Tay Ho District & West Lake

These past couple of days I’ve felt a bit like a child, a ‘kept’ woman, or a pet.

Every morning, my generous friend and host, Bắc, goes to work, and every day I find myself behind the locked gates of her property. Yes, I have a key… but, frankly, I’m a little intimidated to use it.

She buys me bread and rice, has shown me how to get clean water, use the washing machine, and has even pointed out some plants in the yard that are suitible to eat. (Today for lunch I will make sautéed vine flower! Oh boy!)

Due to the heat, jet lag and recent cold, (the use of that word to describe sickness seems wholly inappropriate in this climate), I have been able to do little more than eat, sleep, sweep the patio, and pick vine flowers.

And so, I have passed the days contentedly drinking Artichoke tea behind bars in my little ‘Vietnam Villa’ until Bắc comes home.

Today, however, the gate has been left open.

I feel like a curious puppy — scared to leave the compound, and yet tempted to peek beyond the gates to go on a little adventure. To extend the analogy further, I also question, however, in the unknown chaos of Vietnam, whether this little puppy won’t be eaten alive.

*     *     *

There is a bike to use, but broken, Bắc explains.

Her sister, who lives next door with her two young daughters, has offered the use of her bike while I’m here.

It is a glorious vehicle: thin metal frame with peeling white paint, subtle touches of rust around the wheels, under the seat, and where the taut, black rubber grips attach to the wide handle-bars. There is a very small, stiff seat, barely wide enough to fit my wide American behind. There is a black mesh basket on the front; there is green metal baby seat in the back.

I adore it.

The kickstand, however, is stuck down, Bắc points out, and she has to leave early for work, so…

“If you can fix, you can use! [laughter]” says Bắc.

Before taking off, she equips me with the phrase xin vá xe cho em (“fix the bike for me please, little brother”), gives me 2000 Dong (roughly 10 Cents) and says chúc may mún (“Good luck!”)

*     *     *

I have a healthy breakfast of rice and tea followed by a healthy breakfast of rice and tea and vine flowers, before embarking upon my adventure. (Don’t tell anyone — For lunch, I cheat and use a spoon instead of chopsticks.)

Then, it’s Go Time.

First, I try kicking at the kickstand from every possible angle. Next, I squat and dirty my hands with clumps of grease while I fiddle with the mechanics of the stand — but I discover the wheel-lock seems to have rusted closed.

Surrendering, I repeat xin vá xe cho em,  xin vá xe cho em, to practice. I pick up the bike up to carry it the 1/2 kilometer to the repair shop, when the kickstand springs back and releases!

I wheel the white beauty around the yard, and she looks good to ride.

I make sure I have water, a map, a poncho and a cell phone (the lovely Bắc has purchased for me a Vietnamese cell phone and sim card). I secure my purse around the handle bars and into the front basket (to prevent ride-by purse-snatching). Lastly, and most importantly, I loop the elastic bands of my dust mask around my ears and place the cotton square snuggly over my nose and mouth.

I’m nervous… I’m ready.

I lock up the house, the front door gate, and the yard gate (at night, we also lock the “alley gate” that, for all I can understand, is for Bắc and her 4 neighbors). Wobbily at first and then more smoothly, I coast through thin, concrete passage-ways underneath a banana tree canopy.

*     *     *

The sky is turning and I can smell the humidity rise. I emerge out of the thin streets of the village onto a main road. Motorbikes and cars whiz by, horns pop in all directions like fireworks, and sweat begins to drip along my upper lip and between my breasts. Small plastic tables and chairs, about two feet high, congregate in little bunches along the road. Some host people of all ages, of all incomes, hunched over bowls of noodle soup, or stewed meat, or fruit juice.

The road curves sharply and rises — I make a right and the West Lake spreads like warm honey before me.

In Ha Noi, everything is so compact and cramped and intense; but when I ride to the broad expanse and tree-lined streets of West Lake, everything opens.

The lake, so full from the recent afternoon rains, has risen up to lick my toes with leftover puddles. As the bike glides along the shore, I float. I feel like a lotus flower, my frilly taupe blouse giggling behind me.

It is in this moment I fall in love with Vietnam.

I pedal harder. Women with fruit line the road, and I ride by white pagoda temples with red and yellow statues; stinky meat rots in the sun; red clumps of upturned dirt fill construction sites. I have to push hard to make it up the hill as I swerve around bikes carrying pots and pans and sandals and tupperware and hairclips and dustmasks and baskets and brooms, and then –

a rush of rain so loud it hurts to listen, to feel, to dive into but — there is a swoosh of air along the lake, along the slippery road, along my back that ripples through the thick fronds and dead lotus stalks — I am alive in this rain but I know it’s only a moment until it –

stops.       

One. brief. moment of

                                                                   silence,         

still air,         before

the din of motors and horns and rains start in again. I stop my bicycle in front of a cafe. Three tables’ worth of Vietnamese stop and stare. I smile.

They go back to eating their squid.

The young waitress sets me up with a table under the canopy. I order a water and a coffee, no milk.

*     *     *

After lunchtime there are long drafts of calm.

The coffee hits me, and I let my mind scurry.

I stare at a single, perfect, yellow blossom crouching in the middle of the street. It has fallen from the tree above and somehow survived the destructive stampede of motorbikes.

We take a moment together, it and I. It’s petal tongue is a vibrant canary — a pulsing droplet of color after the gray rains. It won’t be there much longer. Any moment, some vortex of a rubber wheel will crush its sweet mouth to brown.

In the meantime, I listen.

You cannot describe my beauty,  it tells me.
Your words in Vietnam are pale.
You cannot capture the energy of a moment.
You can only sit with me until I die.

So we sit.

You cannot describe beauty. Your words in Vietnam are pale. You cannot capture the energy of a moment. You can only sit
with it until      It dies. Cannot describe beauty.  Words
are pale.                    Cannot capture a moment.

Can only      sit until It

dies.Cannot      capture       beauty
.Words      pale.   Cannot
capture      amoment.   Can

sit       untilIt    dies.

beauty. words. a.

moment

 

It dies.

There is nothing to say. In Vietnam, I am no writer; I am allowed to be only an observer, witnessing a thousand births a day turn into a thousand quiet deaths. 

How I thought I could go to Vietnam and write, I know not. There is an unfathomable energy, and noises to rattle the calmest nerves.

There is an ever-present hum of traffic punctuated by the piercing blare of vehicle horns and sounds all through the night of creatures — cats in heat, dog-barking, pig squeals, and something I couldn’t even begin to place (a child in distress? An animal being slautered? Duck giving birth?! …Maybe a child being slaughtered?)

It is slighty distressing.

*     *     *

My friends Bắc and Hà picked me up from the intimate Nội Bài airport. I felt like Amazon Woman, clearing at least a foot over both of them.

They brought me home to Bắc’s house, where I’m staying for a few weeks. We sat in the kitchen with the floor fan on, eating cashews and grapefruit with our fingers and giggling.

I haven’t seen these girls for well over a year. Nothing has changed.

*     *     *

The next morning. Hà and Bắc both head to work, leaving me behind to… I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.

I am stupidly exhausted; I am barely able to unpack my clothes. Bắc recommended I not walk around by myself before she ‘registers’ me (in this part of Hanoi, all foreigners must be registered with the local ministry); and to be perfectly honest, I think I’m a little too overwhelmed to do so.

The language barrier has immediately begun to chafe. It is difficult doing the most trivial of tasks. I needed help making sure I had food for today; before work, Bắc took me to the morning market to buy some white bread, tomatos, cucumber and an egg for lunch.

It certainly ain’t hummos.

The key thing is culture shock. In Israel, the prevalence of English usually over-rode my being alone in a foreign country. There were wisps of isolation, but these thin tendrils of difficulty were brushed aside with ease when I opened my mouth and made a new friend, found comforting food, or felt a sense of purpose offered by my work.

Plus, in Israel it’s not unusual to be ‘white.’

Here, I am instantly foreign. I am staying in the nha qùe (“countryside”) where there is no tourism infrastructure, clean water, or for that matter, a mattress.

I sleep on a hard bamboo mat. As she was hanging up my mosquito net and handing me a pillow, Bắc looked at the bed and asked if I would like something softer to sleep on. I replied Yes, that might be nice. She handed me a sheet.

At Bắc’s house, getting water is a four-step process: pump the water, filter the water, boil the water, cool the water. (Now you may drink.) 

The weather is so hot, and water takes so long to prepare, that I am constantly attending to the water filter and kettle to make sure the water supply is full. Bắc laughs, and has nick-named me Thùy — which is a common name in Vietnam, derived from the Chinese word for ‘water.’

My motorcycle ride with Bắc to get bread this morning confirmed I was an anomoly. Usually an entertaining experience, it felt more like work when I met the curious eyes of every passerby and, at every stop, had to answer to the friendly-but-inquisitive standard list of questions:

Where from?
How old?
Married?

(When I answered “26″ and “no” to the last two, I would always get beautifully confused looks)

As the day wore on, I felt a such a shade of desperate homesickness that I made myself a Ketchup sandwhich — nothing but Vietnamese “Catsup” and French bread.

To quench all suspicions, no — it was neither good nor satisfying of hunger.

 

 

Freelancing abroad in the Holy Land for 18 days

I wrote before on the security in San Francisco, but it ain’t got nuthin’ on Israel (just try getting through security in under 3 hours).

There is a reason Israel is said to have one of the most secure airports in the world*[1]: three screenings, two bag x-rays, two metal detectors, three rounds of cotton swabs with super duper little scanny-machines; repeat process; told I have to ship separately my laptop, accessories, and jar of honey; and a frisk.

Yes — a personal frisk job behind the cotton curtain; once with gloved hand and once with a metal detector.

Bothered by all of this? Hell no. Honestly, I was all smiles — that is until I was told my laptop didn’t pas the swabby test and I could not carry it on.

Then I got a little testy.

“My life is on that machine,” I pleaded with the security supervisor — “if anything happens to it and it gets lost, I’m Dead. Open it up, check under the motherboard, swab the USB drive, whatever… but please don’t make me ship it.

I tried again.

“I have just come to beautiful Israel for work and I had such a wonderful time. It would be a shame for me to lose all the work I just did and have it taint my experience here.”

Now, I admit that I was being a little dramatic. Except that I had spent enough time to have learned that no never really means no — you just didn’t ask right.

Except when you’re flying El Al.

They kindly even brought me a blank DVD to burn all my recent work to disk.

After a final frisk and 5 minutes to last call, I am personally escorted to the gate. Waiting for me in Bangkok are 5 separate boxes that I have to take through customs and re-check.

I go to great lengths of explanation only to dissuade any lovely readers out there who may be entertaining the notion to travel: do travel, do.

Only do not travel last minute, alone, on a changed ticket, one-way with your (precious, my pre-cious) MacBook, and intending to give a jar of honey (or jam, or marmalade) as a gift to the Vietnamese hosts who are awaiting you at your next destination –

–just advice.

[1] “The safest airport is Ben Gurion International, in Tel Aviv. No El Al plane has been attacked by terrorists in more than three decades, and no flight leaving Ben Gurion has ever been hijacked.” What Israeli security could teach us. The Boston Globe. Aug. 23, 2006.

Freelancing abroad in the Holy Land for 18 days

1. Shalom, Shanni! Feeling Lucky? 
The best part of being in Israel is that when I’m online my browser streams ads in Hebrew. How does iGoogle know I’m in Israel?!

2. Castro Worldwide
There is a popular clothing brand in Israel named Castro that has just come out with a men’s line. Everywhere I look, men have little Castro labels sticking out of their shirts. Are they particularly confident with their sexuality, or have they just never heard of San Francisco?

3. Article Idea: Tourism is the New Colonialism.
“They’re everywhere!” exhales my friend Heather as we stroll through the Carmel market in Tel Aviv.

She’s talking about the French. Israel is a very popular French destination, and in some places French is more pervasive than English (I was handed a French and Hebrew menu at one such cafe, and luckily remembered enough from my 1 semester-long escapade with the language to be able to point to fromage and whisper “Merci.”)

Another friend mentioned that the influx of the French investor has driven up housing prices in and around the major cities at such an incredible rate, that it often pushes locals out of the bid.

But it’s not just the French.

All of this sounded familiar — while in Turkey I wrote about the presence of a large amounts of UK travelers — and don’t think I would assert American travelers/investors don’t change many a’ local landscape. Not to mention the market effects of cross-market investment within the U.S., such as California residents wanting to move to and buy homes in other, less dense, states (aka “Californication“… but not the TV series nor Red Hot Chili Peppers kind).

(As an aside, this notion of foreigners drastically altering what they originally came to see was the original premise for “ecotourism” — which, if you’ll pardon my humble opinion, I’m not positive has any less significant an effect on local cultures and economies than other kinds of tourism).

Settler colonialism (United States), dependencies (British Raj), plantation colonialism (Jamaica), trading posts (Hong Kong) the influence of war (Vietnam) and even Neocolonialism (the maintained control of former colonies through economic control… just pick one)*[1], these seem to have paved the way for a ‘neo-neo-colonialism’ — a kind of ‘Global Market colonialism’ — where the breakdown of economic and cultural borders, a continuing flood of travelers interested in “the next unspoiled destination”, and the ever-increasing pace of the modern global marketplace, contribute to developing economies leaving traditional lifestyles in order to have a play on the global stage — and thereby accommodating those who want to plunk down their dollar, euro, or pound to discover a bargain ‘tourist destination’ or new ’investment opportunity’.*[2]

Whereas before disruption of the local way of life occurred when heavy-handed militaries or migrants ‘invaded’ a country, now a country is changed internally, through the importation of a tourism infrastructure.

Or, perhaps we’re all are just eventually colonized by Modernity.

As my Patient Readers may have noticed, I am very fascinated with this topic; it’s one I’d like to investigate more thoroughly. However, presently – and not without complete acknowledgment of its irony – I have to go catch a flight to Vietnam…

 

*[1] Source: Wikipedia. (It’s good to review.) And for a real treat, click on this map of colonization through the ages. Love it: has a time lapse from 1492-2007. Geek out!

*[2] That was a meaty sentence. My apologies — it won’t happen again. Unless, of course, I start writing about the difference between Roth IRA and 401K Simple IRA Rollover Plans… and then I can’t be blamed for my enthusiasm-induced verbosity, now, can I?

Freelancing abroad in the Holy Land for 18 days

 

The bus I’m on now does have, in the front seat opposite the driver, a uniformed guard sporting a semi-automatic.

At work, we had a meeting in a small, windowless concrete room at the end of a narrow corridor. When I remarked at the strange architecture for a conference room, the CEO told me it’s actually not a conference room but a bomb shelter — every house and building in Israel is mandated by the government to have one concrete room.

“Most people use theirs for an extra closet.”

*     *      *

The best thing about working in Israel is that you get Friday off for Shabbat. Sure, you also work Sunday, but somehow having Friday off feels like a bonus.

I decide to meet my friend Shula in Jerusalem.

The armed guard riding shotgun on the bus brings on another “this is real” moment, where the connection between everything one hears about Israel and its neighbors is made manifest –

“29 January 2007: Suicide bomber kills 3 in Red Sea Resort in Eilat, Israel”

“5 February 2005: Four people are killed and at least 30 people are injured in a bomb blast outside a night club in Tel Aviv.”

“1 November 2004: A teenage suicide bomber kills at least three people in the crowded Carmel market in Tel Aviv.” 

“22 February 2004: A Palestinian suicide bomber kills eight people and injures dozens in an attack on an Israeli bus in Jerusalem.”

“18 May 2001: Five Israelis are killed and around 100 injured when a suicide bomber belonging to Hamas blows himself up outside a shopping centre in Netanya.”
                                                                                       [Source: NYT.com]

–All of these real events. All of these places (except for Eilat, where I had friends vacationing) I visited; I worked in Netanya. 

Somehow, when in the U.S., these stories seem unreal and part of a far-away reality… but once I come to know these places as real, there is strange new familiarity in the headlines.

And here I am, boarding a public bus to Jerusalem.

*     *     *

I’m in the Beverly Hills of Israel (once, when I told a taxi driver where I was staying in Israel, he said with a wry smile “Oh. You must be a millionaire.”) It’s easy to associate the whole of Israel with turmoil; but despite being a small country, areas seperated by 50 miles — the distance of, say, San Francisco to Petaluma — feel worlds apart. For example, even though I’m around two hour’s distance from Gaza there is no need for ‘Kevlar’ where I work — it feels more like Silicon Valley than a war zone.

Even the bus I’m currently on has an ad for Jethro Tull.

When I asked for directions from my landlord, he wanted to make sure I knew that “in Jerusalem there are a lot of ‘Arabs’”. He whispered the word ‘Arab’ the way my grandmother, coming from Texas in the 30’s, might have said the word ‘black’ or the way my grandfather describes the ‘Mexicans’ he knows — not in any racist or hateful manner, but with clear chords of disassociation, notes of coming from different worlds — a complete lack of understanding or comprehension.

And yet, the political climate influences culture. A friend told me that, despite the proximity, there was a clear difference between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.

“Tel Aviv feels more sheltered. In Jerusalem, people are more impatient, stressed, terse. The tension is thick here, and although we have to just go about our daily lives, people are much more aware of the conflict with the Palestinians. We cannot ignore it; we are right up next to it.”

*     *     *

Rounding the corner before the main entrance to Jerusalem, a valley opens up to scaled houses built along an edge, all built of white Jerusalem stone with red tile roofs. They blend in with rocky, Biblical landscape, and make everything, everything look old. We come upon a terrace with what look like thousands of tiny bird houses – a cemetery.

A Hasidic Jew wearing an iPod walks by.

Hugging the edge of the cliff as we drive and climb, the air thins into piercing rays under a mid-day heat. Any shadow or shade is taken up by people or an animal attempting to get out of the sun. Each and every building is statuesque and chalky, still dressed in Jerusalem stone as mandated by the city — even the McDonald’s looks holy.

I get off at the central station, and have to go through security to exit the terminal / enter the city (whichever you prefer). I cross the street and look for shade, and then for the number #48 bus. I ask someone for its location, or if they know how to get to the German Quarter.

Suddenly, no one speaks English.

A bus pulls up. I ask the driver if he knows where to catch the #48. He shakes his head. No English. I repeat the name of my stop in Hebrew. He shakes his head again but waves his hand, as if fanning himself, urging me to come on board. I keep one foot out the door, one foot in the bus, struggling to confirm that this bus will get me to the right location, but the bus begins to move. 

I resign and hop on.

As we begin driving, I repeat again in Hebrew where I need to go. Someone to my right, in a distinctively American Southern accent, calls over to me “this’ll get you there, honey.” I turn and smile. A woman most certainly named Shirley, or Betsy, or Suzanne sits, legs together, handbag casually clutched in her lab. “I’ll tell you where to get off,” she says, her voice like honeysuckle, and then proceeds to talk to the driver in perfect Hebrew. 

The driver nods in acknowledgment to her explanation.

“I’ve been in the exact same situation,” she assures me once I finish my profusive exercise of gratitude.

In my head I find myself endlessly repeating the Blanche Dubois quote I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers. Now is no exception.

*     *     *

I finally manage to meet up with my friend Shula. She lives in the very quaint German Quarter, with coffee bars, flower shops and simple boutiques. We go out to lunch at a cafe nearby.

She tells me she can take me around Jerusalem by car to show me the layout of the city. Shula was born here, and is incredibly knowledgeable about the history, culture and political climate of Jerusalem. She dives right in, telling me about the historical places she’ll take us.

“But just not to the Old City or East Jerusalem, right?” I ask, “I read that I shouldn’t go to the Old City, or to East Jerusalem.”

Shula looks at me with forgiveness in her eyes. “Shannon: Old City, new part of town, East, West, South or North — it’s all the same. Jerusalem is Jerusalem. For that matter, Israel is Israel. If you’re going to get blown up by a bomb, you’re going to get blown up by a bomb; doesn’t matter where you are.”

I looked at her naïvely. “Really?”

 ”Shan-on!” she smiled, “What do you think? Everything here is vulnerable. The cafe you are sitting in right now was blown up by a bomb three years ago.”

At first I got nervous, feel myheart race with the palpable reality of it; then, after a time I did what the people who live there must do — here’s a woman drinking coffee here, two kids playing kickball over there  – grew accustomed and forget, save for every-once-in-awhile moments when I found myself thinking:

“Just on the other side of that wall is the West Bank, and here I am… drinking an iced latte.”

And then, I just got addicted. Shula took me to the Old City, the Wailing Wall, the Arab Quarter, Eastern Jerusalem, Mount of Olives, the first Hebrew University, the Dead Sea and Jordon, all in one scape, and even (briefly) through a checkpoint to the West Bank.*[1]

As she unravelled the history, culture and conflict of Jerusalem, I became more and more eager… what else can I learn? Where else can I go?
Parked on the top of Mount of Olives she pointed out several groupings of houses.

“Do you see these? This is a Jewish neighborhood. And do you see the houses there?” Houses bled into one another. “Now this one, this is an Arab neighborhood. Do you see how they are nearly mixed, so close! How do they expect to build a wall and solve the problem? How can you divide a city like that?”

It would be like building a wall in San Francisco to separate by race. At times seemingly clear, other times impossible.

“The solution is not here. There… there is no simple solution.”

With this, she took me through the Arab Quarter of Old Town, passing by where, only two weeks before, a Palestinian man had been shot and killed after stealing a security guards gun and opening fire. We emerged at the Cotel, or Western (Wailing) Wall, where Shula was harassed for not covering her shoulders with a shawl by a young Jewish woman.

Shula is Jewish.

“Shannon. People think that it is clear but it is not clear. It is not Israeli vs. Palestinian; it is not Jew vs. Muslim; secular Jews live next to fundamental Jews live next to moderate Muslim Arabs live next to fundamental Muslims live next to Christians. Everyone living next to each other, and inside each other’s neighborhoods — and everyone wanting a different way of life.”

Directly behind us was the grand Mosque. Ahead of us on the opposite hill was a Christian Church.

We approached the Wall. It is divided into halves: the women pray on the right, the men on the left.

On the right side, women (heads covered) and girls (with shoulders covered) stood with faces pressed against the historic monument, or rocked forward and back while repeating passages from the Torah.

I asked Shula for a piece of paper and pen, so I could inscribe a something and stick my own little prayer into a crack in the wall.

But once I had pen in hand, my mind drew nothing. Calls in Arabic reached me from the entrance to the Arabic Quarter; wisps of Hebrew hummed in steady prayer around me; the fierce sun stung any bits of skin that shown through my covering. I was tired and thick-headed and desperate for some word of divine inspiration, some way to capture the confusion and need and peace and change and understanding and love and bitterness and history and holiness and wisdom and loss that seemed to cover, like half-dried Elmer’s glue, everything in sight. How could I pray for thousands of years of what had gone on here; how could I, on one little college-lined scrap of paper, write something suitable to represent my hope for the next thousand years to come in this holy of holy sites?

I wrote one word in the center of the paper and stuck it in the wall. Then I walked away.
 

*[1] It was only after coming back to Tel Aviv that I realized I had crossed the checkpoint without having my passport, driver’s license, or any form of ID on me whatsoever …Oops.
 

Freelancing abroad in the Holy Land for 18 days

My landlady Margalit and her husband Jacob have decided to adopt me.

Everyday I come home from work, I find a basket of fruit at my front door, or homemade jam in my fridge, or a row of my freshly washed underwear hanging in a tidy little row along the clothes line.

I don’t question how she found my dirty underwear, I am just grateful for clean ones.

When I lived in San Francisco in my charming little Tenderknob apartment, most dinners were raw tofu with BBQ sauce, consumed in the company of myself while standing in front of the refrigerator, door propped open with a foot in the event I decided to add ketchup for dessert.

And whether it’s because when I work I forget how to employ the use of utensils, or old habits die hard and I rather enjoy eating hovering over the sink – I know not. But for several nights in a row in Israel I found myself alone in my flat, eating fruit jam straight out of the jar.

Where my family is concerned, however, there is a subtle importance on family dinners.

While I was living in Penngrove, one practice I highly valued were nightly dinners with the folks. Even if That 70’s Show was running in the background, there is still some sort of child-like comfort about having your father ask your mother if she wouldn’t mind passing the ranch dressing.

So, when Margalit invited me to Saturday Shabbat lunch with her family, I was grateful.

In attendance aside from Margalit and Jacob were a couple of friends, her daughter and husband with their two kids, and myself.

Margalit had homemade hummos (of course), pita, beet salad, dumplings, a rice dish, chopped cucumber and tomato salad, chicken, all followed by deathly delicious watermelon slices for dessert.

What would I like to drink? I would like water, please. Wha-? Oh, no - no I wouldn’t, I would like local beer is what I would like, of course I would adore your beer I just don’t normally drink beer at noon but what’s that? No, no — I trust you: it’s good beer.

The food was endless (no sooner would I finish my plate when another dish would come out and be thrust upon me) and the conversation with lively. Everyone spoke in English to accommodate me, although every once in awhile the conversation would get derailed; Hebrew would spark deep within someone’s throat in response to some heated topic, and Renat — Margalit’s daughter — would follow it up with English to make sure I was included again.

Weather, travel, politics, child rearing philosophy and especially economics — they were very interested to hear my taken on the American housing market (we spent 10 minutes alone on the fact that we, in the U.S., call it a “foreclosure”)  — and by the end of the 5 hour lunch, I felt right at home.

I thanked Margalit and Jacob for their hospitality, exchanged numbers with Renat for a future escapade sans kids, and staggered home, belly full. Margalit stuck her head out of the door after me, and called “we adopt you! Heh, heh… we see you next week, no?”

How do you say “I wouldn’t miss it for the world” in Hebrew?

Freelancing abroad in the Holy Land for 18 days

After weeks of trying to get there, I finally made it to the lowest place on Earth (er, correction: lowest place on dry land. At 1, 378 feet below sea level, the Dead Sea is the world’s saltiest body of water (second to Lake Asal in Dijibouti… For the record, I don’t know where Dijibouti is.)
I convinced my friend from work, Lonnie, to go with me, which was nice as it made navigation simple (despite prevalence of English, it’s always nice to have a speaker of Hebrew around).

We took a sherut to Jerusalem and then – it being Shabbat, when no busses ran – a cab on to the dead sea.  

I’m not sure what I expected, but there was a distinct lack of anything – which made for a striking sight.

To get there, we drove through the Judea desert; dry, taupe hills with small herds of sheep dotting the surface; every now and again an enclave — nothing more than shacks — and women, with children or tending sheep, covered and dressed completely in black. These are the Bedowin– non-agriculture herd people, making homes of sheet metal and chain link fence that inhabit the land between Israel, the West Bank, and Jordan.

I have to remind myself that this is real.

“They make camel milk ice cream,” I hear Lonnie say. “it is nothing but grease and fat, but it’s ice cream!”

She makes a face and forms her hands into a ball, as if to mimic a big gob of fat.

“These hills have seen so much,” she continues, looking out the window, “They just know what they are. There is no anxiety in these hills.”

The land is old dust. It sits heavy, and slopes down past a sign that reads Sea Level, a long blue line scraping horizontally.  

Our taxi driver drives very carefully, a rarity in Israel, where people cross over 3 lanes of freeway traffic without even a blinker signal or glance over the shoulder.

b“Well, out here if you slam into a donkey going 120km/hr. it can mean big trouble!” reasoned Lonnie. Touché.

Past two check points and a license stop, we arrive. Our taxi driver drops us off in the dirt-dust-sand parking lot and says he will be willing to pick us up for a return trip. He hands over his mobile number and disappears with a hot dust cloud at his tires.

I take note of the wrapped barb wire around a sign that reads “Welcome! Kalia Beach!”  

We pay nearly three dollars for our two ounces of Nescafe coffee and walk down the stairs to the water’s edge.

There are a few large umbrella with colourful plastic chairs, a simple shower or two, and about 100 people populating the water and beach. I wave across to the other side, pretending to recognize someone on the opposite shore.

“Ummm… that’s Jordon over there,” I remark, my location still shocking. Lonnie laughs.

We decide to go for a… well… You don’t – as any Israeli is apt to tell you – swim in the dead sea; you float. And the slimy buoyant feeling of the saline water is so unusual that you begin to feel that Jesus is not the only one capable of walking on water.

Not only without effort but quite against your will, the water will pop to the surface any part of you defiant enough to try and stay deeply submerged under water.

While floating on my stomach (with head assuredly out of the water! Don’t put face in water! Eyes will burn with the vengeance of 100 burning bushes!) I try to swing my legs forward to bring myself upright. (I am unable to do so.) My stomach muscles: not strong enough. What is required is rolling over onto back and then balling legs in and then down.  

After a good float, Lonnie and I set out to invigorate our skin with the “therapeutic” qualities of the Dead Sea mud. Apparently people from all over the world come to the Dead Sea to slather mud on their skin in an effort to cure skin diseases, engage in a kind of fountain-of-youth mudbath, or just get free spa-quality results.

I do it ‘cause it’s just plain fun to play in mud.

We take a hummos break for lunch, but in the middle of a pita-dip, Lonnie gets a call that the father of one of her best friend’s has been killed in a car accident.

This horrible news invariably puts a different mood on the excursion, and I suggest perhaps it would be best if we head back. She tearfully agrees.  

The news makes me think of my own experience with sudden loss and car accidents. Neither topic readily consoling, I do what I can to help Lonnie with the news. I tell her of my own best friend who was killed in an accident 4 years ago, and the time-heals-all-wounds (but you-never-really-get-over-it-you-just-learn-acceptance) kind of stuff one says at impossible times like these.  

I don’t know that I do any good. Death is death, and we all experience it as we will.

Returning home, we go our separate ways, and I crawl into bed for a late afternoon nap as another loss, of sorts, snuggles up next to me– my time in Israel is coming to an end.

Have flu. (Backlog of stories). Will post soon.

Please Keep Faith. (But never Score). -Shannon

Freelancing abroad in the Holy Land for 18 days

I’ve spent much money on light flowy dresses and jewelry. Does anyone think I can write this off as a business expense?

I’ve already accumulated an extra bag worth of clothes and gifts… and I haven’t even made it to China. Please, in the future, if there are gift requests, make them small. Shells, stones, or subatomic particles are highly recommended.

I’ve tried unsuccessfully three times already to make it to the Dead Sea. Tomorrow I go even if it kills me…

No personal internet. Lots of delicious hummos. (More soon.)

Freelancing abroad in the Holy Land for 18 days

I’m tired.

There comes a point in every travel adventure when the homesickness begins to whisper in your ear; when you find yourself thinking Yes, this pita is impossibly fluffy and falafal? Mindblowingly divine. But– I’d really just like a big, fat, dripping burrito from El Castillito at the corner of Church & Market, please.

Everyone in Israel speaks English. Everyone. Except, of course, taxi drivers, sharoot drivers, bus drivers, and every rider sitting next to you on public transit.

I don’t know how many times I’ve gotten lost, how many times I’ve handed my 10 shekel coin to the driver and gotten no change when I know the ride is only 5 shekels, or how many times I’ve found myself on a bus heading God-knows-where-but-let’s-hope-it’s-not-to-Gaza-I’ll-just-keep-on-riding-until-it-looks-like-a-good-place-to-get-off-think-this-is-near-where-I’m-going-hey-who-knows-let’s-try-the-next-stop.

But I keep following the pointed fingers and eventually I get to where I’m going. Usually, sweating from head to toe and broke.

What’s a girl to do when she’s exhausted, lonely, and abroad? Why, get her hair done and make friends with the gay hair dresser, of course.

And so, I left work early today (remember, us Israeli’s work on Sundays but not on Fridays*[1]) and made my way to Tel Aviv. Two hours (but under 25 miles) later, I showed up at Tamir’s — a hair dresser recommended by my recently acquired friend Heather (note: any and all friends here are “recently acquired”). He could see I was beat, and offered coffee (there are more offers of coffee here than there are “Shaloms.” I swear it’s like saying hello).

I told him Thank You, No — I’m not prone to drink highly-charged caffeine drinks at 8pm.

But Tamir? He. Was. FAB-ulous. Talk about feeling right at home — it was like visiting the Castro in Hebrew.

I don’t need to go into the details of the experience — any female will be well acquainted with the process, and any male won’t care — but a stylish cut, color and 3 hours of chatty conversation for under $100 is enough to make any girl feel less homesick.

I felt so good I went — on Tamir’s suggestion — to Rosa’s, a seductively ambient little street-side cafe with dark wood, red lighting and full bar and kitchen. I ordered the tahini, quinoa and beet salad with glass of chardonnay. The air was warm and sticky, a blur of car lights lit the streets, and young Tel Avivians flocked in little clumps.

For the moment, I am renewed; feeling optimistic and alert, I have suddenly the vigor to work and write deeper into the night… and I didn’t even have to take that cup of coffee.

*[1] Check out the “Etymology” section of the Wiki Link – tre interestant for you language nerds