2:14 A Breath of Fresh Air for This Cowgirl

It was perfect timing; a week after resigning from my job, I took a trip abroad to the U.S. of A. Despite the fact that Israel, in so many ways, attempts to emulate American culture, my home away from home couldn’t be further away from the reality.

My first stop on my two-week getaway was Nashville, Tennessee. It was bizarre to recognize how different countries, which are separated merely by water or a geographical division, can be so diverse, as if they were another planet, chalk and cheese. Forget about a different plant, visiting Nashville felt like a trip to an entirely other universe. Robotic tones of ‘and how are ya’ll doing?’ followed by an automatic ‘and have ya’ll selves a good day’ with a computerised smile, devoid of emotion, made it seem as if the entire ‘Nashvillian’ nation had been programmed from behind. All civil decorations seemed in precise order and the city’s packaging was tied up with a bow, with pavements clean enough to eat off and inviting advertisements on every corner. Nashville couldn’t have been further away from Israeli society. It was an interesting visit, but at the same time, I was eager to depart for New York City, to a place of diversity, frowning faces and dirty streets … I just couldn’t wait.

By the end of the trip, the overdose of consumerism made me feel queasy. I was exhausted by advertisements, shops, selection, a service with every helping and the perfectly marketed and manufactured shell of America … I needed to hear a yell of ‘yala’, hands shaking in the air and raw emotion. And so, with all perfect timings, I went back home.

The memory I had of Israel, which I left behind, was one of frustration, dissatisfaction and uncertainty. The winter light at times reflects an unflattering hue onto the streets of Tel Aviv. On a few occasions, the sun hides away, leaving a dark sky, dominated with low clouds and a dull hue on the dusty buildings. The flowers and trees dry to a brown rot and the air smells rusty, as if the streets need an airing out. The atmosphere seemed to mock the sentiment of my mood.

WhenI did step out the airport in Israel, I actually noticed that the home I left behind was anew. The streets were polished, a new light illuminated on Tel Aviv’s metallic windowed high-rises and the once grey-hued apartment blocks were now a bright-cream. The air smelt sweeter, awakened and refreshed, as if someone had opened the window to the holy land and allowed in a fresh breeze. Spring had arrived on the door step of Ben Gurion to greet me, and I too felt my soul begin to blossom.

The weekend of my return was Purim; of course the celebration of the liberated Persian Jews and the downfall of Haman. Yet for me, it also meant partaking in national celebration, uplifting my civil identity in fancy dress and rejoicing my Israeli citizenship.

Time and time again, I am amazed by the involvement of all here in Jewish festivity. The streets are set alight with walking clowns, fairies, cowboys and Indians. The words of ‘Hag Sameach’ are murmured by green monsters and passer-bys in angel wings. Punks and bunnies gleefully make their way to bars and night clubs, cowboys and Indians clamber down to roof parties and, the following day, mini princesses, witches, clowns and aliens, parade down the high street with balloons.

Tel Aviv may not possess the clean streets and etiquette of Nashville, the consumer power of New York, the beauty of a glowing white Central part in the February snow, or even the sight of England crowned with the beauty of naked grand trees and fields of green. But at least Tel Aviv, and across Israel, there is the heart, soul and internal passion to enjoy life, to celebrate in style, as one, as a community, and smile about the little pleasures in life.

For several nights I cheered Purim in and the celebration of a new slate, a new season, in my cowboy outfit purchased in Nashville.