Just when I start to feel like I am in an exotic foreign land, I realize that it is indeed a small world after all. Since I’ve been here, I have had quite a full social life—at least more than what DC afforded me. That could be due in part to the fact that in DC, every spare second of my life was consumed by a soul-sucking academic schedule. Anywho, I am fortunate enough to have an Israeli pal who has introduced me to a fabulous bunch a gals.
The other night, I went to a dinner party hosted by one of the ladies and before long, the conversation turned heated. Of course, this is the Middle East, so which topic could have stimulated such a discussion? The Palestinian-Israeli conflict? The Iraq War? The Iran nuclear threat? Yeh, no. The universal issue of greatest importance to a group of educated, passionate, politically informed women is naturally…boys. So, sitting among a group of fantastic women who hail from every corner of the globe, it occurred to me that the world is not as diverse as I had previously thought. I think the one thing I came away with was the realization that if I had thought the dating pool in DC was a bit shallow; I am now certain that it is positively parched here. Then again, this is the Holy Land, so miracles do happen.
Possibly in my favor is this new-found freedom to behave as an unabashed flirt without feeling silly about it. At home, I’d be afraid of making a fool of myself. Here, making a fool of myself is a daily past-time. I am under no illusion that I am projecting an image of a confident, capable woman. That conception of self was duly erased the first night here when I mistakenly ate a half pint of sour cream thinking it was yogurt. Anyway, the silliness has already paid off…literally. I got my friend out of a $100 + parking ticket thanks to an exaggerated hair flip, pouty boo-boo kitty face, and some hum-min-na hum-min-na eyes at two Israeli traffic policemen. My friend came running out of the bank to find me cooing to two men who had moments before been yelling threats. After a few minutes of sweet talk, they said that they’d waive the ticket, but if someone with a real handicap showed up, we were going to have to move. Is it really this easy? Has my hard, feminist exterior in the U.S. been working against me all of these years? Does ‘dummying it down’ actually make me smarter? I’m afraid of the answer.
Mind you, I only engage in this kind of overt flirtation on the Israeli side. In my Arab neighborhood, I don’t see too many women out and about. I couldn’t imagine there being a benefit to making myself even more conspicuous. Let there be no mistake; people are wonderful here. The Palestinians I have met so far have been so gracious and hospitable. For example, one day while I was butchering their language in the neighborhood shop, one of the female customers standing at the counter shyly handed me a bonbon. Now, there is an off chance that she hoped with the bonbon in my mouth I would have to stop desecrating her beautiful ancient language. The more likely scenario was that she was trying to show me that I was welcome.
Still, the politeness that I have encountered troubles me a bit, if only for one reason: I am not quite sure if I am making any sense when I speak in Arabic. Everyone indulges me and they nod along as I say my little schpiel. Then as soon as I’m done, they start speaking to me in English. I’ve decided that I’m going to have to put my foot down and insist that people speak only Arabic. I will do that as soon as I expand my vocabulary beyond the two verbs and six nouns that I seem to have mastered. First step: learn the numbers so I can stop holding out a hand-full of coins to the cashier every time I need to pay for something.
Showing posts with label Arab. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Arab. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Monday, January 8, 2007
Getting my feet wet...I mean, muddy
Right off the bat let me suggest that the smartest thing a girl could do when she moves to the Middle East is to get a map. Lesson learned. I have been in East Jerusalem for a week so far and I have yet to make a run for it; although truth be told, days one and two tested me a bit. Then again, if I don’t have a map, where the hell am I going to run? The transition is getting easier. Just when I'm about to say "what the $!#@& am I doing here..." I catch sight of the Dome of the Rock, or another landmark triggers a memory of my younger days, and I just squeak with excitement. What a place this is.
I am living on the highest point in East Jerusalem, so I can see all of Jerusalem from my vantage point. You know what I can't see? A road to get down there…Or one to get back up for that matter…Or any buses that could solve this mystery once and for all…Instead, I've been walking along the perimeter of the place via the new main road, no doubt adding a good 45 minutes to my commute--and probably making me look like a jackass in the process. I figured I would just follow the signs to “City Center” and that would eventually drop me in the center of something.
On my third day, I was attempting to get back up to the house from the Old City. (See picture: house is located near the tower on the hill) I figured as long as I could still see the house from the road that I was on, I would keep walking toward it. Next thing you know, I am way lost in the middle of an Arab neighborhood with a mob of small boys running around me yelling "Hello, how are you?...Are you American?” That in itself was not disconcerting. It was the fact that they were shooting me in the face with their toy machine guns while they were asking that stimulated the icy grip sensation on my lower intestine. At least they weren't hurling rocks through slingshots this time. Things have apparently changed since I was here 10 years ago. Inshallah.
Anywho, the encounter was slightly harrowing seeing I had no idea how to get out of there. Perhaps I have read Lord of the Flies too many times, but there is nothing more uncomfortable than to be surrounded by children who descend on you en masse. Under normal circumstances, kids reign themselves in out of fear that you might know their parents. Not having that edge, I just responded, in what in my head sounds like Arabic, and kept walking with an air of "I totally know where I'm going." That was a brilliant strategy…until the road ended. So, the choices were to walk ALL the way back up the hill (despite the obvious rejection of the laws of physics, everything is uphill) through the neighborhood with the wee little freedom fighters or to cut through the olive grove. After a millisecond of deliberation, the olive grove it was. Fortunately, after coating my new shoes thoroughly with clay-like mud, the grove path led me straight to the road that led up to the house. Unfortunately, the road was practically a vertical angle. Oy. In all fairness, I vaguely recall making a New Year’s resolution that had something to do with transforming my doughy physique into something considerably firmer, so from this point forward I will consider my Stairmaster neighborhood a blessing.
To be completely truthful, I'm definitely feeling a little culture shock. Everyone speaks English so I don't know why I morph into a deaf mute every time someone asks me a question. I would have starved yesterday (or just gone to McDonalds) if some sweet old man hadn't stopped to help me when he saw me salivating outside of a shwarma shop. On the upside, after being jostled by these pushy little bastards and ripped off by my taxi driver and his fruit market cousin, I met some very nice pregnant ultra orthodox women who, after I helped them carry their baby carriages up the stairs, offered hospitality and asked if I was all alone. (I said I wasn't) and some very hot soldiers who asked me the same question. (I said that I was)
To assuage this newfound culture shock I ventured out to meet up with a long-lost girlfriend. I figured that, in Jerusalem of all places, the wine must be blessed, so we promptly got spiritually loaded…Then, to cap off the night, I got ripped off by another taxi driver. The driver said that he wouldn’t turn on the meter because “after 9pm the fare is twice as much. I’m doing you a favor.” To emphasize his point, he pointed to the number two on the idle meter—as if that meant anything to me. I thought about it briefly, was certain he was scamming me and finally said “oh, OK”—not before giving him a master stink-eye. There was no way in hell I was negotiating that steep hill in the dark-- powered only by half a bottle of Merlot. I later found out he charged me 15 NIS more than the meter would have charged. *sigh* I need to stop being a rookie. I know better than this. So, I guess the second thing a “smart girl” does before moving to the Middle East is to pick up a travel guide or two.
I am living on the highest point in East Jerusalem, so I can see all of Jerusalem from my vantage point. You know what I can't see? A road to get down there…Or one to get back up for that matter…Or any buses that could solve this mystery once and for all…Instead, I've been walking along the perimeter of the place via the new main road, no doubt adding a good 45 minutes to my commute--and probably making me look like a jackass in the process. I figured I would just follow the signs to “City Center” and that would eventually drop me in the center of something.
On my third day, I was attempting to get back up to the house from the Old City. (See picture: house is located near the tower on the hill) I figured as long as I could still see the house from the road that I was on, I would keep walking toward it. Next thing you know, I am way lost in the middle of an Arab neighborhood with a mob of small boys running around me yelling "Hello, how are you?...Are you American?” That in itself was not disconcerting. It was the fact that they were shooting me in the face with their toy machine guns while they were asking that stimulated the icy grip sensation on my lower intestine. At least they weren't hurling rocks through slingshots this time. Things have apparently changed since I was here 10 years ago. Inshallah.Anywho, the encounter was slightly harrowing seeing I had no idea how to get out of there. Perhaps I have read Lord of the Flies too many times, but there is nothing more uncomfortable than to be surrounded by children who descend on you en masse. Under normal circumstances, kids reign themselves in out of fear that you might know their parents. Not having that edge, I just responded, in what in my head sounds like Arabic, and kept walking with an air of "I totally know where I'm going." That was a brilliant strategy…until the road ended. So, the choices were to walk ALL the way back up the hill (despite the obvious rejection of the laws of physics, everything is uphill) through the neighborhood with the wee little freedom fighters or to cut through the olive grove. After a millisecond of deliberation, the olive grove it was. Fortunately, after coating my new shoes thoroughly with clay-like mud, the grove path led me straight to the road that led up to the house. Unfortunately, the road was practically a vertical angle. Oy. In all fairness, I vaguely recall making a New Year’s resolution that had something to do with transforming my doughy physique into something considerably firmer, so from this point forward I will consider my Stairmaster neighborhood a blessing.
To be completely truthful, I'm definitely feeling a little culture shock. Everyone speaks English so I don't know why I morph into a deaf mute every time someone asks me a question. I would have starved yesterday (or just gone to McDonalds) if some sweet old man hadn't stopped to help me when he saw me salivating outside of a shwarma shop. On the upside, after being jostled by these pushy little bastards and ripped off by my taxi driver and his fruit market cousin, I met some very nice pregnant ultra orthodox women who, after I helped them carry their baby carriages up the stairs, offered hospitality and asked if I was all alone. (I said I wasn't) and some very hot soldiers who asked me the same question. (I said that I was)
To assuage this newfound culture shock I ventured out to meet up with a long-lost girlfriend. I figured that, in Jerusalem of all places, the wine must be blessed, so we promptly got spiritually loaded…Then, to cap off the night, I got ripped off by another taxi driver. The driver said that he wouldn’t turn on the meter because “after 9pm the fare is twice as much. I’m doing you a favor.” To emphasize his point, he pointed to the number two on the idle meter—as if that meant anything to me. I thought about it briefly, was certain he was scamming me and finally said “oh, OK”—not before giving him a master stink-eye. There was no way in hell I was negotiating that steep hill in the dark-- powered only by half a bottle of Merlot. I later found out he charged me 15 NIS more than the meter would have charged. *sigh* I need to stop being a rookie. I know better than this. So, I guess the second thing a “smart girl” does before moving to the Middle East is to pick up a travel guide or two.
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