Friday, May 28, 2004

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.

6 comments:

Vegard Wikeby said...

How about giving a old silver looking jewelry shrine as a gift. What do I know, still got dozens of years to walk this earth. Happy hunting.

Blanche and Guy said...

How funny to come across your blog! I am married to a moshavnik and we lived in Israel for a few months in 1999. His family is Turkish/Syrian and Polish so I know what you mean about the spicy food in the morning/evening/anytime! My husband can't make a plain meal - even his toast gets a little zaatar. Where would we be without it.

That's too bad you're daughter didn't treasure the photo's of you as a ripe young 18 year old. I love those old pictures (oops, I didn't mean to use that word!).

Looking forward to more interesting thoughts from the Holy Land (and not through the lens of a global news network).

Shabat Shalom!

Wicked said...

I'm really enjoying my time here

UG said...

Shalom! ..and greetings from Bombay, India! I've really enjoyed your blog, I will visit again. I love Israel and I would love to visit it one day, I have many Jewish friends who recommend it :)

tim gueguen said...

I wouldn't want to be 18 again. I know I'd just make the same stupid mistakes I made then.

Kittie said...

My mother also moved to Israel in 1973. She had just finished taking a year tour of Europe, and was ending in Israel. The way she puts it, she was only going to be there for a few months, but then the war broke out... so she just let her plane ticket expire and stayed for seven years. She had me four years after she moved back to the United States, putting me at almost two years older than your daughter. I go to college at the opposite end of the country from my parents, and find myself very fortunate that they're coming in town for my 20th birthday in two months. I happily wear glasses with huge frames, and love hearing stories of when my parents lived in Israel. I was a sophomore in college when I was 18, and maybe that's why I was so easy to please. I just hope your daughter realizes how lucky she is to have parents who can do things for her, and get things for her, and take her to nice places.