2:17 A Train Journey in My Old Town

I was a little jet-lagged yesterday. I arrived in from London at 5am, home, few hours sleep then out to work, to my monthly-meeting with the other ex-pat researchers and our boss.

The lack of sleep made me somewhat delirious, strolling to and from the meeting in a state of part-unconsciousness, on auto-pilot. I wasn’t quite use to the heat, having retuned from London’s drizzle. I reached my apartment, not even recalling the journey there, and then realized I hadn’t for one moment gone through the whole Israel versus England conversation in my head. Actually, for once I was feeling neutral, impartial; well, I am not really sure.

London was another short trip, a four-day cramming exercise of family, friends, shopping and drinking expeditions. I felt much the same way, neutral, impartial; well, and again, I am not really sure. I have been fizzled out from concentrating on the emotional grand scale of my life, and began to notice the little differences. London is a great character. It is quirky, somewhat easygoing, a little funky, a little hectic, but at the end of the day, it is always up for a good time. It is reliable, its dynamics polite, smiley and always maintaining an arms-length zone of courtesy. The cobbled-streets were reliably tough on the soles of my feet, the shops were reliably generous in their end-of-season sales, the pubs were reliably laid back and in good spirits, and my friends, well, they were all reliably amazing.

My last evening, Saturday night, came in a dash. I met an old school friend, to reminisce in the motions of a Thai curry and a pint on Angel high street. I jumped on the tube in the leafy suburban stop of Woodside Park, to head towards the city. Tube journeys in London are a voyeurs’ dream. The train is reliably filled with jellybean allsorts. A couple dressed in black attire, heavy eye-liner and tattoos. Students stand by the doors, dressed in fairy hair bands, sparkly bangles and oversized sneakers with red and blue stripes. An elderly couple sit squeezed together, murmuring under their breaths and gazing at the various characters in front. And, as per usual on a Saturday night tube ride, a group of girls on a hen (Bachelorette) party clambered on to the train, heading to town to celebrate.

My initial thought was how different these girls were to my Anglo crew in Tel Aviv. On a Thursday night in Tel Aviv, my girl friends and I make our way to the latest hangout, our attire not that glitzy, not so glam; but who needs sparkly tops, high pin-pointed stilettos, and top-shop accessories in the heat of the city. This group, on the other hand, was dressed in an array of colours and sparkles. Skimpy floral dresses, red hot pants and boob tubes. One girl pulled out her collection of star-shaped earrings, asking the other dressed as Marilyn Monroe, “low-dangling stars, short-dangling stars or studded stars?” From far away, the group was polished. But when close up, the bronzed tan legs in the four-inch heels became a hazy tint of patchy fake-tan. The bold red-coloured lips became a smudging glaze of burgundy. And the security of their group presence became an individual collection of hesitant, insecure girls, confirming their appearance in their purse mirrors and in the reflection of the train window. Yet, just as my girls do, without fail, the cameras were out, flashing away at the grins and the poses, grasping the moments of innocence.

And what makes me pause for thought is the realization that these girls now have the same fears as me. Israel use to be one of the lone countries, shaded grey under the gaze of terrorism and fear. Yet London was now tarnished, consumed with an inner fear of the unknown. Exiting Angel station, I noticed reactionary posters plastered on the walls by the ticket gates. Look, Listen, Speak. I guess for this reason, my old fears of living in Israel have been neutralized by the thought of how London is now.