To be 18 again

My Good daughter is turning 18 today. I hate buying gifts because you know everything you do for kids isn't good enough - ever. I wanted to take her out for breakfast like we did last year at this wonderful cafe on Emek Refaim Street, a street which reminds me of Amsterdam Avenue in New York City. But she already warned me - "Don't take me where we went last year, it was disgusting". Really? What was disgusting about it? "There was nuts in the salad" she said, pronouncing the word "nuts" as if it were food brought up from the sewer. "And the digusting things they put in the salads..." I'm tired of thinking what to do for her. She loves lemon meringue pie. I found a great bakery that makes it and hopefully I'll get to the store before it closes. Stores close early on Fridays because of the Jewish Sabbath, so I've got to meet the 2:30 deadline. My idea of a day off is simply not rushing. This morning I thought of where I was at that age and brought out my photos of when I was 18 and spent the year in Israel. The Good daughter looks at the photos "Mum, why didn't you take off your glasses when they took your picture?" - Why should I? That's how it was then. I didn't get my contacts until I was 18 1/2 but my daughter was clearly embarrassed just looking at them. Too bad.

I had one of the best years of my life when I was 18 - glasses or no glasses. I had convinced my folks that the best thing for me would be to spend a year in Israel studying at a girl's seminary. This was an absolute miracle for me as my parents, especially dad, was extremely strict with me in all areas. He forbade me from wearing trousers because he had turned more religious as he got older and wanted to impress all the bigshots in the synagogue with his observant family. Except that I was ruining it for him. I used to sneak my pants beneath my skirts and steal out of the house that way. He caught me twice and I had to sit in the kitchen while he read to me from the Code of the Jewish Law. Man, was I ever a sinner. But in Israel, I could do what I want, without ruining the family reputation. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt, right?

I did anything but study that year. That was the year of the Yom Kippur war, the year that every soldier I saw in the street was dating fodder, the year I did lose someone I had just started dating in that war, the year I felt so free for the first time in my life, the year I first fell in love, so much in love with the country I now live in. I hitchhiked everywhere that year. It was safe to do so. We came across some oddballs, but nothing serious. Once we ran out of the car when we were picked up by a Russian man who kept on repeating "Russia Good, Amerika, Not Good". The family of the soldier I dated who was killed in the war wanted me to marry him. I was only 17 and he was 21, of Moroccan descent. I was blonde and American, which was a rarity in those parts of the country. His family lived on a moshav - not a village and not a communal kibbutz but something in-between. His sister spotted me immediately when I was on a 3 week kibbutz program - working in the turkey coop. I asked to work with animals because they put me in the jobs that no one else wanted, like cleaning fly shit off windows and ironing. So his sister took me home, introduced me to her mother who introduced me to her strappingly handsome son. We went off to the movies and I knew this was a "serious" date because he never laid hands on me, unlike the rest of the Israeli guys whose testosterone levels were always unusually high. I stayed over and was shocked at the sleeping arrangements. I thought it was awful the way I grew up in a one-bedroom apartment in the Bronx with 2 other siblings. I had to remain in my parents' bedroom until my brother moved out, and that wasn't until I was 12 years old. But this Israeli/Moroccan family with 10 children all slept in the livingroom. Beds came out of nowhere and everywhere - hidden behind couches, walls, etc. - and no one complained of no privacy. The parents slept in the kitchen. That morning the mother made me a nice breakfast of eggs and peas with tomato sauce on it. I thought it was strange to have peas for breakfast but no matter. I took one bite. Were they trying to kill me? I could hear the sisters smothering their laughter in the other room. They knew that Americans generally aren't used to the hot, spicy sauces accompanying nearly every Moroccan meal and I was trying to be polite while everything from my tongue to my intestines were on fire. I'll stick to the pita - thanks.