Tales from Israel, Part 2

Israel may have embarrassed and injured me, but I’m basically Rocky, The Hulk, and Obama all wrapped into one. When my spirit is beaten, I get right back up again. And turn into an enormous green monster bent on national health care reform.

For about half the trip, we had six Israelis staying with us—five soldiers and one student. Among the soldiers was a girl named Lotem. She had big, wavy hair, a bigger voice, and an even bigger personality. If you are within earshot of her when she’s talking, which is every moment in the history of the universe, then you have already been introduced to her. My first real introduction to her, however, was while spending a night in Bedouin tents. Mind you, this was tourist Bedouin, not actual Bedouin. The Bedouins there provided us with central heating, sleeping bags and mattresses, and, well, a gift shop. Nevertheless, we did have to sleep surrounded by dozens of other people, and our itinerary had us waking up at 5 o’clock the following morning.

Inside the Bedouin tent, Sarah writing something presumably of far better quality than my blog.

By around midnight, the string of short nights was taking effect, and I decided to try for some sleep. I was itching to stay outside, talk to people from neighboring groups, and enjoy an unusually warm night in the desert. But I knew I’d be thankful the next day for the little extra rest. Falling asleep was no easy task though. I accounted for campfires, guitar playing, and whispers; I did not account for Lotem.

Person A: (whispering) Hey, pss, Lotem, how much time do you have left in the army here?
Person B: (whispering) Yeah, do you like it there?
Lotem: I HAVE ONE YEAR LEFT, AND I LOVE IT. DO YOU KNOW MY NAME? MY NAME IS LOTEM. I LOVE ALL OF YOU!
Person A: (whispering) Shh, shh, keep it down. People are trying to sleep!
Lotem: (whispering) Oh okay, I’m sorry. (accidentally changing her volume to a mind-numbing scream) I’LL TALK QUIETER NOW.

I gave up and hung out with Lotem. She sounded more fun than sleeping. And now, thanks to my decision, somewhere out there is a video of our corner of the tent inadvertently proclaiming “Richard is a beautiful woman” in Hebrew. That night, I’m pretty sure at least twelve people gave me the look of shut-the-hell-up-Richard-or-I’m-going-to-kill-you. Whatever, it was Lotem’s fault.

Lotem doing the Soulja Boy.

It was not until several hours into our Lotem shout-a-thon that I finally retired into my Bedouin-approved stack of mattresses and tried to sleep again. Approximately six microseconds later, our guides stormed the tents and woke us up. It was already 5 o’clock. The Bedouins generously provided us a breakfast of half a saltine and a teaspoon of hot tea, and we hobbled to our waiting bus. The driver then trekked for around 30 minutes to the bottom of Masada, an ancient fortress where the Jews once got all suicide-y when the Romans started invading. None of us had slept, the sky was horribly overcast, and I was pretty sure that, by the hundredth step, we had already traversed the distance between Earth and Neptune. Lotem made staying awake easier though. “HEY EVERYONE, AFTER WE GET BACK, WHO WANTS TO GET SOME DINNER? GOD, I AM SO TIRED. WHERE ARE THE BATHROOMS? I AM LOTEM!”

We made it to the peak slightly before dawn, and our guides led us to small promontory so we could see the sun rise from the top of Masada. To be fair, “see the sun rise” is an overstatement. We actually saw a small dot of light through the clouds that might have been the sun or might also have been the moon, an airplane, or a Jewish, glowing Superman. As the day passed, it warmed up, we summoned whatever energy we could, and we began to enjoy the ancient ruins. At one of the highest points of Masada, just by where King Herod once slept, per another group member’s idea, I pocketed two rocks. I figured they would find a good use later.

At the top of Masada

The trip planners were a special breed of evil sometimes. Walking up Masada was exhausting, but manageable. It was a straight shot up one side of the hill, and even though conquering it felt like seven lifetimes, it was in reality only 20 or 30 minutes. However, we did not walk back the same way. We took the “Snake Path,” which is probably Hebrew for “We know you Americans don’t exercise, so here’s some old-fashioned Biblical torture.” I drew a diagram to explain the difference between the two hikes. The top image is our ascent, and the bottom one is our descent.

Now fast-forward to much later that night, after a long shower, an even longer nap, and enough water to alter the salinity of the Dead Sea. Our guides took all of us to downtown Jerusalem and treated us to a completely unsupervised night. Lotem’s gregariousness had advantages. She called a friend and landed the entire group complimentary entry to Konstantine, a local nightclub. Out of 39 people in the group, an unbelievable 36 of us all managed to find our way to the same club. To an Israeli, it was probably a horrifying sight. Three dozen Americans invaded their domain, started dancing like rabid spider monkeys, and it wasn’t even 11 o’clock. No matter though, we managed to eke two Lady Gaga tracks out of the DJ.

As I mentioned, Lotem was not the only Israeli with us. There was another soldier with her named Ofir. He was tall with warm eyes, a chiseled jaw, and an easy future as a Calvin Klein model if he should ever be so inclined. Moreover, he spoke English better than Noam Chomsky. There was almost no trace of an Israeli accent, and I wish I could hire him as my permanent translator.

Me: Uhh… uhhh… I’d like that, um, chicken dish with ham and… stuff.
Ofir (as translator): My friend would like the chicken cordon bleu.
Me: Yeah. Uh, do you have that grape-but-not-grape-colored tangy stuff?
Ofir (as translator): What chardonnay would you recommend with it?

Unfortunately, Ofir had one crippling disability: heterosexuality. As of yet, there’s no cure, but I’m not the kind of person who judges someone based solely on an untreatable illness. I decided to look past his obvious shortcoming and briefly shared a dance with him at the club. We may have been within walking distance of the Holy City, but some things are truly important to capture permanently on film. “Just one second, Ofir,” I pled as I fumbled for my camera. “Okay, now smile like this isn’t awkward!”

Greatest moment in the history of photography.

For about half the nights, we concluded the evening by regressing to kindergarten. We sat around in a circle, shared our thoughts for the day, and finished our pow-wow by reducing the day to one high moment and one low moment. I may own a Hello Kitty pillow and a small tube of wearable glitter, but I’m still a boy. That means I don’t share my feelings. I bottle them up and turn them into bad poetry and domestic violence. I found it hard to take this high-low game very seriously. “Well, my low was probably finding out what the female breast feels like.” I waited for the laughter to subside so I could make sure everyone could hear my high. “And my high was getting photographic proof that I, in fact, danced with Ofir.” Laughter from everyone. Except Ofir probably.

We kept going around the circle, and after eight or nine people, it was Ofir’s turn. “I have two highs,” Ofir started. His first high was unimportant because it didn’t involve me. “The second high,” he continued, “is learning that Richard’s high was dancing with me.” It was so sweet I almost contracted an acute, but treatable, case of type 2 diabetes. Later in the circle, someone mentioned a high involving Ofir’s girlfriend. I waited a beat and interjected, exasperated, “Wait! You have a girlfriend?” Thank you everyone, I’ll be here all night.

Israeli graffiti is delicious.

There were, of course, countless other stories I could recount from the trip: not sleeping in order to watch the Super Bowl, being ordered to stop dancing on a Tel Aviv bar counter, or singlehandedly solving the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. (One of those didn’t happen.) However, to end my Israel reflections, I choose to highlight the one brief moment where I actually felt proud of my Judaism and sincerely thankful I went on the trip. And it did not happen while we were in Israel.

The very evening that I arrived back in Baltimore, I called my parents. It wasn’t too late—maybe 5 o’clock. I told them I would love to get dinner, show them pictures, and talk about the trip if they were free. They were, my brother joined them, and the four of us met at a quiet restaurant downtown. Before I even mentioned details of where I had been, my mom confessed that she had always wanted to scale Masada. Because of several battles with health, however, we both knew that adventure was unlikely. Not long afterwards though, I produced the two rocks I took from Masada’s peak and handed one to each of my parents. “Here. I know you’ll probably never have a chance to see it yourself, so at the very least, I tried to bring it to you.” My Jewish identity may be tenuous at best, but for a moment, I was happy to have one.

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