Saturday marked my one-year Aliyah anniversary. On June 23rd 2005, I took a flight from Heathrow airport to Ha’aretz Yisrael to begin a new chapter my in life and to establish a life away from home.
So, I bet you are wondering how this year left me feeling. I guess the answer is: slightly settled, partially directional and somewhat happy. A month ago, I visited home in an apprehensive state and thankfully returned with triumph written across my face in realisation that the actions of the 23rd were the best steps I have ever taken. Do those feelings still stand? Well, I guess so. But as the next stepping stone of my life approaches and as I become a true Israeli, leaving behind my proud identity of the ‘Londoner’, insecurities begin to creep up on me. I have come to accept certain aspects to my circumstances in Israel, such as my tuchus will always be disproportionately bigger than the average Israeli, that people have chutzpah in this country and that everyone wants to know your business. Yet despite this resolution, I still battle on with certain doubts, such as accepting the absence of my friends and family, a western pay check and a proper cosmopolitan cocktail. Such doubts hold me back from completely letting go of all behind and dissolving into the transition process of a new identity.
Having a Picnic
I once heard that life is merely a journey of a constant search for happiness. Does this imply I will never be wholly satisfied and will be spending the rest of my life trying to search for true contentment, even though it will remain unachievable? If so, I guess I will be ending up in mental overdrive by the age of fifty. Maybe this is the reason why so many of us end up with depression or taking drugs … possibly it is our reaction to unrecognised happiness and the realisation of the inevitability of incomplete happiness.
Just before my visit to London, I visited a good friend, Deborah, for our usual chin-wag before leaving. As per usual, I ended up divulging all my anxieties of what lay ahead. I explained my fears of going back home, and the fact I cannot figure out what sincerely would make me feel complete. She simply answered in her heavy Mancunian accent, cigarette in hand, blowing out the smoke, in so many words:
“Nat, it doesn’t matter where you are. You will only be happy once you are happy with yourself. The place will not determine that, simply your own happiness with life will.”
I know she is correct. But, I truly wish my life could be like a picnic. If so, I could select the courses, or areas of my life, that bring me enjoyment and satisfaction, and arranged them on the picnic blanket. as I please. And the, I believe I would be complete and happy. My picnic would consist of starter: Israel, main course: Israeli lifestyle, dessert: friends; and, side dish: family.
One thing that has always left me feeling incomplete when I left London was leaving behind the love and ease of the company of old friends. In this stage of my life, the dessert is a crucial element to every meal. A social life dominates a large part of a twenty-something’s priorities, whether it is planning to go out for the night, or to meet for coffee during the day. And the crux of this enjoyment is with whom you spend this time with. I never did ‘social’ friends, having certain beings selected for specific occasions; I simply like to be around those I love and respect. Why would I choose sorbet or fruit salad for dessert, when I can pick chocolate cake or raspberry ripple. Unfortunately, my life isn’t a picnic. I have come to Israel and have had to create a new social life; and believe me, this isn’t an easy task for a women in her mid-twenties, and more precisely, Jewish women in their mid-twenties.
The Freckle-Faced Jelly Bean
The jelly bean culture of the Tel Aviv social scene came back to bite me in the tuchus (http://natalieshaer.blogspot.com/2006/03/human-nature-and-jelly-beans.html). This year, I faced the extremely difficult task of re-establishing a social network. It felt like all my defences and certainties, which I developed over the years, were stripped down. Since 23rd June, I have increasingly felt like the 12 year-old freckle-faced girl I was on my first day of high school, uneasy and unsure of who I was and of what defined me. Are these pent-up emotions a reaction to my absorption into the Tel-Avian Anglo jelly bean culture? Or, is it merely the consequence of working my way through the teething problems of starting over? It sometimes is just all too much.
So, my consensus with Deborah is that I will “flow”. A friendship is defined by time and experience. It has only been a year, or more precisely, six months in the T.A melting pot, and I suppose, therefore, time will pass and experiences will cement into my mental dimensions, redefining my outlook on life. And hopefully, the 12-year old freckle-faced girl that once defined me will go back home.
Back to the picnic, I never fancy lemon sorbet for dessert. But am I really in the position to be able to pick my courses? Ok, so I realise, my picnic idea is a crock of shit. And, time has brought me several servings of chocolate cake in my Tel-Avivan life, with those I get to chill with over coffee and those to giggle with on a Thursday night, so I guess I am doing alright for now. It is just I feel too old for this crap (the ‘twenty-something’ inside me moans).
Behind the Layers of the Freckle Faced Girl
A large part of feeling at ease and emotionally able to develop a life of happiness is largely dependent on understanding who I am in this world. I have a British and Israeli passport. I am a Jew, yet was brought up in a country that is built upon a Christian establishment. During primary (elementary) school, my mouth was kept tightly closed during choir practice, whilst my class mates sang about Jesus Christ; and yet I had one of the loudest voices in Sunday school, when reciting my Alef-Bet. In England, I would be celebrating Hanukah one week, and attending a Christmas bash the next. I now live in Israel, yet I continue to support England in the world cup in English fashion … with a pint in my hand. I also love to eat falafel followed by a cuppa tea. So, what does that make me? Am I Still the Londoner in Israel, or the British/Israeli, or the Jew returning to Israel?
People from home tend to question my ‘Israeliness’. Well, I am who I am. I am Natalie Sophie Shaer: I am still emotional, flawed, insecure, passionate, caring, I try not to bitch, I am trying hard not to moan, I continue to play the piano, I can still grind to R Kelly, and still hope to be a ‘Lois Lane’ one day. Since facing obstacles involved in moving away from ‘home’ (what I consider ‘home’ is somewhat questionable) , I have, to some extent, grown into the shoes of a mature women; I have learnt to chill out, I recognise my flaws, I realise I cannot change people and that cannot be friends with every ‘Tom, Dick and Harry’, that we are all so different and that I do not need constant approval from others,. I am who I am, you just have to like it or lump it.
I now realise a place or a post code does not play a large part in redefining ‘Natalie Sophie Shaer’. I do not want be classified by the country I was born in, by the country I hope to establish myself in or from my heavy London accent. The world is a small place and so who knows where I will decide to be in a five years from now PG. And, wherever it will be, I will still be Natalie Sophie Shaer, ‘warts and all’. Having reached this conclusion, I have decided that my identity is me, no city and no language. And so, this posting will be the ending chapter to “Can’t take the London out of the Londoner”. I am not merely a Londoner, or simply an Israeli or a Jew … I am everything that defines me, and that is far too complex to be placed in a single title.
So congratulations to me on my anniversary … woohoo! And, by the way, I have acquired a second-hand Fuji digital camera, so hopefully my next blog, whatever name it shall be, will be far more illustrated and accordingly, you will get to see my ugly mug a great deal more.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Friday, June 23, 2006
Too Long But Not Too Late
News on the Magen David Adom site (www.afmda.org/ , June 22 2006):
In a historic moment, American Friends of Magen David Adom (www.afmda.org) are proud to announce the admittance of Magen David Adom (MDA), Israel’s first-aid and disaster relief organization, into the International Red Cross and Red Crescent Society… The MDA has been working side by side with the International Red Cross for years, responding … to global disasters like that of Katrina last year on the US Gulf Coast and Tsunami relief in Southeast Asia. MDA responds to 600,000 calls a year throughout the country, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Magen David Adom is committed to its continuing work with the Palestinian Red Crescent Society to save lives in both Israel and in the Palestinian Territory. Israel’s MDA experts have trained numerous members of the International Red Cross as well as the Palestinian Red Crescent … Israel has been able and willing to participate in vital international relief missions coordinated by the International Red Cross to countries such as India, Turkey, and the United States.
As a previous MDA volunteer, I am delighted over this news (see: http://natalieshaer.blogspot.com/2006/04/reality-hits-home-as-home-pays-visit.html ). Acknowledgement by the Red Cross was unjustifiably long-awaited, and MDA can finally receive the global recognition it has always deserved.
See blog: http://www.onejerusalem.com/2006/06/24/magen-david-adom-final-admittance-into-the-international-health-care-federation/
In a historic moment, American Friends of Magen David Adom (www.afmda.org) are proud to announce the admittance of Magen David Adom (MDA), Israel’s first-aid and disaster relief organization, into the International Red Cross and Red Crescent Society… The MDA has been working side by side with the International Red Cross for years, responding … to global disasters like that of Katrina last year on the US Gulf Coast and Tsunami relief in Southeast Asia. MDA responds to 600,000 calls a year throughout the country, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Magen David Adom is committed to its continuing work with the Palestinian Red Crescent Society to save lives in both Israel and in the Palestinian Territory. Israel’s MDA experts have trained numerous members of the International Red Cross as well as the Palestinian Red Crescent … Israel has been able and willing to participate in vital international relief missions coordinated by the International Red Cross to countries such as India, Turkey, and the United States.
As a previous MDA volunteer, I am delighted over this news (see: http://natalieshaer.blogspot.com/2006/04/reality-hits-home-as-home-pays-visit.html ). Acknowledgement by the Red Cross was unjustifiably long-awaited, and MDA can finally receive the global recognition it has always deserved.
See blog: http://www.onejerusalem.com/2006/06/24/magen-david-adom-final-admittance-into-the-international-health-care-federation/
1:19 A Bus-load Family Outing
Last thursday was my day off. I was feeling lousy from the ‘acute bronchitis’ my doctor labelled my heavy cough as and, therefore, was looking forward to a relaxing day, preferably in front of my television. Oh how things change.
Wednesday evening,
Effy: “What you up to tomorrow babes?”
Me: “It is my day off, not been feeling great so I wanna chill.”
Effy: “Oh hun, why don’t you come up north with my family? We will be leaving around 7.30 tomorrow morning but we will back by the afternoon. Come on, it will be nice.”
Me: “Oh, ok then, but as long as we are back by 3, latest four”.
Wednesday morning, I am woken by a heavy scream from Effy’s mum:
Effy’s mum: “Effeeeeeyy, yala! Anachnu sarichim lahiot sham be eser dacottttt! Yala!” (quick, we need to be there in 10 minutes) ….
Effy: “Besedehhh!” (ok).
As you will come to realize, screaming is the general tone used to communicate amongst the Tripoli tribe.
We eventually left home to make our way to his grandparents’ house, or should I say the mafia joint (see http://natalieshaer.blogspot.com/2006/02/western-girl-not-so-western-anymore.html ). We found ourselves stuck in solid traffic, and five minutes into the crawl on the motorway, Effy receives a call from someone who didn’t exactly sound like a happy chappy.
Me: “What’s up Effy?”
Effy: “My uncle is mad because there are fifty people sat on a bus waiting for us,”
Me: “What! Fifty people … Effeeeeyy! Since when were fifty people attending our cozy family outing!”
So, after a few grumbles, put lightly, we arrived to a bus parked on the dusty moshav entrance. I entered the bus to an audience of mysterious Israeli faces, all of whom were glaring in my direction with big brown eyes full of wonder. “Oh, so this must be the blue-eyed, freckle-faced Ashkenazi from the land of tea and royalty that Effy is going out with” they must have thought.
We eventually departed and made our way to the north of Israel, which I later found out was to be a four-hour journey, another tiny detail that seemed to have slipped Effy’s mind. Forty minutes into the drive, the flow of food began and continued for half-an-hour intervals throughout the rest of the day. Twenty minutes after the first delivery of biscuits and crisps, a bottle of sambuca and shot glasses were doing a round. It was nine-thirty in the morning and I was expected to get merry on sambuca … now this was a culture shock. Yes I am English, but come on, we aren’t that bad … well some of us anyway!
We travelled through the green fields of north Israel, winding round the narrow hills in the creaky old bus. The first stop was a sacred site of the great Rabbi Simeon bar Yohai’s grave (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simeon_bar_Yohai ). The energy was buzzing with Hassidic men running around with white Kippot and white shirts; young girls dressed in fashionable religious gear and chatting in circles; and then, the arrival of the Tripoli tribe. We descended on the site with plates of food to be blessed, bags of candles to be thrown on the grave, and shawls to wear for modesty.
We honoured the grave through prayer and then lit candles for each of our family members. We donated money to Rabbis in return for blessings, and then departed for the next stop-off, Tiberas.
Awaiting in Tiberas by the sea was a barbeque, or more precisely, a banquet. Tables and chairs were set out, as if we were celebrating some sort of occasion; but no, this was simply lunch for the family outing. We eat, swam, chatted and snoozed till the sun went down. By 3.30pm I was antsy to make a move and began calculating the time frame, "if we left latest by 4pm, it would mean I would be home around 8, which would mean I would have enough time to shower and change, so that I could be in Tel Aviv latest nine, so I could meet friends for a night out." Wishful thinking.
Four-thirty rolled around, and I was already pacing. The elderly members of the family were laying back in chairs, chewing on nuts and chatting. The little Tripolites were anxious, crying and running around, unsure what to do with themselves.
Me: “Effy … nu (so)? Why aren’t we going?”
Effy: “We will soon, don’t worry nat. They are all talking, I can’t tell them to stop because you want to go.”
Me: “What have they got to talk about? They have been sat in the same positions for the last four hours.”
The irritability of the children was obviously rubbing off onto me. I sat and huffed, my foot started tapping the ground in a fast motion, and I started to question why I bloody well agreed to come on this trip in the first place. I thought "I could be sat at home now, chilling, watching Opera, doing my nails ready for tonight … But no, I am sat in Tiberas, tired, achy and agitated by the lady with bad eyebrows, who sounds like a hyena every time she opens her mouth, which is often."
Six-thirty came and we finally departed. There was to be one more stop on the way home, but the moment my tuchus reached the seat on the bus, I was out like a light. The journey home was somewhat eventful. Aunties continued to deliver food; singing trumpeted at the back of the bus with the sounds of the uncles; and Effy’s grandpa danced up and down the bus, wearing a white fluffy kippa with a pompom, bought previously at a Hassid gift stand. The journey sucked every last drop of energy left in me, on top of which, the bad-eyebrow lady just wouldn’t shut up.
The bus crawled into the moshav entrance around ten. My evening hadn’t ended, it had just began, as Effy and I made a rush to Tel Aviv. The day was arduous, however, I am glad I participated in the Tripoli tribe outing.
Wednesday evening,
Effy: “What you up to tomorrow babes?”
Me: “It is my day off, not been feeling great so I wanna chill.”
Effy: “Oh hun, why don’t you come up north with my family? We will be leaving around 7.30 tomorrow morning but we will back by the afternoon. Come on, it will be nice.”
Me: “Oh, ok then, but as long as we are back by 3, latest four”.
Wednesday morning, I am woken by a heavy scream from Effy’s mum:
Effy’s mum: “Effeeeeeyy, yala! Anachnu sarichim lahiot sham be eser dacottttt! Yala!” (quick, we need to be there in 10 minutes) ….
Effy: “Besedehhh!” (ok).
As you will come to realize, screaming is the general tone used to communicate amongst the Tripoli tribe.
We eventually left home to make our way to his grandparents’ house, or should I say the mafia joint (see http://natalieshaer.blogspot.com/2006/02/western-girl-not-so-western-anymore.html ). We found ourselves stuck in solid traffic, and five minutes into the crawl on the motorway, Effy receives a call from someone who didn’t exactly sound like a happy chappy.
Me: “What’s up Effy?”
Effy: “My uncle is mad because there are fifty people sat on a bus waiting for us,”
Me: “What! Fifty people … Effeeeeyy! Since when were fifty people attending our cozy family outing!”
So, after a few grumbles, put lightly, we arrived to a bus parked on the dusty moshav entrance. I entered the bus to an audience of mysterious Israeli faces, all of whom were glaring in my direction with big brown eyes full of wonder. “Oh, so this must be the blue-eyed, freckle-faced Ashkenazi from the land of tea and royalty that Effy is going out with” they must have thought.
We eventually departed and made our way to the north of Israel, which I later found out was to be a four-hour journey, another tiny detail that seemed to have slipped Effy’s mind. Forty minutes into the drive, the flow of food began and continued for half-an-hour intervals throughout the rest of the day. Twenty minutes after the first delivery of biscuits and crisps, a bottle of sambuca and shot glasses were doing a round. It was nine-thirty in the morning and I was expected to get merry on sambuca … now this was a culture shock. Yes I am English, but come on, we aren’t that bad … well some of us anyway!
We travelled through the green fields of north Israel, winding round the narrow hills in the creaky old bus. The first stop was a sacred site of the great Rabbi Simeon bar Yohai’s grave (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simeon_bar_Yohai ). The energy was buzzing with Hassidic men running around with white Kippot and white shirts; young girls dressed in fashionable religious gear and chatting in circles; and then, the arrival of the Tripoli tribe. We descended on the site with plates of food to be blessed, bags of candles to be thrown on the grave, and shawls to wear for modesty.
We honoured the grave through prayer and then lit candles for each of our family members. We donated money to Rabbis in return for blessings, and then departed for the next stop-off, Tiberas.
Awaiting in Tiberas by the sea was a barbeque, or more precisely, a banquet. Tables and chairs were set out, as if we were celebrating some sort of occasion; but no, this was simply lunch for the family outing. We eat, swam, chatted and snoozed till the sun went down. By 3.30pm I was antsy to make a move and began calculating the time frame, "if we left latest by 4pm, it would mean I would be home around 8, which would mean I would have enough time to shower and change, so that I could be in Tel Aviv latest nine, so I could meet friends for a night out." Wishful thinking.
Four-thirty rolled around, and I was already pacing. The elderly members of the family were laying back in chairs, chewing on nuts and chatting. The little Tripolites were anxious, crying and running around, unsure what to do with themselves.
Me: “Effy … nu (so)? Why aren’t we going?”
Effy: “We will soon, don’t worry nat. They are all talking, I can’t tell them to stop because you want to go.”
Me: “What have they got to talk about? They have been sat in the same positions for the last four hours.”
The irritability of the children was obviously rubbing off onto me. I sat and huffed, my foot started tapping the ground in a fast motion, and I started to question why I bloody well agreed to come on this trip in the first place. I thought "I could be sat at home now, chilling, watching Opera, doing my nails ready for tonight … But no, I am sat in Tiberas, tired, achy and agitated by the lady with bad eyebrows, who sounds like a hyena every time she opens her mouth, which is often."
Six-thirty came and we finally departed. There was to be one more stop on the way home, but the moment my tuchus reached the seat on the bus, I was out like a light. The journey home was somewhat eventful. Aunties continued to deliver food; singing trumpeted at the back of the bus with the sounds of the uncles; and Effy’s grandpa danced up and down the bus, wearing a white fluffy kippa with a pompom, bought previously at a Hassid gift stand. The journey sucked every last drop of energy left in me, on top of which, the bad-eyebrow lady just wouldn’t shut up.
The bus crawled into the moshav entrance around ten. My evening hadn’t ended, it had just began, as Effy and I made a rush to Tel Aviv. The day was arduous, however, I am glad I participated in the Tripoli tribe outing.
Monday, June 12, 2006
1:18 Living in a News Flash
I trawled through my daily website checklist, and on reaching the Haaretz website (www.haaretz.com), and was hit in the face by the following headline:
7 PALESTINGS KILLED WHEN IDF SHELL HITS GAZA BEACH
HAMAS MILITARY WING VOWS TO RENEW ATTACKS IN ISRAEL
It is one thing to hear such news from my couch in the UK with a shock-horror reaction on my face. It is another thing to read this on the Internet at work in Tel Aviv, in the midst of the drama. On this occasion, the news shook me up more than any other. Mini cyclones spun in my stomach, causing havoc to my nervous system. Since the last bombing in Tel-Aviv, which I heard clearly from my apartment, my nerves have been on edge and fears often come to the brink of my thoughts. Strangely enough, I often forget that I am planted in the middle of the Middle East. I carry on my daily life as if I am in a bubble, romanticizing about the weather, the trees … and then suddenly reality will slap me around the face, and I wake up to the realization of what is really going on … a political war.
The aftermath of the events mentioned in the headline was clearly noticeable in Israel. I spent the following day in Ein Gede with a group of friends. The time was playful and innocent; we enjoyed each others company, relaxing in the sun, talking, eating and swimming in the remote resort in the desert. That evening, we travelled home through the open mountain space evening. The journey was peaceful at first, as singing and laughter resounded in the car. However, this mood came to halt as we approached the Israeli army stop-points. We couldn't help but notice the difference in the IDF soldiers' presence, who are often in a relaxed posture and casually wave cars on. This evening they were now heavily armed and peered stringently into the car. Our bubble had been burst, we realised we aren't as safe as we wished.
7 PALESTINGS KILLED WHEN IDF SHELL HITS GAZA BEACH
HAMAS MILITARY WING VOWS TO RENEW ATTACKS IN ISRAEL
It is one thing to hear such news from my couch in the UK with a shock-horror reaction on my face. It is another thing to read this on the Internet at work in Tel Aviv, in the midst of the drama. On this occasion, the news shook me up more than any other. Mini cyclones spun in my stomach, causing havoc to my nervous system. Since the last bombing in Tel-Aviv, which I heard clearly from my apartment, my nerves have been on edge and fears often come to the brink of my thoughts. Strangely enough, I often forget that I am planted in the middle of the Middle East. I carry on my daily life as if I am in a bubble, romanticizing about the weather, the trees … and then suddenly reality will slap me around the face, and I wake up to the realization of what is really going on … a political war.
The aftermath of the events mentioned in the headline was clearly noticeable in Israel. I spent the following day in Ein Gede with a group of friends. The time was playful and innocent; we enjoyed each others company, relaxing in the sun, talking, eating and swimming in the remote resort in the desert. That evening, we travelled home through the open mountain space evening. The journey was peaceful at first, as singing and laughter resounded in the car. However, this mood came to halt as we approached the Israeli army stop-points. We couldn't help but notice the difference in the IDF soldiers' presence, who are often in a relaxed posture and casually wave cars on. This evening they were now heavily armed and peered stringently into the car. Our bubble had been burst, we realised we aren't as safe as we wished.
Keeping my eyes closed and trying hard to not notice any changes could be an option for survival. I decided it is easy to distance myself from discussions involving the positions of the chess pieces on the Middle Eastern board. This may seem a naive and irresponsible approach for an active citizen of a country involved in political war. Although, to simply experience the consequences of the moves taken by each side is a hefty amount to deal with in itself.
An alternate mindset for my mental response to the political situation has been to divert and disguise the seriousness of the reality I live in, with a splash of black humour. This avenue can successfully bring me back to the feeling of living in comfy bubble, whilst the news of national strife echoes on the radio and television. Please excuse my insight, but I never did intend this blog to be a means of self-help!
An Example of Diversion
Looking back on my childhood, I do not recall a time when I was young, thinking “when I grow up, I want to live in a country that experiences threats of terrorism and constant threats of attack.” Come to think of it, at a very young age I wanted to be an air stewardess. After having realized I actually quite dislike air travel, I decided I wanted to be Lois Lane, or more accurately, a top investigative journalist who doesn’t have to worry about London transport because they get flown around on the shoulders of a really fit guy who wears tight pants.
Aspects of Israel That Make Life Here Easier:
1. Chicken tikka masala from Namaste, Israel’s top curry house
2. Constant clear blue sky
3. Monit Sharuts (taxi buses)
4. Live jazz in coffee shops
An Example of Diversion
Looking back on my childhood, I do not recall a time when I was young, thinking “when I grow up, I want to live in a country that experiences threats of terrorism and constant threats of attack.” Come to think of it, at a very young age I wanted to be an air stewardess. After having realized I actually quite dislike air travel, I decided I wanted to be Lois Lane, or more accurately, a top investigative journalist who doesn’t have to worry about London transport because they get flown around on the shoulders of a really fit guy who wears tight pants.
Aspects of Israel That Make Life Here Easier:
1. Chicken tikka masala from Namaste, Israel’s top curry house
2. Constant clear blue sky
3. Monit Sharuts (taxi buses)
4. Live jazz in coffee shops
5. Matkot (Israeli beach style ping-pong)
6. Chutzpah (Yiddish for 'cheek') :a great opportunity to channel anger in the face of such behaviour)
Any other aspects?
6. Chutzpah (Yiddish for 'cheek') :a great opportunity to channel anger in the face of such behaviour)
Any other aspects?
Friday, June 09, 2006
1:17 Back to the Land of Humus and Shesh Pesh
Flying home, sat on the El Al airplane, I glared out the tiny window to inspect the view ahead. The sky was misty grey, specs of rain and drizzle flickered against the window. Blankets of fog hovered above the ground and street lights stood tall, struggling to appear bright. It was the end of May in London town … was this all I was bloody excited about coming back to!
As we reached Stansted airport, I wondered how it would be if the plane could just stay still, in no mans land, not quite in the land of my past, yet having left my future behind. The thump of the wheels on the ground dashed that thought, and my mind jolted back to the reality of what lay ahead.
To be honest, all that lay ahead was not as bad as initially thought during previous days of anxiety. I returned to London with a new pair of eyes, as if someone had removed the specs I had worn for the last 25 years, and everything came into focus. The country, the people, the lifestyle all appeared different; I was no longer hypnotized by the wealth and indulgent lifestyles the drove passed in Mercedes; the pretty buildings and scenery didn’t interest me; and the accessibility of the city appeared to be stretched so thin, that to get anywhere was a mission in itself.
If I were reborn a millionaire, my complaints would obviously be fewer. London has a great deal to offer and is a beautiful city, yet this beauty and everything that occupies it comes with a high price tag too. A single bus ride, 1 pound and 50 pence; five pieces of M&S vegetarian sushi, 3 pounds and 50 pence; cappuccino, 2 pounds 20 pences I kid you not! On the other hand, would wealth and an ostentatious lifestyle really make me happy? The weather would remain, alongside an environment of egocentrism and multi-cultural tensions.
Effy and I did the ‘London’ thing: Hyde Park, the Science Museum, the theatre. We visited the bookshop featured in the film Nottinghill and ate a proper British fish n’ chips meal. We did the family thing, the friends thing, the wedding thing, and by the end, we were both drained out. A holiday, hah! It was more like a marathon journeying through the highlights of my pre-Israel life, in the space of ten days.
This trip helped me realise that those I yearn for aren’t running anywhere too fast; the moans dominating the telephone conversations are still the same as those the day I left; and the postal and internet service means I can shop at Marks n’ Sparks after all and receive the English goodies. For the duration of the time, I strangely missed the raw, brash and confrontational nature of Israelis; and “Ps” and “Qs” turned into an annoyance, rather than a pretty frilling. I missed the sense of freedom that exists in the air, to wander aimlessly down the street, to be acknowledged by those that wander past and by those that serve me coffee; and most importantly, not to feel like a tiny ant in an overwhelmingly large place, but rather to be as important as the buildings surrounding me and the establishment of the country. My trip successfully reaffirmed everything I felt a year back; it swiftly cleared the fog that hazed my thoughts and made me realize how lucky I was to have moved away from my home, or should I say, my first home; or should I really say, from my birth country that I always felt detached and alien from. Israel now feels like my home, and it is here I would definitely like to stay … well … at least for now ;)
When stepping off the plane, back in Israel, something felt different. I was knocked back by the heat, the air smelt different, slightly sweeter and drier. Summer had officially arrived in the holy land; and shit … my air con is broken. It was not only the arrival of a new season, but also an ant’s nest decided to invade my kitchen cupboard. Well … at least I don’t have to worry anymore about rain in May and the requirement of a mortgage just to buy a bloody coffee.
---
Thanks to Tina again for her wonderful online remarks today:
Me: “How are you today babes?”
Tina: “Tired has become my eternal state of being”.
As we reached Stansted airport, I wondered how it would be if the plane could just stay still, in no mans land, not quite in the land of my past, yet having left my future behind. The thump of the wheels on the ground dashed that thought, and my mind jolted back to the reality of what lay ahead.
To be honest, all that lay ahead was not as bad as initially thought during previous days of anxiety. I returned to London with a new pair of eyes, as if someone had removed the specs I had worn for the last 25 years, and everything came into focus. The country, the people, the lifestyle all appeared different; I was no longer hypnotized by the wealth and indulgent lifestyles the drove passed in Mercedes; the pretty buildings and scenery didn’t interest me; and the accessibility of the city appeared to be stretched so thin, that to get anywhere was a mission in itself.
If I were reborn a millionaire, my complaints would obviously be fewer. London has a great deal to offer and is a beautiful city, yet this beauty and everything that occupies it comes with a high price tag too. A single bus ride, 1 pound and 50 pence; five pieces of M&S vegetarian sushi, 3 pounds and 50 pence; cappuccino, 2 pounds 20 pences I kid you not! On the other hand, would wealth and an ostentatious lifestyle really make me happy? The weather would remain, alongside an environment of egocentrism and multi-cultural tensions.
Effy and I did the ‘London’ thing: Hyde Park, the Science Museum, the theatre. We visited the bookshop featured in the film Nottinghill and ate a proper British fish n’ chips meal. We did the family thing, the friends thing, the wedding thing, and by the end, we were both drained out. A holiday, hah! It was more like a marathon journeying through the highlights of my pre-Israel life, in the space of ten days.
This trip helped me realise that those I yearn for aren’t running anywhere too fast; the moans dominating the telephone conversations are still the same as those the day I left; and the postal and internet service means I can shop at Marks n’ Sparks after all and receive the English goodies. For the duration of the time, I strangely missed the raw, brash and confrontational nature of Israelis; and “Ps” and “Qs” turned into an annoyance, rather than a pretty frilling. I missed the sense of freedom that exists in the air, to wander aimlessly down the street, to be acknowledged by those that wander past and by those that serve me coffee; and most importantly, not to feel like a tiny ant in an overwhelmingly large place, but rather to be as important as the buildings surrounding me and the establishment of the country. My trip successfully reaffirmed everything I felt a year back; it swiftly cleared the fog that hazed my thoughts and made me realize how lucky I was to have moved away from my home, or should I say, my first home; or should I really say, from my birth country that I always felt detached and alien from. Israel now feels like my home, and it is here I would definitely like to stay … well … at least for now ;)
When stepping off the plane, back in Israel, something felt different. I was knocked back by the heat, the air smelt different, slightly sweeter and drier. Summer had officially arrived in the holy land; and shit … my air con is broken. It was not only the arrival of a new season, but also an ant’s nest decided to invade my kitchen cupboard. Well … at least I don’t have to worry anymore about rain in May and the requirement of a mortgage just to buy a bloody coffee.
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Thanks to Tina again for her wonderful online remarks today:
Me: “How are you today babes?”
Tina: “Tired has become my eternal state of being”.
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