The good, the bad, and the ugly

The kids have their own impressions of this new, hot, and exotic place we’ve dumped them in.

Sebastian, forever our look on the bright side kind of guy, exclaims enthusiastically “the melons in Israel are so tasty.” And “the salami in Israel is so tasty”.  The eggs also. And large enough to fit into egg cups. (My grandfather used to say that the eggs in North American don’t tear their asses.) Why just the other day Sebastian proclaimed “Israel has the best oatmeal in the world!” I grinned and concurred, while putting away the Tupperware filled with the oatmeal packets that my mom had brought from Vancouver.

Although our little fineschmecker confided in me that he really liked “our apartment in Toronto” (the Toronto Airport Sheraton), he was prepared to reside in any one of the numerous grimy, tiny, crumbling, dilapidated places we saw during our apartment hunt.  At bath-time, he reminds me, diligently, that we don’t waste water in Israel. 

(Lance typically reminds me of this verity when I’m washing the dishes.  In fact, one of my “absorption” lessons in this new land has been in the subject of washing dishes in a conservationist manner. Needless to say we don’t have a dishwasher.)

While walking home one evening, mentioning the street names along our way, Sebastian commented: “Basel is a very nice name. I don’t like Jabotinsky. “ (Jabotinsky is the street we live on.) The kid certainly has a musical ear. Basel does ring of pastoral Swiss hinterlands. But it is also the place that was home to the first Zionist Congress. Jabotinsky, a name evoking a little more punch, was the Ukrainian orator, author and soldier who founded the Jewish self-defense organization, and later the more militant Irgun. This is a place where history is embedded in the topography. A name is never just a name. 

Liliana’s observations are similarly refined. Only they reflect a grossly different spread. “Doggie poop” is her widespread declaration while walking the streets of Tel Aviv. And when someone goes to the bathroom, she’ll inquiringly ask “shul?” (shilshul being the word for diarrhea in Hebrew)

The daily cry for kartiv (popsicle) is equally shared by both children. And encouraged by me. (Sebastian would readily agree that Israel has the best popsicles in the world!!)

As for the kids’ interactions with one another -- Sebastian very accurately described to me his relationship with his younger sister one day while pretending he was introducing her to me: “this is my sister. But she’s a little annoying (מעצבנת). And she’s a little crazy (משוגעת), because she throws things. Sometimes she annoys me, and sometimes I annoy her.” I couldn’t have penned a more lucid observation.

When they’re together, we shut our ears to the repetitive chorus of “no me” “no me”…

When we hear giggles or worse yet, silence, we know we’re in trouble!

Fridge Art

Home is not home without it.

Doing it. In an old-new land

Well. I’ve thought about it. I’ve talked about it. I’ve even obsessed about it.

But I’ve been busy you know. Getting organized in a new apartment, in a new city, in a new country, finding preschools for the kids and getting them settled in…

But now I’m doing it. Blogging. For these very reasons: getting adjusted and settled in a new (and crazy!) country.

A couple months ago Lance and I scooped up our kids, packed a bunch of suitcases, and moved from paradisiacal Sarasota, Florida, to Tel Aviv, Israel.

A place where one must constantly look down to dodge the dog shit. And where the stench of cat piss is scarcely noticeable after the first week.

A place bustling with cafes, but in which Starbucks doesn’t stand a chance.

A place where there are no dryers because there is sun.

A place where everyone is royalty when it comes to breakfast. The most important meal of the day (a robust spread of eggs, chopped salad, cheese spreads, jams, fresh rolls) is the staple of the city’s cafes. Day and night.

A place where there is so much to do that one needs to decide what not to see in order to decide what to see.

A place where one must always remember to ask, when looking at apartments, whether there is an elevator and parking. In our case no and no. No biggie. No car either.

A place where boys “watering” (peeing on) trees is not only acceptable but encouraged.  In our case (at the insistence of our younger tyke), this phenomenon is gender transcendent.

A place where there’s no such thing as one-stop shopping. You have your neighborhood bakery, neighborhood greengrocer, and neighborhood deli. Your writing supply store. Your baby store. Your book store. Your And the little nameless hole-in-the-wall junk store for everything and anything else.

A place where everybody is prepared to help by telling you, very simply, what to do and how to do it. You’re looking for a gift to bring to someone? A bottle of wine. Something else? Are you out of your mind? No need to exaggerate. 

A place where the widespread collective greeting of “Shana Tova” (Happy New Year) is both a nicety and a curse.  Where the clerk at the candy store offers Sebastian an extra little treat exclaiming “Shana Tova sweetie!” And where two men, engaged in dispute, part ways, grunting “Shana Tova!”

A place where paradoxes are stark. And impressions abound.

A place that is in the process of becoming. home.