We began drooling at his magnificence—me a bit more thanks to my retainer. My roommate managed to explain that a cockroach crawled over her and that we were now afraid to sleep. He looked at us, probably trying not to laugh, and said as convincingly as the Terminator, “I be back.”
When he shut the door, we grabbed each other’s hands and jumped up and down. We had never been so happy to have seen a cockroach. I quickly washed my face and took out my retainer.
The officer of our dreams was back at our door in less than five minutes with a device that was supposed to keep away cockroaches. He stepped into our bedroom and plugged in the gadget. He said good night and walked out. In bed again, we had completely forgotten the cockroach, but still couldn’t fall asleep. We were too excited that such a hot IDF soldier had been in our bedroom.
That was not the last time an IDF soldier would be in my bedroom, but more unfortunately, it was probably the best.
Adam
Adam got my number from a mutual friend after we met at a party. He invited me out for a coffee. While sharing a drink at a café, we began debating the modesty laws in Judaism. He told me that he thought that women who wear provocative clothes were asking to be raped. I, wearing a short jean skirt and a tank top, became concerned for my safety. When I told him that I thought that many of the religious were hypocrites, he revealed to me that he was religious and kept Shabbat.
Despite his commitment to the Sabbath and women’s modesty laws, he did not refrain from touching or sleeping with women, as later that evening he asked to receive a massage from me and tried to kiss me.
When I got home from that date, I called up my friend and told him to never give my phone number to anyone, ever.
Dr. Big
Dr. Big, the second officer I dated, was a doctor in an elite unite in the army. He always tried to impress me with stories of his army service that seemed as far-fetched as crop circles, but were much more exciting. Dr. Big and I played an over-dramatic cat and mouse game for a few years, until I uncovered his pathological lies. After suspecting that he was lying about his whereabouts, I found out that Dr. Big claimed that he was on base when he was really off for the weekend. All I had to do to confirm it was simply to call up Israel’s 411 for the number of his war room to get the information. Given how much the IDF prides itself on being one of the most secure and impenetrable armies in the world, it shouldn’t have been so easy. We never talked after that.
Later, thanks to Facebook, I found out that Dr. Big never was cured of his pathological lying. His profile picture was a graphic that read, “I just wanted to ask for forgiveness” and his relationship status had changed from being engaged to single. Even though he was the one who survived many dangerous operations, I was the one who dodged the real bullet.
Kyle
While I was in the army, I dated Kyle, an American guy who had also moved to Israel and joined an elite unit in the Golani Brigade in the IDF.
Since we were both in the army, I wasn’t looking for anything serious with Kyle and I thought he wasn’t either, until one night when he showed up drunk professing his love for me. He told me that during his navigation training missions he would get lost because he couldn’t stop thinking of me. Yes, ladies, that is what passes for romance in Israel.
Dror
Dror was someone I met randomly on the street. One of the perks about Israel is that you can meet Jewish guys everywhere and not just at some painful Jewish event. We went out on one date to a bar and I instantly regretted it. The conversation was as bland as the beer that I ordered. I drank as quickly as possible so that I could end the date. And then on our way out, the conversation got even more odd.
As if the country isn’t chauvinistic enough, there is actually a smell of testosterone in the air—and I’m not using that as a metaphor. Carob trees are planted on nearly every boulevard in Israel. When the tree blooms in September and October it gives off the smell of . . . well, there is no politically correct way of putting it . . . semen.
As if the smell of jizz on a first date isn’t awkward enough, the guy started discussing the smell by saying, “I hate this time of year. The smell is awful.” And then added, with a crooked smile, “But I bet you women love it!”
I froze with my mouth hanging open from shock, which probably was not the best reaction, considering the subject matter.
Ido
A friend of mine kept trying to set me up with one of his friends who was in Yamam, the elite Israeli police department. He repeatedly told me all of the reasons that we would be a good match. After refusing for nearly a year, I finally caved. In the middle of the date, the guy claimed that he had been called into an emergency mission and I never heard from him again.
He either died on the mission or he just wasn’t that into me.
JDate
I went on a few dates from JDate in Israel. I never thought that a Jewish dating site would be necessary in Israel until I actually started dating here. Unfortunately, I did not have much luck with the online dating scene either. Most of the guys I ended up dating were shorter than me because I didn’t know how to convert feet and inches into the metric system.
Tal
During a Rosh Hashanah that I spent with Orli, we went to a club which was supposed to be the biggest party of the night. It was in some type of warehouse. One guy came up to me and started talking to me. He ended up being the party producer. He was tall, dark, and handsome. I ended up giving him my number. He embodied Israeli persistence. The very next day he begged for me to come out, even though I had to get back to Jerusalem for ulpan. The day after, he drove to Jerusalem to take me out for some coffee. Even though the two cities are only an hour apart, for a Tel Aviv resident to drive out to Jerusalem is like a New Yorker flying out to California for a date. Our next date was during Sukkot, and I spent the holiday at his house with his entire family. Luckily, thanks to Liel, I had grown used to meeting guys’ families by the second date.
Things didn’t work out between us, but the story didn’t end there, because two years after that, when Orli and I would spend every weekend at Zamir, the dance club where I hurt my knee, it turned out that Tal owned that place also. This is one of the most unfortunate parts about dating in Israel—you are more likely to run into an ex at a club than meet someone new.
Tzachi
I, of course, could not miss out on the most important part of the IDF experience: having a fling with someone in my unit. As with most army flings, mine started with Tzachi when he was on duty over the weekend. Since the army is an expert at wasting people’s time, he was just sitting around doing nothing, waiting in case something happened. Since he was not doing anything, he invited me over to the base to watch a movie.
We ended up taking ten army cots and stacking them on one another and putting a movie in the projector, which is supposed to be used for viewing army operations, but we used to create our own personal movie theatre experience.
After that, Tzachi and I ended up spending nearly every weekend together, but when we saw each other on duty, we would pretend as if we barely knew each other. We would pass each other in the hallway and barely make eye contact. We would be sitting alone together in a room and not say anything to each other. After all, a unit called the spokesperson unit has its fair share of gossipers.
Yoel
Over six feet tall, dark hair, and blue-eyed, Yoel was considered hot by most women, but I had never been particularly attracted to him. I had met him years ago, and then while coming back from Independence Day celebrations at 3:00 a.m., I ran into him and he suddenly looked much cuter. So when he asked me for my number, I gave it to him.
We went out the next week. I couldn’t tell if we were just going out as friends or if it was a date. But when he walked me home and tried to stick his tongue down my throat, I knew that he definitely thought it was a date.
We dated a few times, but there just wasn’t a click. Unfortunately, I could not get rid of him. Since he was living in
Haifa and working in Tel Aviv, he had basically moved into my apartment after two dates—as if he thought my place was the newest settlement in Israel. If I hadn’t been involved in planning Disengagement, then I would have had to call the border police to evacuate him.
After so many bad dates, I had nearly given up on finding a Jewish guy in Israel, but there was something that told me to keep holding onto hope. I thought that finding love would be like all my other experiences in Israel; maybe the person with whom I would fall in love would be worth all the previous struggles.
Love Life
The aliyah posters and fliers never told us young, idealistic Zionists about the lonely Friday nights, about desperately trying to find somewhere to spend the holidays, the longing to feel like someone needs and wants you with them during the holidays in this small and overcrowded country.
Rosh Hashanah is approaching. I’m dreading it. The holidays always remind me that I am alone here.
I go to Orli’s family for every holiday, but I want to celebrate with a family of my own. I want to feel like a true part of a family here in Israel, not just a guest at someone’s table. It is the one thing that I still need to achieve in this country.
The rest of the country can’t wait. Everybody is in a good mood. People wish each other chag sameach, happy holiday, in the streets. There are pomegranates and apples and honey everywhere. There is even apple-smelling toilet paper, which I find particularly odd. I don’t even like the perfume samples in magazines. I do not want my toilet paper smelling like apples any more than I want my tampons smelling like bananas.
Sometimes it is easier just to pretend that it is only a normal day.
Sitting in my office, a few days before Rosh Hashanah, I’m reading through my emails. No one has gotten back to me about anything that I requested. Nobody, except for me, is doing any work. Most people are already at home with their families. For the next two weeks, everyone is in holiday mode. But I dive into work to try to forget that it is Rosh Hashanah.
I look outside. It is already dark out.
I look back to my computer when I hear it chime.
NEW MESSAGE.
I open it.
It’s an email from Jeremy, who is a friend and colleague of mine from the states. That’s strange: I usually send him emails. I usually need his help. I wonder what he needs.
From: Jeremy
To: Jessica
Subject: Favor
Time: 9:31 p.m.
Hi Jessica,
How are you?
A friend of mine is coming to Israel for a few weeks during Rosh Hashanah and will be moving there shortly. I wanted to know if I can give him your number?
Thanks and shana tova,
Jeremy
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I hit reply.
From: Jessica
To: Jeremy
Subject: RE: Favor
Time: 9:33 p.m.
Hi Jeremy,
All is good here. Sure. That is fine. You can give your friend my number.
When do you think you are going to visit again?
Jessica
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
After being in Israel for nearly six years now, I’m used to people wanting to give my name to others who want to move to Israel. I have seen so many wide-eyed Americans move to Israel and then leave after it is too hard that this country feels like a revolving door. But I’m always happy to offer them advice on how to make it in Israel.
* * *
Orli’s house is chaotic as usual. Her mom is cleaning the apartment and cooking her special, Afghani rice2, for Rosh Hashanah dinner. Leah, Orli’s sister, is re-checking everything her mom is doing to make sure it meets the strictest Jewish law. She was released from the army around four years ago and ever since has become more and more religious. She only wears long frummy3 skirts. She picks through each grain of her rice to make sure there are no bugs in it. She doesn’t touch boys. She studies in an all-girls yeshiva. Solomon, the middle brother, is now in the army and working towards his graduate degree at the same time. Doron, the younger brother, just had his bar mitzvah and is starting to become a rambunctious teenager. And to think that when I first met him, he was still playing with toys.
RING. RING.
It is probably someone calling to wish me a happy Rosh Hashanah. The more calls and text messages I get on this day, the better and less alone I feel.
I’ve never seen this number before.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Meydan. Jeremy gave me your number,” the guy says in perfect Hebrew.
“Oh, hi. How are you?” I ask, surprised that his Hebrew is so good. I figure that his parents are probably Israeli. They probably spoke Hebrew at home. That isn’t fair, I think. I had to work so hard to understand this language.
“Good, good. I’m going out with some friends after our Rosh Hashanah dinner. Do you want to come?” Meydan asks me, sounding confident that I will say yes.
He already has friends here? I wonder where he is spending the holiday dinner. He seems to know a lot of people here already.
“Um, yeah sure. You want to pick me up?”
* * *
Outside of my apartment, Meydan is standing on the sidewalk, in the glow of a street light, wearing a big smile and a just-tight-enough Hebrew Coca-Cola T-shirt. He has a buzz cut, glasses, broad shoulders, and strong biceps. There is something about the way he confidently stands or how he greets me with a hug that makes me feel like we are meant to be together.
I’ve never felt like this before. Especially not in Israel. Especially not after training myself to be cool-headed to protect myself from a broken heart. I’ve always been afraid that a broken heart would ruin my success in Israel. And if I fail at being Israeli then my Jewish identity would be at stake.
“Are you ready?” he asks, smiling at me.
My eyes light up, a smile spreads across my face, and my heart becomes lighter. At that moment, I decide to let myself fall for him. There is something about him that I see instantly. His openness. His fun-loving attitude. His Zionism. His strength mixed with sensitivity.
On the way to the kibbutz to meet his friends, our conversation flows; we laugh, and joke around together. We spend the entire night with his friends sitting in the fresh air, drinking beer, snacking on nuts, and talking. At the end of the night, he takes me home. When I get out of the car, he doesn’t try to kiss me. We both smile at each other. I hope that I’ll see him again before he leaves.
The next night Meydan comes over to my place. We talk the entire night.
“So, you are planning on moving here in a few months?” I ask excitedly. Outside it is completely dark, but my room is filled with light.
“Yeah, January first. I can’t wait.”
“Do you know where you are planning on living?” I wonder. Say Tel Aviv, say Tel Aviv! I think to myself.
“No, I’m not sure yet. Probably Tel Aviv though,” he replies.
Yes!
Outside it is steamy. The room is boiling hot. I wonder if it is from the chemistry between us. The air conditioner is working full force. I had finally saved up enough money to install the one that was sitting under the kitchen table for the past few years.
“Well, if you need any help looking for a place let me know . . . Wait, how do you know Hebrew so well?” I ask.
“I was born here.”
“Oh, so you moved to the states with your family when you were really young and you just spoke Hebrew at home?”
“No, I grew up here,” he replies.
“Well, I don’t get it. Where are your parents now?” I wonder, not understanding what is going on.
“They live in Petach Tikvah,” he says.
“So you were in the army here?” I ask, still confused.
“Yeah. I just spent the past few years studying and working abroad. No
w I’m moving back home, to Israel.”
He is perfect. He is both Israeli and American. He is macho, but also polite. He is Jewish, but also liberal. He is smart, but also fun.
Why does he need me? He knows more people here than I do. He has friends. Family. He knows the language.
All of the sudden I get it. I feel like I am on the final episode of The Bachelor and have just been let in on the secret. This is a setup!
We spend the rest of the night talking on my bed, but again he is a gentleman and does not even try to kiss me. We talk until the light of day sneaks up on us to remind us that we are tired.
When it’s time to go, I walk him to my door.
“I’ll see you when I get back,” he says and kisses me on the cheek.
“Sounds good,” I say and shut the door as he walks away.
I get back into bed and fall asleep with a smile on my face.
* * *
1 . A popular Israeli fast food, a bureka is a baked filled pastry made of a thin flaky dough (phyllo). A bureka can be filled with spinach, potato, cheese, or meat.
2 . For an Afghani rice recipe, please see the appendix.
3 . Frum is a Yiddish word that means devout. Someone who dresses frum wears very modest, often baggy clothing.
10
A Hard Candy Shell
KNOCK. KNOCK.
“Orli? Are you expecting someone?”
“No.”
“Who is it?” I ask through the door.
“Your boyfriend,” the voice says. I love how that sounds. Three months after I met him, Meydan moved back to Israel and as soon as he did, we started dating.
I swing the door open. “What are you doing here?” I ask with excitement.
“I missed you,” he says. He grabs me in his arms and gives me a kiss. Israeli men are so affectionate.
We saw each other yesterday.
“Have you eaten yet? Because I brought food to make dinner,” Meydan says, as he smiles at me. He is always in such a good mood. He takes out all the vegetables to make a salad and puts some fresh bread in the toaster oven. He does everything with both enthusiasm and care.
Chutzpah & High Heels Page 21
