I'm pretty resigned to the fact that my Hebrew is not going to improve much beyond the smattering of words I picked up in week one (sorry! good night! whole wheat!). Given that even this modest improvement increased my non-religious vocabulary by an astonishing 1000 percent, and that it took me three weeks to memorize "Sorry, I don't speak Hebrew," and that since then I haven't used that phrase once, I'm not only resigned to, but completely at peace with this situation.
My roommate's Israeli boyfriend, however, is not at peace with this situation, and continues to put me in my place by asking me hard questions like "Ma kore?" (how are you?--just learned that one five minutes ago) and then, in response to my look of confusion, following up with, "Haven't you learned any Hebrew yet?" No, but give me a minute and I'll know how to say "fuck off." I find his attitude ironic, as half of my confusion is that I can't tell if he's speaking Hebrew to me or English with his impenetrably thick accent. While I don't throw stones from my glass house at his glass house while our glass houses are in the same room, in part because I'm not wearing shoes, from the comfortable distance of the Interwebs it's bombs-away. In fact, reveling in my awesome English fluency has long been a coping mechanism for me in foreign countries. I may not speak your tricky tongue, but man, I am a beast at English. Henry Higgins could make you his science-fair project, Yuval, and you still wouldn't be as completely, totally, awesomely fluent in English as I am.
Nevertheless, my English-speaking superpower doesn't stop me from losing a few things in translation when talking to English-speaking Israelis, even the ones I can understand. The locals and I may be speaking the same language (well, sometimes), but we are not always saying the same thing. What follows are a few English phrases that, when spoken by Israelis in certain contexts, may not strictly comport with the content of dictionary.com. I have suggested alternative potential translations in parentheses.
The New American-Israeli Lexicon
Are you Jewish? (Do you belong here [at this table/at this government job/in Jerusalem/in this country]?)
Are you religious? (Can we be friends?)
Have you been to Tel Aviv? (Oh good, you're secular. Man, doesn't Jerusalem just blow?)
Are you doing ulpan? (When [are you making/did you make] aliyah? Also, I have ignored what you said about not speaking Hebrew.)
What are your plans for Shabbat? (Come over to my apartment. Bring wine.)
My address is [number + street name] (My apartment building is unplottable, like Hogwarts. Even if you can find it on Google maps, you won't be able to get there, because this city is actually the Labyrinth designed to keep the virgins in until they are devoured by the Minotaur. Even if you manage to find my street, you will not be able to see my building, because you are a Muggle, not an Israeli. My building will be set back deep within a courtyard, hidden by high stone walls, in a maze of other buildings, identical to every other structure on the street. There will be some openings in the walls, but only a random selection of them will be labeled with street numbers, and the one that leads to my building surely will not be. Nor will the building itself be numbered. There will be some staircases, but it will not be clear where they lead, if they are indoors or outdoors, or if they are functional or merely decorative. There may be streetlamps, but they will not save you. No one can save you. See you at 9.)
Jerusalem really shuts down over Shabbat. (Lay in your food stores. If you don't have something to eat that doesn't require heating up, YOU WILL STARVE. Don't let the Minotaur find you in a weakened state.)
Israelis are really blunt. (Israelis are really blunt.)
I don't have your ID card right now, but come back tomorrow, and it will be ready. (I am Lucy. You are Charlie Brown. Your ID card is the football. You will never get an ID card. Each time you return to me I will tell you to come back at another specific time at an even more distant point in the future. Eventually I will call you and demand that you return the ID card that you were never issued, because this office is actually part of the Ministry of Truth. Don't look at me like that. Come back tomorrow, and your transportation reimbursement will be ready.)
This movie has English subtitles. (This movie does not have English subtitles.)
Maybe it's time to start brushing up my Hebrew after all.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Friday, July 6, 2012
Monday, July 2, 2012
FalafelQuest 2012
Why did I come to Israel? Was for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to clerk at a foreign supreme court (or, most likely, any supreme court)? Was it to enrich my spiritual life in the Holy Land? Was it to de-kosher every kitchen utensil in the greater Jerusalem area?
Ha, no. It was to eat falafel.
If you think I'm being facetious, you did not have a conversation with me in person about my plans for the summer before I left. If you know I'm being serious, it's because we had a conversation that went like this:
You: So, what are you doing this summer?
Me: I'll be clerking at the Supreme Court of Israel. I'm going to eat all the falafel.
You: Wow, that sounds really awesome. How did you get that job?
Me: I'm not really sure, but I can't wait for the falafel.
You: What kind of work will you be doing?
Me: Every moment that I am not physically compelled to do something else I hope to be either lying on a beach or eating falafel. I am an intercontinental falafel seeking missile.
I am by no means disinterested in the other great things Israel has to offer. I am, for example, also extremely enthused about green-olive pizza. But the main point is, if I accomplish nothing else this summer but to eat my body weight in delicious falafel, my time will have been well spent. I will admittedly consider it a valuable bonus if I do not also completely cock up the Israeli legal system while I'm at it, but with the amount of brain-space I've devoted to falafel, I just can't worry about that too much.
Here's how FalafelQuest 2012 has gone so far. I can't actually read the names of any of the places I've been (vowels are a right, not a privilege), so I'll do my best with description.
#1: Old City Hole-In-the-Wall
Our first Shabbat in Israel, my friend Gabe and I made the happy discovery that the Arabs in the Old City are more than willing to feed to starving tourists while the rest of Jerusalem takes a nap. The only trick is getting to the Old City in the first place, without the buses running. One day the falafel stands are going to figure out delivery, and they will win capitalism. The point is, I was about halfway to sunstroke by the time I had walked up to this place, which did its part to ensure that I had no idea what was going on the entire time we were there. There's no menu, no signage, and no apparent English-speaking staff. It's one of those establishments where there is, in fact, only one visible staff member who half the time seems to be engaged in activities that have no apparent connection to vending falafel. Gabe and I squeezed into a table and spent the first ten minutes trying to figure out what food everyone else had and how they had gotten it. Eventually, after it became pretty clear that this place served only one meal, Gabe dusted off years of Jewish Day School and sprang into action, pulling from the deep recesses of language memory to query the waiter, "Falafel? Hummus?" Handled like a boss.
Rating: 7. This place rates highly for absurdity of portion size and incomprehensibility of experience. It's a very reasonable 20 shekels, which comes out to a ridiculously reasonable 1 shekel per pound of food, including, not unimportantly, pickles. I'm adding a bonus for the smug feeling of accomplishment that comes with navigating an eatery that seems to operate entirely by significant facial expressions between customers and the waiter, to make up for the fact that the hummus (or, as everyone insists on over-pronouncing it, cccchhoomoss) was kind of bland. It definitely perked up when you mixed in hot sauce, but not enough to earn that classic hacking-up-a-furball noise that seems to begin every Hebrew word.
#1.5: Free Sample on the Street in Tel Aviv
I went up to Tel Aviv for Pride, and managed to snag a free falafel ball right out of the fryer. Didn't manage to snag any more lunch, and it was 3,000 degrees outside, so I think I experienced this falafel morsel in a state of semi-delirium. (A theme is beginning to emerge. I'm sure everyone in D.C. is real sympathetic right now.) The falafel tasted like burning (I probably should have waited for this to cool off before eating it), but only in the best way. I suffer for my art.
Rating: 6. Yes, I will take your free food if offered again.
#2: Improbably Expensive Cafe Across from the Austrian Hospice
This was the result of one of those group situations where nobody wants to make a decision about where to eat and then suddenly you realize it's 9pm and places are closing, so you default to the restaurant across the street with the English-language window display. This is not great strategizing. On the other hand, the clarity of the interaction was a lot higher than at the other place in the Old City: it was very clear that the charming store proprietor would very much like for you to exchange money for food please. He will keep talking to you until this happens. I can't remember the price exactly, but I remember feeling cheated--around 30 or 35 shekels. I think they charged extra for the non-threatening proximity to the Austrian Hospice and the encouraging clarity of the store-front labeling. I hope looking at the nuns across the street makes them feel ashamed.
Rating: 5. I think I might be deducting points because we had a full table to sit down to, real silverware, English-language menus, and I didn't spill any food on myself. This seems counter to the authentic falafel experience.
#3: Birthright Watering Hole at the Shuk
This was the first place that I actually had the classic falafel-pita, and for which I think I actually paid something close to the universally agreed-upon reasonable falafel-pita price--13 shekels. I also had the universal Israeli experience of being cut in line by an endless stream of Taglit Birthrighters, after battling my way through the shuk on a Friday afternoon. A day and money well spent.
Rating: 8. It was messy and way overstuffed and pretty much collapsed at the first bite into a pile of delicious. They also give you the option of stuffing it some more with a few side salads, but neglect to give you a fork with which to eat those salads, so be prepared for your hands to continue tasting delicious for several hours, until you fight your way back through the shuk to get home.
#4: Back to Tel Aviv
Another falafel-pita experience, but this time it brought friends: a buffet of pickled and stewed things that you could take as a side. There was also a very nice man who wanted to make sure we got our money's worth who pointed out that they would give me free fries. He did not mention that the fries would be roughly the consistency of wet marshmallows, but that pretty much goes without saying in Israel. The art of a properly fried french fry has completely escaped the Israeli restaurant industry, which is doubly odd when you consider that a substantial portion of the country's economy is based on locating a deep-fryer every 20 yards and sticking falafel in it. Yet I could wring my fries like dishtowel. Someone sic Paula Deen on this, stat.
Rating: 5. Fry quality aside, saltiness was the falafel's real Achilles heel. Having just come from the beach and sweated out all liquid reserves, salt was not for me, at that moment in time, in particularly high demand.
In conclusion, still searching for suitably messy, crunchy, inexpensive, absurdly portioned, confusing falafel with a worthy side of cccchhoomoss. I've started humming Brave Sir Robin to myself, which I think means either that I need to hire some minstrels for my quest (a questor should never do her own humming) or stop rambling on and go to bed.
Ha, no. It was to eat falafel.
If you think I'm being facetious, you did not have a conversation with me in person about my plans for the summer before I left. If you know I'm being serious, it's because we had a conversation that went like this:
You: So, what are you doing this summer?
Me: I'll be clerking at the Supreme Court of Israel. I'm going to eat all the falafel.
You: Wow, that sounds really awesome. How did you get that job?
Me: I'm not really sure, but I can't wait for the falafel.
You: What kind of work will you be doing?
Me: Every moment that I am not physically compelled to do something else I hope to be either lying on a beach or eating falafel. I am an intercontinental falafel seeking missile.
I am by no means disinterested in the other great things Israel has to offer. I am, for example, also extremely enthused about green-olive pizza. But the main point is, if I accomplish nothing else this summer but to eat my body weight in delicious falafel, my time will have been well spent. I will admittedly consider it a valuable bonus if I do not also completely cock up the Israeli legal system while I'm at it, but with the amount of brain-space I've devoted to falafel, I just can't worry about that too much.
Here's how FalafelQuest 2012 has gone so far. I can't actually read the names of any of the places I've been (vowels are a right, not a privilege), so I'll do my best with description.
#1: Old City Hole-In-the-Wall
Our first Shabbat in Israel, my friend Gabe and I made the happy discovery that the Arabs in the Old City are more than willing to feed to starving tourists while the rest of Jerusalem takes a nap. The only trick is getting to the Old City in the first place, without the buses running. One day the falafel stands are going to figure out delivery, and they will win capitalism. The point is, I was about halfway to sunstroke by the time I had walked up to this place, which did its part to ensure that I had no idea what was going on the entire time we were there. There's no menu, no signage, and no apparent English-speaking staff. It's one of those establishments where there is, in fact, only one visible staff member who half the time seems to be engaged in activities that have no apparent connection to vending falafel. Gabe and I squeezed into a table and spent the first ten minutes trying to figure out what food everyone else had and how they had gotten it. Eventually, after it became pretty clear that this place served only one meal, Gabe dusted off years of Jewish Day School and sprang into action, pulling from the deep recesses of language memory to query the waiter, "Falafel? Hummus?" Handled like a boss.
Rating: 7. This place rates highly for absurdity of portion size and incomprehensibility of experience. It's a very reasonable 20 shekels, which comes out to a ridiculously reasonable 1 shekel per pound of food, including, not unimportantly, pickles. I'm adding a bonus for the smug feeling of accomplishment that comes with navigating an eatery that seems to operate entirely by significant facial expressions between customers and the waiter, to make up for the fact that the hummus (or, as everyone insists on over-pronouncing it, cccchhoomoss) was kind of bland. It definitely perked up when you mixed in hot sauce, but not enough to earn that classic hacking-up-a-furball noise that seems to begin every Hebrew word.
#1.5: Free Sample on the Street in Tel Aviv
I went up to Tel Aviv for Pride, and managed to snag a free falafel ball right out of the fryer. Didn't manage to snag any more lunch, and it was 3,000 degrees outside, so I think I experienced this falafel morsel in a state of semi-delirium. (A theme is beginning to emerge. I'm sure everyone in D.C. is real sympathetic right now.) The falafel tasted like burning (I probably should have waited for this to cool off before eating it), but only in the best way. I suffer for my art.
Rating: 6. Yes, I will take your free food if offered again.
#2: Improbably Expensive Cafe Across from the Austrian Hospice
This was the result of one of those group situations where nobody wants to make a decision about where to eat and then suddenly you realize it's 9pm and places are closing, so you default to the restaurant across the street with the English-language window display. This is not great strategizing. On the other hand, the clarity of the interaction was a lot higher than at the other place in the Old City: it was very clear that the charming store proprietor would very much like for you to exchange money for food please. He will keep talking to you until this happens. I can't remember the price exactly, but I remember feeling cheated--around 30 or 35 shekels. I think they charged extra for the non-threatening proximity to the Austrian Hospice and the encouraging clarity of the store-front labeling. I hope looking at the nuns across the street makes them feel ashamed.
Rating: 5. I think I might be deducting points because we had a full table to sit down to, real silverware, English-language menus, and I didn't spill any food on myself. This seems counter to the authentic falafel experience.
#3: Birthright Watering Hole at the Shuk
This was the first place that I actually had the classic falafel-pita, and for which I think I actually paid something close to the universally agreed-upon reasonable falafel-pita price--13 shekels. I also had the universal Israeli experience of being cut in line by an endless stream of Taglit Birthrighters, after battling my way through the shuk on a Friday afternoon. A day and money well spent.
Rating: 8. It was messy and way overstuffed and pretty much collapsed at the first bite into a pile of delicious. They also give you the option of stuffing it some more with a few side salads, but neglect to give you a fork with which to eat those salads, so be prepared for your hands to continue tasting delicious for several hours, until you fight your way back through the shuk to get home.
#4: Back to Tel Aviv
Another falafel-pita experience, but this time it brought friends: a buffet of pickled and stewed things that you could take as a side. There was also a very nice man who wanted to make sure we got our money's worth who pointed out that they would give me free fries. He did not mention that the fries would be roughly the consistency of wet marshmallows, but that pretty much goes without saying in Israel. The art of a properly fried french fry has completely escaped the Israeli restaurant industry, which is doubly odd when you consider that a substantial portion of the country's economy is based on locating a deep-fryer every 20 yards and sticking falafel in it. Yet I could wring my fries like dishtowel. Someone sic Paula Deen on this, stat.
Rating: 5. Fry quality aside, saltiness was the falafel's real Achilles heel. Having just come from the beach and sweated out all liquid reserves, salt was not for me, at that moment in time, in particularly high demand.
In conclusion, still searching for suitably messy, crunchy, inexpensive, absurdly portioned, confusing falafel with a worthy side of cccchhoomoss. I've started humming Brave Sir Robin to myself, which I think means either that I need to hire some minstrels for my quest (a questor should never do her own humming) or stop rambling on and go to bed.
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