NOT KEEPING SCORE

Freelancing abroad in the Holy Land for 18 days

I’ve left Tel Aviv and moved into my little temporary flat in Herziliya Pituach, a beach town that feels like it belongs in San Diego. The woman who is renting me the flat - Margalit - is an older Israeli woman and talks as much with her hands as with her mouth. She always invites me in for coffee and is constantly bringing me fruit & vegetables. She and her husband Jacob — who loves Hebrew soap operas and more often than not answers the door without a shirt — have taken very good care of me (”we adopt you!”) thus far.

It’s nice to feel like I have someone looking out for me — Everyday I’m either getting lost, encountering a language barrier despite the universality of English, or trying to figure out why the hell I’m here.

I’ve finally gotten knee deep into work; the always-on-call is a little rough (work a 9-5; then U.S. boss wants to collaborate on SF time, which is my night).

Although I’ve already made some great friends, every once in awhile it becomes blatantly apparent that I’m in Israel alone.

Needless to say, takes its toll.

* * *

It was my third attempt to get home via public transit (first time I took the wrong bus; second time I missed the train station and took the bus 45min. to the next town).

I had been working all day inside (rather than, say, lounging at the beach in the 90* heat) and by 9pm I was tired, hungry and cranky.

Sitting at a falafal joint, while I sat waiting for my hummos plate, I noted (once again) the beautiful skinny waitresses, all with perky boobs and relaxed smiles (Israel is full of gorgeous tall women with upper arms the size of my wrist).

At first I wanted to grab my pita — pronto — and head back to my flat to sulk. I figured I would do some solo yoga, and call it a night.

But then I woke myself up — sha-LOM — and realized I was in Israel for gosh sake, why am I not employing the Golden Rule of Travel: “When in Rome…”

Now, don’t tell my boyfriend, mother, or yoga teacher this, but I didn’t finish my dinner, bought a pack of cigarettes*[1], and decided to take a night walk by myself through the town to the beach.

It was a beautiful thing.

It was past 10:30pm on a Monday and everyone was out — families, couples, tourists walked the sandy pathways from the restaurants to the water.

I felt invisible and wonderful, and suddenly okay at being alone.

To see my night photos click here or restart the slideshow below

*[1] This author does not typically smoke nor does she condone the act.
Cigarettes were for experiential purposes only. “I did not inhale.”