Malouca.

Greetings from a hotel room overlooking Jerusalem!

Well, this is my final Shabbat in Israel so I decided I’d go to the wall and do the whole Jew thing. Back at school I used to be in regular attendance at weekly services, but ironically since coming to Israel I haven’t gone even once (until tonight).

So I wore a skirt. This is only newsworthy because it’s the first time since I think April that I’ve worn a skirt. At elementary school I used to have to wear a skirt (or jumper when I was younger) every single day of my life, so since the age of 12 I’ve rarely worn skirts. Basically only when I do Jew things. So I packed a few skirts cos I assumed I’d be doing Jew things with some frequency in the Jewish Nation…….and ended up never wearing any of them.
So anyway, I’m wearing this skirt and I’m walking through Jerusalem and since I’ve never worn this skirt before, I didn’t know that it blows up. Holy shit, I felt like Marilyn Monroe. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. I was not nearly that glamorous. Rather, I was like an obese Marilyn Monroe wearing a turd-colored skirt. So I ended up running through the streets of Jerusalem, trying to hold down the sides of my skirt as I giggled coquettishly. This skirt incident is further proof that I am actually a prostitute, as was made apparent when that haredi kid spat on me on my first full day in Israel. Good news in all of this? When I come back to Israel I have a career lined up for me besides towel-folding.

Also, I just want to point out the fact that I went to the wall, dressed orthodoxly, prayed, used the fucking Shabbat elevator to get to my room on the 20th floor……and now I’m back in my hotel room writing a blog post and listening to my favorite song on my iTunes. (Ticks. Brad Paisley.)

At the wall there were a lot of tour groups, and I witnessed a first for me: I saw a guy on the women’s side! He was in a fight with someone, and two police officers had to step in. It was awesome.

Abraham (assuming you’re reading this), you’ll be pleased to know (that was a sarcastic pleased) that this one tour group did an EPIC version of Lecha Dodi, which I know you would have appreciated. I was at the wall for about 45 minutes, and they were still going as I was leaving. I’m pretty sure that they’ll be welcoming in the Sabbath until tomorrow night when the Sabbath peaces out for the week, at which point this group will probably start singing a “Farewell to Shabbat” song (there must be a song like that), which will last until next week’s Kabbalat Shabbat. These people don’t eat, these people don’t sleep, these people don’t have bowel movements—no, no, no, they just dance in front of the wall all week either welcoming or bidding farewell to Shabbat. Should one of these men die in the line of duty, they will simply fall to the ground and their bodies will be trampled by their dancing friends. Babies are born in the midst of the chorus, children are raised singing the verses, people get married in the split second where people breathe between words. It must be an extremist sect. The Epic Lecha Dodi Sect.

As I was leaving I ran into a Birthright group from my university. Which was really horrible. I know the lady who leads the Hillel trips (as opposed to the Chabad ones, which I chose to participate in), and she recognized me. Twas very weird, and it was a strange reminder that in just a couple weeks I’ll be back at that school, like those kids who were sitting around in her group. I kind of don’t want to go back now. I don’t feel like them anymore. I don’t know what I feel like. I’m clearly not Israeli, but beyond the whole obsession with Redneck music I don’t quite feel like the average American anymore. Maybe that’ll change once I’m back and I am part of things over there once again, but I don’t know. I’m already, even just over the phone, starting to feel different from my family. Then again, I’ve always been the weird one in the family, and maybe now I’m just noticing it more.

What’s really painful is that my towel-folding experience is becoming less painful. That sounds like it makes no sense, but let me explain: so I’m reading this book on Breslov philosophy and stuff like that, and it’s talking about how to be happy in all situations, even shit ones. And well, looking back I can say that the horribleness of folding towels for 4 ½ months was probably a good learning experience for me, a good challenege, and an important life lesson of some sort. So with the blessing of hindsight, with the knowledge that I never have to fold another towel that does not belong to me ever again, I can say that I’m glad that I worked in a fucking laundry room for almost half a year. I’m glad the ladies weren’t nice, I’m glad the kibbutz wasn’t welcoming, and I’m glad that there were few people in my Hebrew class to socialize with who were NOT crazy/wanted for arson in France/complete idiots. No, that’s not me being sarcastic.
So why is this painful for me? Because now with this “test of faith” behind me, I actually quite like Israel. I now LIKE that I have to take a ticket when I’m on the bus, I like that people ask “how much did that cost you?” and I like getting my bag checked at the mall. But now, because I was so miserable folding clothing….I am leaving Israel. Fuck.

Oh well. I’ll be back.

I need an aliyah buddy. I need someone to come back with me in two years.



Oh, so then after the whole Western Wall thang I had to walk back. I got stuck in the middle of this enormous German Christian Group.
I gotta digress and share this with you:
Roommate: Germans always have the craziest parties.
Self: Yes, like the Nazi Party.

Anyway, so I’m in the middle of this German Christian Tour Group, and I didn’t want to be. So I tried to go around them and use my mad navigational skills. I do know Jerusalem pretty well now. Well, I ended up getting completely lost in these dark, narrow streets in the Old City. Hahaha. It was really scary.

Finally I found my way back outside, and this lady wearing a little cross necklace stops me. She’s clearly American, but she speaks to me in slow and deliberate English. “Do. You. Know. Which. Street. This. Is?” I responded by saying, “Ehhhh….I don’t know. I’m sorry. Are you looking for something in particular?” Mind you, besides the “eh,” which was unintentional, the rest I said like a total American.

At which point the woman says to me, “Wow, you speak English so well!”

So I just smiled sweetly and said, “Thank you! Both my parents are American.”

And she replied, “Ah, that explains it!” (Well, yeah, that and also the fact that I was born and raised in the U.S.)




Had a horrible moment back at the kibbutz yesterday. There’s this Brazilian guy who doesn’t speak a word of English and hasn’t learned a word of Hebrew in the 6 months that he’s been in the country. He knows a bit of Spanish, so he speaks to “The Mexicans” (I finally gave up on insisting that we call them the Spanish-Speakers and joined everyone else in calling them all Mexicans…..), but he mostly keeps to himself. Obviously there’s a huge language barrier between us, I don’t think I’ve said more than one word to him in the almost five months that I’ve known him besides, “MALOUCO!” (I don’t know how to spell it.) It means crazy or something in Portuguese, and that’s this guy’s nickname. Whenever he walks by, everyone has to shout, “MALOUCO!” and he yells back, “MALOUCO!” And it’s just how we do things on the kibbutz. It’s our way of trying to communicate with the Brazilian guy and to make him feel like a full member of the group that everyone’s happy to see, even if none of us can have an actual conversation with him.

Anyway, yesterday evening I was on the phone, and Malouco (and may I remind you, I have never spoken to this guy in my life besides saying, “MALOUCO!” like everyone else) stands in front of me. He flings his arms out as if he’s about to start belting an aria from a famous opera, and he yells in his very accented English, “I LOVE YOU!” I was on the phone and I wasn’t really listening, so I just said, “K, fine, thanks,” and resumed talking.

After I hung up, I was near The Mexicans’ room, and suddenly Malouco flings open the door and yells at me, “I LOVE YOU!” I ignored it because I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but he just kept repeating it. I love you! I love you! I love you!
And this is where it gets horrible: frustrated, I ended up blurting out, “Fuck off!” Why? Because I thought he was just trying to be annoying or making fun of me or something.

Um….what followed was an angry yelling from The Mexicans. They were so fucking pissed off with me. Turns out the guy wasn’t trying to be funny. Well fuck, how the fuck was I supposed to know?! I don’t understand how you can like someone if you cannot even communicate with them on a basic level! So now I feel like the biggest bitch on the planet.


Anyway, more shit happened. I’ll talk about it tomorrow cos there’s not much else I’ll be doing. (Besides watching Fox News!!!)