Yesterday our lovely boss was kind enough to let us off an hour early so that we could pack and catch the 12:00 bus to Afula, where we could then take the Express to Tel Aviv. We scramble in the heat to pack and make it to the bus stop only to wait 30 minutes before realizing there is no 12:00 bus on Friday. Figures. For those who may not know, Shabbat, the Jewish day of rest is taken literally by Israeli transportation. There are no buses from Friday at sundown until Saturday. Most restaurants, stores, etc. are also closed. This makes transportation fairly complicated on Fridays as you are racing the sunset to your destination.
No worries, we thought. We can take the bus to Yochnam and then a bus or sheyroot (group taxi) to Tel Aviv. Another 30 minutes of Glee sing-a-longs and waiting in the heat, we climb aboard the 8 shekel ($2) bus to Yochnam. Once arriving in Yochnam we question everyone about connecting buses to Tel Aviv.
"Yesh," they tell us. "There is." Aval (but) no one knew when exactly. So we waited. And waited. Nikole checked the times with her boyfriend on BBM (Blackberry Messenger) and we learned there will be a bus in 20 minutes. By this time our stomachs were grumbling and cranky (no food since breakfast and it was approaching 2 PM). Stupidly we walk around the corner to the MacDonald's (I know, it saddens me too) only to miss our bus by 30 seconds. Go us. More BBM consulting and Nikole was convinced another bus would come in 20 minutes. It did. It was the wrong bus.
Have no fear, we're not easily deterred. We boarded another 10 shekel bus to Afula, and found an Express there. We also picked up Clara on the way as our bus went back to our kibbutz. After a Coke-a-Cola and Bamba break, we negotiated a deal for a 25 shekel sheyroot to Tel Aviv.
We arrived in one piece, tired, hot, and hungry at Momo's Hostel on Ben Yehuda Street. Two private rooms, right across from the lovely communal bathrooms. I've seen worse, and I've seen better. As in any hostel, the clientele were diverse. South African Ulpanists, German tourists, Israeli trannies, you name it... The employees at the desk were clearly Americans. I guessed somewhere from the Northwest based on their accents and demeanor. (I'm getting really good at picking out Americans. We're really easy to spot. Totally scored imaginary points when I picked out a couple on the beach from Connecticut today.)
Grasya, Etel, and Nikole and I immediately set off to walk around. As we wandered in search of food and fun I realized more than ever, how unique Tel Aviv is compared to other big cities. Traffic, yes. Honking horns, yes. Barking dogs, yes. But the people who fill the streets are different. The women are Amazonian and wear what you would expect from Bohemian New Yorkers in the summer. The men wear sandals and pants that are too short to be trousers and too long to be shorts--with sandals. They laugh, they gesture like Italians, and speak so loudly that you're not ever sure if they're talking casually or arguing politics. What's more, you'll find a multitude of languages here from tourists and residents alike. There is a large Thai population in Israel and Tel Aviv. Wouldn't have guessed that would you? Despite the beauty of the people and the city, what did I notice right away? There are no homeless people to be seen. Not one. Not sure exactly what the reason is, as I'm sure there are a myriad of possibilities. But it immediately struck me that unlike NYC, downtown Los Angeles, Bucharest, Prague, etc. I didn't see a single homeless person.
Cats on the other hand, are everywhere.
We soon found the Tel Aviv equivalent of Pinkberry. (I would have gone to the place with champagne and cupcakes in the window, but it was closed from Shabbat). But wow, is Tel Aviv Pinkberry good. Tut (strawberries), avatea (watermelon) and melon (honeydew) on top of refreshing tart yogurt. I died and went to dairy heaven.
After the brain-freeze and boy watching subsided we adjourned to the hostel, split a bottle of Cava and chatted about international gas prices, oil cartels and the pricing model in the airline industry. (I love it when girl time can also be educational).
Piccola Pasta, is my new favorite Italian place. Snuggled in an unassuming corner, the restaurant smelled like garlic on performance enhancing steroids as soon as we opened the door. We knew we had to eat there. Inside, it looks like a small European apartment. Gilded mirrors, dark woods, and brightly colored tiles. Wine racks lined the walls. Intuitively we knew the meal would be good. One plate of crostini and four various yet tayim (delicious) pastas later we were stuffed. We all waddled happily back to our hostel, except for Nikole who went to meet a friend from Venezuela.
My body, still on Kibbutz time, woke me up at 6 AM. Sat in bed until 9. Shaved my legs in the communal shower and brushed my teeth in the hallway. Used face moisturizer as body lotion. (I'm really resourceful here. Keep reading, I'll prove it.)
Breakfast of champions in the hostel lobby. Tea and packaged chocolate pastry of some sort. Check out, store the bags in lockers, and off to the beach.
We paid 12 shekels (3 dollars) to sit on the lawn chairs of Lamar Beach. (The beach in the opening credits of Don't Mess with the Zohan.) We then commenced five hours of sun, books, iPods, body surfing, hummus, avatea (watermelon) and playing "Guess the language." There was also a lot of talk about tans. The Turks gave me some flak for how pale I am (or should I say was). But Clara helped me out and said, "you're pretty dark for an American," even as I sat between Grasya and Nikole. Now it's definitely true.
Back on the sheyroot, then a taxi, and dance rehearsal for a performance Monday night (Israeli Independence Day).
Then, the all important question... what to eat? The chader ochel is closed Saturday nights on the Kibbutz so we usually snag extra at lunch. Today no such like. Etel suggested making Mumti (Turkish ravioli and yogurt dish) again. Sadly, the heating plate surged the power and cut off all power to the Ulpan porch leaving us hungry and in the dark. (Insert hand smacking forehead noise here.) Luckily, Shoshi (not me, the Ulpan director) was able to turn the power back on. I suggested we make the pasta by boiling water in a hot water kettle and then adding it to a bowl with the pasta. The Turks and Venezuelans looked at me with raised eyebrows and said, "Are you crazy? No!" Silly American.
Yet, you all know once I get an idea into my head I'm not easily dissuaded. After fifteen minutes of explaining that water boils at the same temperature in a kettle or a pot, they agreed to try. Five rounds of boiled water later, the past was finished and dinner was served. I tried not to gloat, but may or may not have sung "We are the champions" while serving the pasta....
Now I'm writing this epicly long blog (too bad it's not in iambic pentameter, then it truly would be epic) instead of unpacking and getting ready for class. I did most of my homework, can always do the rest in the AM at breakfast.
In other news, the Bird dance continues. We have wings now. It's hard not to laugh.
I get my second Hebrew test back tomorrow. Grades really don't matter here. But let's be honest, they matter to me for some inescapable reason.
I did lots of laughing this weekend. It was fantastic. I love it here.
But most of all, I love you guys. Hope you're great!
Latraot!
