office during open hours. Sunday, hopefully.

"High Stress! Danger of Death!" sign:
Where we all reside in the midst of bureaucracy

I went trekking across town with my roommate to get to the bank. This took three hours, but we set everything up, put in for a branch transfer which will take a month, so we can go to a branch in a central location. We deposited money and set up the Ulpan crediting system. So no more worries.

Let's go into another difference between the Israeli and American systems: banking, this time.

In general (and I think this holds true for not only American banks, but nearly--if not all--other bank in the world), you open an account with a bank and you can deal with any branch of that bank for anything, no matter where it is. If it's a U.S. bank, the most you might have to do for a normal transaction is fill out an out-of-state deposit slip if your account has an address (as in your home) in Georgia instead of Oklahoma and you're depositing money from an Oklahoma location into your account in Georgia. No biggie.

First of all, Israel is, tops, the size of New Jersey. If I want to deposit money into a branch down the street from my registered branch, I can't do it. (Hence our put-in for a branch transfer as it took us over an hour to get to it).

Also: if I have an account with Some-Bank-In-America and I go to a Some-Bank-In-America ATM to withdraw money, it's free. If I go to a teller inside the bank for the same withdrawal, it's free.

Here: if I have an account with Some-Bank-In-Israel and I go to a Some-Bank-In-Israel ATM to withdraw money, I get charged 1.65 shekels. If I go to a teller inside the bank for the same withdrawal, I get charged over 5 shekels.

There is no difference between credit and debit. It's all "credit" and you either owe the bank, which only reduces the money for all withdrawals/purchases/etc. in your account once a month (so you better be keeping track), or you owe the bank. You either have money left in your account afterwards or you're screwed because you owe the bank.

Oh, the joys.

So I figure all of this nonsense out and return to the מרכז קליטה (Merkaz Klitah--Absorption Center) where, of course, they can't find my name on the Ulpan enrollment list because (guess what!?) it's spelled wrong!

Apparently, this is the story of my life.

But other than that, the place is amazing. There are, roughly, 230 of us in the Ulpan course. We range from ages 22-37 and hail from over 50 countries.

Street musician on Ben Yehuda St., Jerusalem City Center

I've met Indians, Georgians, Colombians, Australians, Brits, New Zealanders, South Africans, Russians, Venezualans, French, Iraqis, Persians, and even one half-Israeli-via-Iraq-half-Japanese American guy who was born and raised in Orange County, CA. He was brought up by his immigrant Israeli and Japanese parents and speaks neither Hebrew nor Japanese and only English. Of course, there are also Ethiopians, some Romanians, and I had dinner with a bunch of Brazilians and Turks.

The mutliculturalism is absolutely fantastic. Hebrew must be the common language because, for once, English is not ubiquitous.

End of Kipple #5

January 2, 2011

In perfect fashion, the first cab driver who took me anywhere was another "Shlomi". Like 1/3 of all other Israeli cabbies. That is where the order stops, though. And he didn't even hit on me. Miracle.

Well, I suppose the order does not actually stop. Israeli routine is chaotic and ridden with countless seemingly unnecessary steps. And so plans most often do not go as planned for their usual ETAx3.

My plan was to land, gather my תעודת עולה (Teudat Oleh-Immigrant ID), initial payment, and arrival information, etc. and go get a cell phone. Of course, being without a cell phone in this day and age is difficult in general. Being without a cell phone in Israel upon arrival while technically homeless for another two weeks borders on torturous. But it is already Sunday and i have as yet been unable to obtain this small but necessary device.

Why? The system is not like the American one. And I refuse to blow $300 on a temp phone for one week. In order to get a phone, I must have an Israeli bank account so the corrupt bond between bank and cellphone company can flourish heartily. But in order to open a bank account, I must possess my תעודת זהות (Teudat Zehut-ID Card--this is different from the Immigrant ID). 

On top of that, it is impossible to even research cellphone plan option because 

A. they change daily and

B. the people won't even talk to me without a תעודת זהות (Teudat Zehut) in hand.

"You come beck," they nod, reassuringly. "We will be here."

Great.

I then discover that all the banks are closed today. And that after I open the bank account, I have to request a document granting permission from the bank to the cell phone company to credit my account. Or, I have to request a document from the cellphone company requesting permission from the bank to credit the account. Or both. 

January 3, 2011

At the Nefesh B'Nefesh office, I was able to open the bank account (finally), which enabled me to get a phone, so now I don't feel lost and disconnected anymore. 

Of course, I was only able to open the bank account because I got my תעודת זהות (Teudat Zehut-ID Card). And of course, there are massive problems with it. They spelled my name incorrectly even though I told them verbally and on paper no less than five times how to spell it. 

They also decided that all of the information on the card would be one line too far down on the card, so I was born in "Female" and my sex is the "United States of America" or something like that. They also can't type and changed my father's named from "Daniel" to "Nield". So now I have to go get more passport photos, resubmit everything to the משרד הפנים (Misrad HaPnim-Ministry of the Interior) and wait at least a week for them to hopefully correct their mistakes.

Well. Welcome to Israel. Where the bureaucracy can't get no higher.

The good news is that my number stays the same, so I don't have to worry about my payments getting delayed. I just have to submit my bank account and other information to the משרד הקליטה (Misrad HaKlita-Ministry of Absorption) and they start dumping cash. Which means I can pay my cell phone bill and my other bills, like health insurance in the meantime. 

Speaking of which:

I got off the plane, was immediately signed up for basic coverage (as stated), which is free for the first year and automatically covers all pre-existing conditions forevermore. In the airport, I was talking to a woman who is also a Type I Diabetic who made Aliyah three years ago and has the same health plan as I do. She told me that for all of her insulin and supplies, she pays maybe 180 shekels a month. That is approximately $50.75!

I elected to upgrade my health coverage from basic to Gold, which includes exciting things like Accupuncture, eye, and dental for 45 shekels/month--$12.69. I love this. Very cheap, amazing health care. But socialized medicine is evil. I suppose on this one, I'll traffic with the devil because I elect to live. 

On another practical note, and a return to the cellphone issue, I've been discovering even more differences between the Israeli and American systems. 

Actually infuriating: a cellphone catalog provided by the store with all kinds of models, etc:

1. does not list features of models, the pros and cons against other and

2. does not list any prices.

I ask the prices repeatedly to the salesman and get "It's no problem. Which one you want?"

"How. Much. Do. They. COST?"

"No problem. Which one? I give you deal."

Great answer. Really informative.

Because Israel is such a small, closed market, all the companies are relatively the same. So there is really no difference. Each one is just as horrible or all right as the next. The lines are just longer or shorter. I went with the short line. Up the hill. Harder to get to. 

The weird thing is that if you buy a plan and talk over your minutes, you can get your phone for free. Don't ask me to explain this. I took me about two hours to figure out how the companies make it appear that they're helping you, the consumer, out and losing profit but really, they're just screwing us even more. Still, it's the cheapest way to go if I don't want to pay 45 Agurot (shekel cents) per minute or per SMS. 

Meanwhile, I've been staying with my friend Jake, in Netanya, as mentioned earlier, along with his roommates. One of them has a spare phone and has offered to sell it to me so I don't have to deal with the rip-off through the company and the phone plan. I think I may go with that. After I trial it for a week. 

As I continue the job hunt. 

End of Kipple #4

December 28, 2010

My Immigration ID- תעודת עולה

This is a story of immigration but we must remember that behind every immigrant there is an emigrant that cannot be erased.

People ask me why I'm leaving America and I tell them that I'm not leaving. I'm going. People get very lofty ideas, ask me if I'm following a dream, following my roots back and becoming one "with the salt of the earth". I don't say aloud that I learned Israel with my feet and that the knowledge of it crept up from my soles until it reached my mind. That the primary reason for going is that it is the only place I have ever been where I am happy without trying. I don't tell them that I made the decision to go only after much pondering and collecting the salt of my eyes.

I will always be an emigrant from America and I'll always remember. I'll always remember what I came from and what I left behind me. It's why I sing my own arrangement of Woody Guthrie about how this land was made for you and me. Now, it's that land.

Frozen Pond in Boston

As usual, the flight was on time--Israeli style--over an hour late. I made friends with the officer from the משרד הפנים (Ministry of the Interior). She invited me over for Shabbat, along with another עולה (immigrant) I befriended on the check-in line. This is why I've moved to Israel. Because even the משרד הפנים officer invites me over for dinner and gives me her cell phone number.

"You must call me," she insists. I will. Once I get a phone.

I'm smiling already. This is home.

I also befriended the stewardesses. Martin wouldn't fit in the overhead bins or the closet. I hung out waiting and talked to No'a, the stewardess about why he can't go under the plane and why I've chosen to move. She told me she lives in America now and that even though she enjoys it, there are still things she cannot understand on a fundamental level.

December 26, 2010 Blizzard, Old Bridge, NJ

"My husband and I were driving," she told me, "and there was a huge accident. And not one car stopped to help. I couldn't believe it! Nobody cared! In Israel, everyone would stop. No question."

This is the difference. In the United States, we can go to jail for acting the Good Samaritan if those saved decide to sue us for saving their lives. "Because I wanted to die and you took away my rights." Look it up.

No'a couldn't find a place for Martin, so she took him and put him in the staff storage on-board. "Don't forget him," she told me. "Don't worry," I said.

Once Martin was squared away, I attempted to return to my seat, 51H, an aisle. Very religious man was asking me if I could switch seats because one of the stewardesses knew a married couple who had been separated and gave the groom a seat next to his bride--the man's seat.

The man's problem was that the new seat arrangement placed him next to a woman and he is forbidden from doing this. Now I'm sandwiched in a middle seat across the plane, but the company is great, other than the screaming babies (about 20 children all under the age of 4) in the seats behind me.

Bud the Frog

We just ate dinner and a crowd of people is dancing and clapping in the aisle benching (saying the Grace After Meals prayers) right now...Actually they're apparently getting married on the plane. What the hell! Only on El Al. Oh, just found out that they're not getting married, they're saying the Seven Blessings after the ceremony. Still what the hell! Only on El Al.

One other thing you'll never find on another airline: thirsty passengers taking charge and pouring their glasses of water. Flight attendants waving them by and taking care of the crying bride who can't find room for her wedding dress in the closet.

Despite this, there are still things I'll miss. People. Connections and how I had to cut them short. Beef hot dogs, cheddar cheese, fried chicken and biscuits.

Blizzard Dec. 26, 2010 Plowing Aftermath

I'll miss the way leaves burn on fire, brilliant at the cusp of death in a New England autumn. I'll miss the lush green of the South, the flooding wetness and the thunder of an atmosphere charged with the energy of a summer storm.

I'll miss warm rain in summer and the Massholes in Boston.

I'll miss driving, being in complete control of my vehicle of motion and the curves it traces down the road. I'll miss the glitter of raindrops sparkling in the pre-sunset light on the back window from the driver's seat. I'll miss the distinct smell of cold rising up off fallen leaves.

Netanya from my friend's apartment. Yes, that's the Mediterranean.

But the world opens up before me. It emits light like an explosion and of days with clear skies.

America gave me a good send-off: the blizzard of the decade. New Jersey was buried in 2.5 feet of snow overnight. I plowed.

As it fell I wondered at how the snow fell like universes, descending flakes ad infinitum. Flakes descended in drifts and soft waves. It is beautiful until we have to become part of civilization again.

I know I won't miss the snow.

More Netanya

Calm has descended upon me, like the snow erasing the lines we humans have carved into the earth. I'm going home and it will be hard. And it might not work out. But it is right. Sometimes logic doesn't cut it and I have to follow my emotion. For the first time, I really have. It is like gliding on wind, a rush and a calm all at once. And nothing can describe what I felt when the plane touched down: happiness swelling until I couldn't contain it and so it came out again, through the salt of my eyes. And so my emigrant met my immigrant and they canceled each other out.

End of Kipple #3

November 14, 2010
Today is the day I'm giving my notice at work. I hope. The Boss should be there. And he won't be happy. He's never happy. I know what that's like. But too bad. My visa finally came through and my notebooks are lined up on a shelf in Netanya waiting for me. Scared as I am, there is no turning back.

As usual, the state of affairs is not well. Like every morning, the first thing I do is read the news. The world doesn't understand Israel's "Temporary" "Loyalty Oath" and I have to admit that I don't quite understand it either. As a Palestinian quoted in Svetlova's article "Law and Disorder" from the Jerusalem Post on November 14, 2010, states: "...as far as I know, Jews, Muslims and Christians live in this state, and I don't see how it can become a 'Jewish state.' And what does that mean exactly?" Israel has always been something else. But it has always been a state run by Jews and created as a haven for Jews. The question is what is Jewish? The other question is what is democracy? And the biggest question is can a 'Jewish' state - whatever that means- in fact, be democratic?

A very good friend of mine from the Tel Aviv area says with more conviction than I've ever heard from anyone else that as citizens of a democracy it is not only our right but our daily obligation to question, protest, and fight our governments. Israelis, judging by the level of activism, which translates into actively screaming street mobs in the tens of thousands every other week or more, obviously share the same opinion.

Americans like to complain but we haven't really moved as a body since the 1960s and early '70s during the protests of the Vietnam War. An old high school friend of mine says that this is precisely because all the protesters are now in power, so they know how to quash the incentive and the riot. Everything has fizzled from inspiration-to-action into insubstantial jargon. And so by our inaction, we pour the acid that dissolves the ground from beneath our feet.

November 16, 2010
We can easily see the disintegration of America in everyday life. Let's return to my retail job.

Like I said, I was giving my notice to the Boss two days ago. Just for the record, the previous cafe manager apparently quit over the phone and never showed up again. Boss was already informed about a month ago that I would be leaving around December.

He says, 'I thought you would be here until December."
"Yes," I replied. "Through November 30. Until December."
"I'm going to need that in writing," he says. "For your file."
For my file? What am I resigned from? The FBI?! Friggin' RETAIL. What's he going to do if I don't do it? Fire me? Because I sure as hell know it's not going to include giving me an extra paycheck.

I've decided that I will put it in writing to his boss:

Dear Madame,

I am writing to inform you of my resignation from my position as a whore-to-retail-barista as of November 30, 2010. Your gluttonously bitter underling has made it so very pleasant to work for your company.

Contrary to popular belief, your employees are highly educated, literate, and well-rounded. Surprisingly, we are aware that English is, in fact, written from left to right. In addition, we are capable not only of critical thinking but of the practical application of our skills in a high-stress, abusive atmosphere where we are perpetually treated like yesterday's decaying refuse. Unfortunately, we are very much alive and will not be of use to any rogue students of the mycological or scatological disciplines, although I am sure many of our customers would.

We maintain our artificial smiles and cheer in spite of these conditions, along with the knowledge that all we get in return is a complaint and a minimum wage paycheck eaten to nothing by taxes for which we receive nothing in return but the promise of an empty social security account.

I would also like to inform you that despite my lowly position on your corporate food-chain, I am always aware of when I have customers. Your general manager, however, seems not to be aware of the fact that a human being devoid of super powers is quite incapable of taking an order, making an order, grinding coffee, brewing coffee, doing dishes, restocking the RTD case and condiment station, asking 25 irrelevant questions  about our Plus program (that the customers don't give a crap about), and selling bags of beans simultaneously- all within the course of one minute and forty-five seconds. We are particularly incapable when we are scheduled alone on a Sunday during the Holiday season.

Also, "every customer, every time" often results in "no customers, anytime" because they've already made their choice, are sick of being pestered, and just want to pay for their goddamned drink and get on with it.

I could go on but I'll offer a suggestion: begin an anonymous employee evaluation of their general managers every 4-8 weeks. There's more than one reason our stores are failing and it's not solely due to the lack of micromanagement. Rather, it has much more to do with the lack of employee morale incited by abusive, thankless management.

With that, I bid you adieu. Have a wonderful Holiday Season and generate much profit.

All the best,
Me

Later...
On Sunday, after I gave the notice, I got another deluge of brilliant customers. First of all, I was on the floor (alone again) and had to call over help from the book side - which actually showed up this time.

We get a woman who asks me what drinks we have that "aren't sweet". I tell her any of our teas, brewed coffees, or cold-brew coffees without added flavor. She says "No, I want something cold, with flavor."

"Ok. We have sugar-free options: vanillia, hazelnut, raspberry, and orange-vanilla," I tell her.

"I don't want sugar. How about this strawberry drink?" Does it have sugar?" she asks, indicating a blended strawberry shake.

(Are you getting lost, because I am...)

"Yes. Strawberry is fruit and full of glucose...sugar," I say.

"What do you have sweet without sugar?"

(FML): "Vanilla, hazelnut, raspberry, and orange-vanilla," once again, now.

"I'll take the strawberry drink."

"Even though it has sugar?"

"Yes."

"Ok."

I start to make the strawberry shake. She sees me fill the cup with ice, says "No. I don't want ice."

"It's a blended drink. You won't see the ice, but it's sweet and cold like you want..."

"I don't want. Give me a regular coffee."

WTF.

And then someone confuses the stinking banana bread with the cinnamon pecan again and really means orange cranberry coffee cake--but gets angry with me for telling her that the banana bread is sold out. While she clearly points at orange cranberry, insisting that it's banana bread, and changing her mind to "cinnamon pecan," and yelling at me about how the banana bread, which is no longer available, is actually still there.

Then, the stupid espresso machine explodes milk everywhere.

The line is out to the front door and the Boss shows up and stands between the register and the coffee brewers, taking up 2.5 of the 3ft space, and watches me run back-and-forth frantically while he does absolutely nothing.

We're out of coffee, we're out of milk, and we're almost out of whipped cream. We're out of napkins. Customers are complaining about all of this and I can't make half the drink because of the lack of whipped cream and coffee.

I run to the back to get supplies as customers scream at me from every direction because I need to restock and the Boss says (as he stands there, in the way, doing nothing): "You have customers."

Mmm. I didn't notice. Thought we were absolutely empty just now.

What kind of idiot is he? A very rare breed mixed with extra-special schmuck. Two more weeks. And I'm done.