Drumroll, Please...

And the winner of the 2013 "Name Becca's Blog" Contest is....




Hilarious friend and avid commenter, Akiva "Tiger" Carr!

Thank you all (read: 4 or 5 of you) for your submissions! Check back soon for a new blog post under the new name!

TOP SECRET: For Your Eyes Only

It's come to my attention recently that I have no way of knowing how many members of Hamas read my blog. Now, normally, I try not to hold any prejudices, but I would hate to make my job any harder by revealing all of the extremely important, very classified secrets that I as a two month army veteran have been exposed to. In order to make sure that I maintain my high level security clearance, I've decided to encrypt the wacky tales of my service with an advanced form of coding used by military officials known as "Mad-Libbing." To make it even more secure, I'm not telling you which words have been altered. Keep in mind that my life is pretty crazy right now, so just because something may seem too crazy to be true doesn't mean it isn't...

My Life as A Soldier in the Israeli Defense Bicycles

Two important things have happened since I last posted. The first is that, after a little over a month, I finally laid down my broom and graduated from basic training. The way the army marks the end of this swirly month is with our swearing-in ceremony. My plugah (company) and I stood in a blob formation while the company commander read a few sentences for us to repeat. Then, one by one, we were called up to hold a tanakh (bible), and our gun and swear to uphold our duties to the IDF. The ceremony itself wasn't anything special -- the army has this funny way of throwing a bunch of random things together and expecting you to take it seriously just because it's the army. This is the only explanation for the flashing light sticks scattered stunningly on the floor, the tree branches arranged in the shape of a Jewish star, or the old, cheesy music playing in the background. It all seemed very contrived to me, and as I stood at attention and watched my friends get called forward, I snickered to myself at the obvious symbolism that the commanders were forcing upon the occasion.

And then my name was called.

I took a deep breath and took a step up to my commander. He handed me my bible and my gun, and waited for me to say my part. All at once, eight years of dreams came flooding back to me. I saw myself at 10-years-old, standing at the Western Wall for the first time, feeling a holiness that I could not and still cannot explain, letting my most sincere words to God spill onto a ripped sheet of paper. I saw myself at 14, visiting my sister in Israel and finding that my longing to live here seemed to release me from my angst-filled and impatient adolescence. I saw myself at 16, frustrated with the knowledge that two years of wanting may as well be an eternity, sitting at a computer until the wee hours of the morning and Googling programs to finally bring me home. I saw myself at 17, enjoying my summer program but angry that I had to be a tourist in the land where my heart was born. And I saw myself at 18, cleaning the same chairs for the fourth time, doing push-ups, tears streaming down my face because the language barrier seemed impossible to break. A thought popped into my head and the sheer force of it was enough to literally make me take a step back: I realized that this moment was what I had been waiting for. All of that anticipation and longing and frustration that built up over eight years was just leading up to this very moment. It may be the hardest thing I've ever done, but the icy chill slithering slowly up and down my spine told me that it was all worth it, that this moment was mine to remind me of the pain and the beauty of fulfilled dreams. It was as if 10-year-old me, 14-year-old me, 16- and 17-year-old me, and even basic-training me were all suddenly overcome with an inexplicable happiness that tugged at my heart and had me on the verge of tears. I clutched the bible and my gun, smiled, and finally let the tears dance down my face as I said, "Ken ha'mefaked! Yes, commander, I swear!"

For the rest of the ceremony, I was on such a high that I barely heard my commander when it was over and he ordered us to go clean the bathrooms for the billionth time.

The second important thing that's happened since my last post is that I began my course. The day after we left basic training, I showed up at my base in Disneyland, where I'm learning to do the job that I've been assigned. The other soldiers in my course are really great. We're 10 girls and about 30 boys, which is actually good because boys aren't catty and they don't complain about not having time to apply a thick layer of make-up every morning. We also don't live in bulbous tents anymore, which is good for my sanity, my personal hygiene, and my average body temperature.

The only real difference between this course and basic training is that every day, for 4-6 hours, I sit in a classroom and learn either Arabic or knitting. Everyday, or sometimes twice a day, we have a test on the material. Arabic is hard because I'm learning it in Hebrew. This means that I'm using an incredibly hard language that I have yet to master to learn an equally hard language that I've never heard before in my life. The knitting classes are also pretty difficult, but only because they don't allow us enough time to really learn all the information before we're tested on it. Thankfully, my teachers, Shakira and John Adams, are really nice and usually willing to help.

We also do more interesting things than we did in basic training. Of course, we still clean more than I ever thought possible, but we also took a field trip to Mount Olympus last week to learn about what our job entails and to talk to people who are currently doing it. I'm still not 100% sure what I'll be doing, but at least I could tell that it's supposed to be stimulating and hopefully enjoyable. As soon as I actually start my job, I'll get a clearer picture of what's expected of me, and I'll try to let you know. Until then, wish me luck with the rest of my course, and know that I'm tolerating and even enjoying my life as an Israeli Trombonist.

(I'd like to thank various members of my kibbutz for supplying me with an impressively random selection of words for my Mad-Libbing.)

P.S. I have an announcement to make. Someone commented recently that the title of this blog is embarrassingly sappy. In hopes of finding a new blog title, I'm holding a contest. If you have any ideas for a funny, witty, or just less corny title, let me know. The winner of this contest will be announced as soon as I decide a winner. Thanks!

A Hard Day's Smole

I've officially been in the army now for three weeks. In those three weeks, I've learned a lot about myself and about the girls I'm living with, but most of all I've learned a lot about the army that I'm serving in. The following is a comprehensive list of things that taught me something about the IDF.

Top 10 Things I've Done in Direct Defiance of My Own Sense of Logic Simply Because I Was Ordered to and the Alternative to Obeying These Orders is Jail Time:

1. Eat nothing but potatoes.

Growing up, I remember hearing about the ideal balanced diet. We learned about the food pyramid in school and spent many a health class discussing the biological effects of our food choices. This is why I'm baffled every time I enter the cafeteria and see a steaming platter of potatoes before me. In the morning, it's hash browns. In the afternoon, it's sweet potatoes and baked potatoes mixed with a questionable-looking sauce, an at dinner time it's mashed potatoes, or what they euphemistically call "purée." Lunch and dinner usually include a side of what may be stew, potatoes floating menacingly at the top. And to go with the stew, there's almost always rice. Now, I may be wrong, but I've always been under the impression that an all-carb, all-starch diet is detrimental to the health of a human being. In addition, our work-outs and running are limited to two or three times a week. But before every meal, we are given a speech in Hebrew that can be directly translated to "there is no situation in which someone does not take and eat the food that is given to you." So now I see why people say that in the army, "boys get hunky, girls get chunky," and why they always give us a uniform at least one size too big.

2. Wake up before the sun

The sun is the strongest element known to mankind. That is why it is absurd that we mere soldiers of 18-years-old get less sleep than the sun does. Before I joined the army, back when things made sense, I would go to sleep when it was late and I was tired, and I would wake up when the sun shining through my window told me it was time to start the day. Now, I go to sleep when my energy is at its peak (9:00 pm) and wake up between 3 and 5:30 am. 3o'clock in the morning is not a time for people to be awake. It is too dark to do anything safely, so we should be warm and cozy in our beds. Instead, at 3o'clock in the morning, I'm racing to the sinks to beat the rush of girls. By law, this stage of the army requires that we get at least 6 hours of sleep a night. But waking up when the moon is still high in the sky is ludicrous.

3. Desert my definition of the word "clean"

Before I came to the army, I had certain expectations about what it would be like. I pictured living in a small, messy room with 5 or 6 other girls, our backpacks exploded just by virtue of our girly-ness. I knew that there would probably only be a few bathrooms for more than a few girls, and that massive amounts of hair in the shower drain was inevitable. I set my standards of cleanliness very, very low. These standards have now been lowered to nonexistent. Never mind hair in the drains; I was ordered to clean something off the shower floor that I can't mention because chances are you just ate, or are eating now, or plan on eating sometime in the future. Suffice it to say that after cleaning it and proceeding to shower in that very shower (with flip flops, mind you), I can no longer be shocked by anything. If you had any misconceptions about girls being a clean breed, abandon them now. That room I pictured is not a room but a tent, and it's not 5 or 6 other girls but 15. Any cleanliness now is merely a luxury.

4. Cleaned clean things

Despite the grossly obvious lack of cleanliness, we do a lot of cleaning. I've broken this down to examples for your convenience.

a. I cleaned an entire kitchen with 6 other girls for a solid 4 hours. We worked quickly and efficiently, and by the end of that 4 hours, the kitchen was spotless. (It's ironic that the army demands a clean kitchen when the only requirement before handling food is that the medic must look - literally only LOOK - at our hands.) when we finished, we proudly called our commander to tell him we were done. Our reward for finishing so quickly was that we had to clean the kitchen again. Because we finished before the scheduled time, there was nothing for us to do. But since they can't just let us relax for a little, we cleaned a spotless kitchen.

b. My platoon (I'm not sure that this is the right translation) had to clean the same chairs FOUR TIMES, because our commander didn't tell us how he wanted it done the first time.

5. Cleaned things that are meant to be dirty.

This one has also been broken into examples.

a. I've squeegeed a floor dry literally seconds before a hundred muddy soldiers came trampling in.

b. I've poured a bucket of water outside into the dirt, then squeegeed the mud away from the door. Why I couldn't just pour the water elsewhere is beyond me, but so be it.

c. I've swept a sidewalk and watched helplessly as the wind blew the same dirt back onto the sidewalk.

6. Live in a 1940s WWII movie

When you picture an army, you don't picture a bunch of girls cleaning the kitchen in uniform. You picture soldiers marching, helmets in place, uniforms neatly pressed, boots clean, footsteps in sync. We do that too. Whenever we march anywhere, our commander saunters alongside us chanting "smole, smole, smole yamin smole." For those of you who don't know Hebrew, that's the same as when the harsh but good-intentioned commander (probably with a mustache) yells "left, left, left right left." The first time we did this, I could not stop laughing. If you ever want to feel incredibly stupid, march in time with 50 other girls. I got in trouble for laughing, so I needed something to distract me from the foolishness of this old-fashioned army I've joined. I came up with a game where I try to see how many Beatles' songs I can fit into the beat of our marching. At any given time, the following is playing in my head: "She loves you yeah, yeah, smole, yamin, She loves you yeah, yeah, smole, yamin, smole." Basically, I've created an entire mental soundtrack of these songs, extending beyond the Beatles once I exhausted their repertoire. Some of my favorites include "Can't Buy Me Smole, Yamin, Smole," "A Hard Day's Smole," and "Bridge Over Smole, Yamin, Smole," by Simon and Garfunksmole. Once I get through this genre, I'm moving onto country music, so stay tuned.

7. Complain

There is a certain stereotype that Israelis are aggressive, and it is 100% accurate. I, being American, lack whatever gene gave them that aggression, and I've been told more than once that I'm obviously foreign because of how polite I am. I always thought that this was a good thing. And then I got yelled at for it. My commander literally yelled at me for not nagging about things that I wanted. He told me I was too shy. I am not shy. But I have, over the years, learned that complaining is usually the least effective way of getting what you want, and so I wait patiently until an opportunity to ask nicely arises. Which seems like quite a good reason to yell at me.

8. Measure my days in minutes and seconds

It's a well known fact that a watched pot never boils, and a watched clock never moves. Everyone knows that if you want time to pass quickly, you must avoid looking at the clock. The worst possible thing you could do is watch the seconds tick by. Which is exactly what we do. All orders that are given to us follow this general formula: "You have (short amount of time) to (impossible task). (Same short amount of time), MOVE." And thus all my seconds feel like minutes, all my minutes feel like hours, and all my hours feel like years. You say I've been in the army for 3 weeks, I say I've been in for approximately 300-some odd years.

9. Take orders from people my age

This one seems rather self-explanatory. It's rather demeaning to be told what to do at every second throughout the day. But on top of that, the people telling me what to do hardly know anything more than I do. When my commanders go home, they're going home to their mommies, and their 18- and 19-year-old friends, and their childhood rooms. They're just people, just kids like myself, really, and I'm subject to their every whim.

10. Call my mother instead of shower

Every day, in accordance with the rights of soldiers, we are required to have an hour of free time. This, I assume, is intended to ensure our sanity. However, this hour is not really free, it is our hour to set up our beds and shower and brush our teeth and relax for a second. It is also our time to call our mothers. But with so much to do in that one hour, we have to pick and choose what we do. Either you put on pajamas and go to sleep hungry, or you go to the vending machine and sleep in your uniform. Either you charge your phone, or you brush your teeth. For me, it's either I call my mother, or I shower. Now, I know my priorities, but I'm still a little ashamed to admit that I haven't showered in four days. My smelliness is a testament to my love for my family, my odor the stench of a good daughter.

I would like to point out that somehow, despite the arbitrariness, the foolishness, and the futility, the IDF still stands as one of the strongest armies in the world. Though I sometimes have trouble remembering why I volunteered to wake up at 3:30 am or clean horrendously disgusting shower floors, I'm proud to be a part of something so intricately designed. If nothing else, this is an amazing experience that will provide me with quite a few stories to tell. There are certain times when I can feel the real army shine through, like when I'm sitting on a bus in my uniform and an old woman smiles at me. For all she knows, I could be in some super secretive, elite unit. All she knows is that my friends and I make her feel safe. And this makes all the rest of it worth it.

Happy 2013!!

Top 10 Reasons Why The IDF is Like Harry Potter

Ever since I drafted on Monday, I've been thinking that there was something strange about this whole thing that I couldn't exactly place. Something about the scenery maybe, or perhaps the food, or maybe even the people felt oddly familiar. I thought about it during meals and classes and ח formations, but I just couldn't remember when I had been here before. In the end, it came to me in a dream. Last night, in the very middle of the night, I woke with a start and realized that my world right now is undeniably similar to the wizarding world of Harry Potter. So here are the top 10 reasons why I may as well be at Hogwarts.

1. I'm living in a place that very much exists, but must remain a mystery to even those who live next door, simply because they are not one of us.

2. Our uniforms are preppy-chic, and though we don't wear a tie, we do have stylish sweaters that we wear casually over button down shirts.

3. When it rains, my base looks like Hogsmead once Voldemort returns. The roads are empty, the windows boarded up, and people in dark clothing huddle together for protection.

4. We are divided into house-like pluga'ot, each one proudly symbolized by an animal and two colors. Personally, my plugah has a regal-looking Falcon as our mascot, and our colors are those of Hufflepuff.

5. Our division into these sections seems completely arbitrary, but it quickly become clear that we belong where we are, and we were put here for a reason.

6. Those who don't get in trouble are seen as "brown-nosers" and are looked down upon. Hermione obviously would've been mocked by these feisty Israeli girls.

7. When people speak too quickly to me, they may as well be speaking Latin for all I understand. And in response, I fall into this trance that, when they realize I don't understand, makes people magically stop yelling at me.

8. Put them in a uniform, and everyone here instantly becomes A-list movie star level attractive. No matter how statistically impossible it may be, literally everyone here could be an actor/actress.

9. The food here tastes like the weird flavors of Bernie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. I distinctly remember one of my meals tasting like grass, and another like, alas, earwax.

10. We are given an extremely powerful tool with close to no lessons on how to use it and without any proof that we are fit to carry such a weapon. People just seem to give us the benefit of the doubt that we can be equipped with a wand and/or a gun and everything will be OK.

Of course, there is a lot more to share about my first week in the army, but between lessons on how to combat chemical warfare and being yelled at incessantly, I hardly have the time to write a full-blown blog entry. Luckily, my first Shabbat is an open one, so I'll be home on kibbutz and hopefully have the time to properly explain what's been happening this week and maybe include pictures. Until then, you have my full permission to tell everyone you know that your friend/daughter/sister/colleague's daughter is attending Hogwarts.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

Imagine you're driving alone at night along a deserted highway. The streetlights cast suspicious shadows on the road and you haven't seen another car for miles. All of the sudden, out of the corner of your eye, you spot a creature off to the side. You look closer, and you see that the hooded figure is carrying a duffel bag roughly the size of a human being. With one hand, he is carelessly dangling a cigarette from between two fingers. His other hand is extended towards the street, his thumb raised. Imagine that you've decided to ignore the fact that the title of this blog post is probably copy-righted. The pure lawlessness of the situation has your gut instincts screaming danger, and with your mother's voice in your head warning you never to talk to strangers, you drive quickly by and inform the local police of the escaped murderer plaguing your highways.

Now imagine you're in Israel. You see the very same scene, except instead of his thumb extended towards the road, it's his pointer finger. Perhaps the streetlights begin to flicker, making the suspicious shadows dance in the darkness. Maybe you're even in the middle of the desert, and your cellphone has dangerously low reception. It's only reasonable that you should pull up beside the cloaked figure and offer him a ride.

One of the biggest culture shocks when I arrived in Israel was the hitchhiking. As someone without a car, I could totally understand the reasons why someone would hitchhike - after all, sometimes you just need a ride. But the practicality of it absolutely defied my upbringing. I had always been under the impression that if you pick up a hitchhiker in America, he's going to be an axe-murderer. And if you are the hitchhiker, there's no question that you're going to picked up by an axe-murderer.

But hitchhiking in Israel is actually just a perfect example of the larger Israeli society. First of all, they replace the word "hitchhike" with the more Yiddush-sounding word, "tremp." And second of all, it proves how Israel is like one big, dysfunctional family. The political parties bicker like siblings, the drivers ignore traffic signs like rebellious teenagers ignore parents, and everyone is always willing to comment on what you're doing, like a grandma who just wants to know why you aren't married yet. People are always shocked when they come to Israel and they get pushed aside by an old man trying to get on a bus or yelled at by a stranger, but it's because Israelis treat everybody like an annoying brother or sister. And if you saw your brother or sister on the side of the road, lugging a duffel bag roughly the size of a human being, you would obviously offer a hand. Of course, you still need to take safety precautions: every family has its wackos. But for the most part, this kinship with fellow Israelis is what makes this country feel like a homeland.

The reason I write this ode to tremping is because in two days, I won't be allowed to tremp anymore. There's a law in Israel that states that soldiers are forbidden from tremping because of the threat of kidnappers, and in two days, I too will be a soldier. I suppose I could have written this entire blog entry about the pit in my stomach that churns with every passing minute, or the pain in my back from buying and carrying so many pairs of socks in preparation for my draft, or even the embarrassed shrug that I give when I admit that I have zero idea what my job in the army actually does, but I figure that in the spirit of the army, I should learn to stifle my complaints and just trust that I'll be OK.

I also have to warn you, dear dedicated readers (only a fraction of whom acquiesce to my pleas to comment on my blog), that I can't promise any regularity in my blog posts to come. I've noticed with my friends who have already drafted that there is very little certainty when it comes to the army. It seems as though they aren't sure of anything until it is actually happening. The next two years very well may be a blur of constant confusion, but I'll try to transcribe that confusion as often as possible for your benefit. The next time I post, it will be as a soldier.

Have a happy last night of Hannukah!

In Case My Proud Jewish Parents Haven't Sent This To You Yet...

I know my dear mom and dad sent this link to pretty much anyone who has ever had the pleasure of meeting them, but just in case you haven't seen it, here is the link to an article I wrote that was published in The Jewish Exponent last week. Enjoy!

http://www.jewishexponent.com/worrying-about-war-heading-for-the-idf

My Most Important Milestone Yet

I must issue a formal apology for omitting something of vital importance in my last blog post. While in Eilat, I reached a monumental milestone in my journey. This step reflected a promise to myself that I am in this for the long haul. It is proof to me that I will not bail if things get tough, as they are wont to do, and it gave me a physical manifestation of my commitment to fulfilling my dream. 

This milestone was like a wake-up call that this life is my new reality, and that when I picture my future, I can picture it in Israel. And this milestone fits neatly into my wallet. 

While in Eilat, I officially became a member of an Israeli bookstore. 

This may not seem like such a huge step to you; after all, people don't usually celebrate gym memberships or listserve subscriptions or the like. But the shiny, plastic card that has made its home in my wallet is like a trophy. It represents my past, and my fond memories of reading as a child. It represents my present, and my struggle through Harry Potter in Hebrew as I work to fully grasp the language. And it represents my future, as I think of all the Hebrew books I will one day buy with my discounts or accumulated frequent-flyer miles, or whatever this card actually gets me. 

This gloriously green certificate of membership is also a tie to the country. When I was in Greece, for example, I wasn't exactly invested enough to sign up for any elite clubs. But when I filled out that small slip of paper with my name and email address, when I checked off the genre of books that interest me, when I proudly handed over a 20 shekel bill to the woman at the cash register, I was, in essence, signing a contract that binds me to this holy land. When I left America, it was with a heavy heart that I cancelled my Starbucks membership and unsubscribed from Old Navy's mailing list. With an utter lack of loyalties, I felt scared and alone. But in my allegiance to the Steimatzky Book Store, I found solace and a wonderful sense of acceptance. It is a quiet but persistent voice that tells me, I belong! Sure, I haven't yet utilized this proclamation of loyalty, but my future with the book store looks as bright as the glimmer when my new card catches the light of the sun.

P.S. I also must apologize for my complete shamelessness in saying that I really appreciate when you comment on my blog posts, because it makes me feel popular. 

Bikinis, Togas, and Uniforms

The problem with keeping a blog is that when too many things happen at once, I don't know how to turn it into a few comprehensible paragraphs. The only solution I could think of was to divide the events of the past two weeks into three different subcategories - bikinis, togas, and uniforms - and hope that you, my dear readers, have the patience to read through it all or at least to read it one section at a time.

Bikinis

If you've ever decided to join the Israeli army, you know that it's a rite of passage into a very loud, very pushy society of Israeli adults. Like any rite of passage, it deserves something ceremonial to mark our emergence into a new chapter of life. To celebrate our giyyus – our draft - my Garin took a five-hour bus ride down to Eilat, and spent the end of October and beginning of November on a beach.

Along the way to Eilat, we stopped at the Dead Sea, Ein Gedi, and the Red Canyon. It was nice to get a change of scenery after being stuck on kibbutz for three months. The four days we spent in Eilat took place mainly in the water, hence the title of this subcategory. The first night, we ate dinner on a yacht, enjoying a variety of nautical-themed decorations and Mediterranean-themed food. The next day, we went on a beautiful hike before spending hours snorkeling in the Red Sea and working on our tans. As a quick side-note, it’s worth mentioning that we showered maybe once for the duration of this trip, as swimming all day, every day gives the illusion of cleanliness. The rest of the trip included water sports and swimming, shopping and swimming, eating and swimming (of course, we waited an hour in between), and more shopping and swimming. As we floated weightless in the water, it was as if we were in an alternate reality where we had no responsibilities, no draft dates, no army service ahead of us. Our trip to Eilat was the ideal – albeit, brief – escape from reality.

On our third and last night, my whole Garin headed over to The Three Monkeys Pub for a toast to our giyyus. It was a lively pub, though the average age may have been a few decades older than us, and the band’s covers of classic rock songs had us all in a dancing mood. One fearless girl from my Garin sashayed onto the wooden floor and began to dance. One by one, the members of my Garin decided to ignore the oppressive heat and the curious eyes of onlookers and join her on the dance floor.  Gradually, other patrons of the pub rose to join us until the entire floor was filled with people grooving to the beats of an English cover band. For me, the word “magical” comes to mind as I remember seeing all of my closest friends put all of their apprehension for the future into the most sincere dance moves you could ever imagine. Forget whatever may come, it was a night of pure happiness.

Togas

If you've ever joined the Israeli army, you know that the pride of serving your country is often accompanied by a dreading suspicion that you’ve signed away your life. Remember that freedom I gained a few short months ago, on my 18^th birthday? Well, let’s hope I didn’t get too used to it. I fear that as soon as I draft, I will lose my individuality in the wake of commands and punishments. As a gift from the leaders of our group, our four-day trip to Eilat gave way to a 10-day free weekend. What better way to take advantage of our freedom than to camp all around the country for 10 days? On Monday morning, two friends and I set out on camping trip, equipped with one backpack each, a tent, and two sets of clothing. As we left our kibbutz, the following conversation ensued:

“I’m really excited to go camping, but we should take a real trip one day.”

“Yeah, like somewhere out of the country. Somewhere cool.”

“But when could we go? I don’t want to wait until after the army.”

“When could we do it before the army? My draft date could be as soon as two weeks from now.”

“So it would need to be sometime in the next two weeks.”

“Yeah, like next week.”

“Or today.”

“…”

“Today?”

“Do you guys want to just go today?”

“Go where?”

“I don’t know, just somewhere.”

“Yeah, let’s go today! We can totally do it.”

“Are we really doing this? We’re going to leave the country today?”

We turned around to get our passports, and that’s how I ended up in Greece with one backpack, a tent, and two sets of clothing.

When we got to the airport and asked the woman at ticket sales what the cheapest ticket was for that same day, her answer (which she gave with a distinctly suspicious look in her eye) was either Prague or Greece. Since we assumed that Prague would be cold – and because Hercules is my third favorite movie ever – we bought our ticket, and an hour later, we were on the plane to a new kind of Holy Land.

We landed in Athens and went straight to a very warm, very homey youth hostel. Not having had any time for preparation, my friends (Batya and Malkaya) and I were at a loss of what to do now that we had landed in a foreign country. Luckily, the owner of the hostel had some time off from his side import/export business, and, feeling bad for these three crazy Israeli girls who came to Greece without a plan, took it upon himself to show us all of the “must-see” places in Athens. Our first day, we went to an over-look of the entire city. Over the course of the next three days, we visited the Parthenon, various churches and monasteries, the acropolis, many mountaintops, and quite a few frozen yogurt stores. In-keeping with our theme of unadulterated freedom, we spent a lot of our time doing nothing. At the over-looks, we sat and talked. Next to the Parthenon, we snuggled and talked. At the site of a 1000-year-old monastery, we watched Hercules and talked. Though it was exciting being in a new country, none of us wanted the kind of vacation where your days are packed and you feel exhausted by the end. Instead, we simply enjoyed ourselves.

Thursday night, we took a ferry to Hania, a city in Crete. Instead of sleeping during the incredibly long boat ride, I read and watched Hercules, so by the time we arrived in Hania at 6o’clock in the morning on Friday, we were pooped. To remedy that, we found a plateau with an incredible view of the sea, wrapped ourselves in the small, blue El Al blankets, and my friends fell asleep as I read them the history of Hercules from my new book on Greek mythology. We slept for a few hours before wandering around Hania and finding an adorable and inexpensive hotel right on the sea. We also got to feel the extent of the love in our Garin when Adir, one of the sweetest people I know, called to wish us a Shabbat Shalom and make sure all was well. When the innkeeper (a term I doubt has been used in the last few decades but seems fitting for the elderly man who owned our 2-room hotel) discovered that we were Israeli, he proudly brought us a letter written in Hebrew from previous visitors, praising his hospitality. He then pointed out a small synagogue less than a minute-walk away. And thus, we did Kabbalat Shabbat, the Friday night service welcoming in the Sabbath, in the tiniest synagogue in Greece.

Sunday morning, we felt guilty that we had spent so much time being lazy, and so we boarded a bus to Rythemno. In Rythemno, we walked along a path that led to a beautiful fortress. After a few hours there, we headed back to Hania and caught a ferry to Athens. Arriving once again at 6o’clock in the morning on Monday, we replaced our plateau with a sidewalk in front of a bank, and slept for a few more hours. Luckily, I have photo evidence of all our lounging about. I’ve posted some pictures here, but if you want more, I’ve posted an album on Facebook, titled “The Land of Hercules.” Anyway, we spent the rest of the day just enjoying Athens, including – you guessed it – watching Hercules and eating frozen yogurt. We then drove to the airport and, with heavy hearts and heavy bags, rejoined reality.

Uniforms

If you've ever joined the Israeli army, you know that nothing is efficient. One day you get a letter with a draft date, the next day, you're told that the draft date is obsolete and please report to the drafting center tomorrow. Everything is always up in the air. Things became more concrete, however, as I watched the first member of my Garin draft. On an almost daily basis, my friends are receiving news from the army that decides their fate for the next two years. At risk of sounding like a grandmother, I am so proud of my friends. One of them just got accepted to the Tzanchanim (paratroopers), another to Golani, another to Handasa Kravi, and yet another to Nachal. My very own roommate, Batya, is going to be an instructor in Shiryon – tanks. It’s a little scary knowing that the girl who gets silly with me at 4 o’clock in the morning is going to be teaching soldiers to drive and operate tanks, but I know she’s more than capable. I myself do officially (kind of) have a job in the army. I have no idea what it’s called, what it means, or when it drafts, but there IS something in store for me. I’m sorry I don’t have any more details for you, but I’ll let you know as soon as I do.

Also under the heading of “Uniforms” comes the news from Israel that I’m sure you’ve all been hearing. Words like “rockets” and “Hamas” fly around and warnings about traveling to the south of Israel come often. Being on a kibbutz, I’m rather sheltered from current events, but I can say that I am safe, as is everyone I know. When I made Aliyah, I knew that events like this were going to be somewhat inevitable. It’s scary that my friends and I will be in the army while this is happening, but none of us came to Israel to serve when it’s easy. I promise I’ll post blog entries more often and keep everyone in the loop about what’s happening over here. For now, keep Israel and her soldiers in your hearts and prayers.

Batya, Malkaya, and I on our first day in Greece!

The Parthenon

We joined the strike by protesting in front of the Temple of Zeus.

Hania

The bummiest bums in the world.

Rythemno!

Yom HaMe'ah

The time was 5:30pm. The date? October 15th, 2012. After a sleepless night and a stomachache that would've rendered even the most determined woman incapacitated, I had finally fallen asleep. It was a sleep that would not last long.

5:35pm - a knock on the door. I awoke with a start. As one of my roommates entered my room, I mentally prepared a stern lecture about respecting each other's personal space. Then I saw her panicked look. She asked if I was packed. When my face betrayed the fact that I had no idea what she was talking about, her jaw dropped. "They didn't tell you?" she asked. I shook my head. And then she delivered the news. "Yom HaMe'ah," she stammered. "It's tomorrow." She explained that our group's social worker had succeeded in pushing forward our Yom HaMe'ah to make sure that we would not be excluded from the jobs that draft in November. Unfortunately, this also meant an inadequate amount of freak-out time. Half an hour later, I found myself sitting on a bus to Haifa, trying in vain to ignore the butterflies that were furiously attacking my stomach. And thus - with a slight over-dramatization - began Yom HaMe'ah.

In case you don't remember, Yom HaMe'ah is a day when Israeli girls go to a bland office building in Haifa and for eight hours, travel from station to station. Each station is specially designed to test a certain skill. They have eight hours to try to show the army that they deserve a job that doesn't include guarding ketchup or pressing the same button on a keyboard all day long. Being an Israeli girl (which I will never get used to saying), I, too, arrived at 8am and waited for directions. They split us into groups and had us introduce ourselves. Don't be fooled: the smiling girls in your group are not there to help you. They are also there to prove themselves at each of the stations, and they will do anything necessary - anything - to stand out. I don't even know how to describe the intense feeling of competition that pervaded the air. In my last post, I likened Yom HaMe'ah to The Hunger Games, which was unnervingly accurate. However, there was also definitely an element of Mean Girls at play. Think Hungry Girls, and there you have Yom HaMe'ah.

The first station was one that tested how we lead and teach a class. Each member of my group got a topic and eight minutes to read a double-sided piece of paper. The paper outlined the information we would need for a four-minute presentation to follow. As the Israeli girls in my group breezed through their readings, I stumbled through mine, coming face to face with scientific phrases and psychological blabber that I hardly would've understood had it been in English. Luckily, the words I did understand provided me with enough context to give a decent (I hope) presentation, but I couldn't help feeling like it was infinitely harder for me than it was for the rest of my group, like they had an unfair advantage just by virtue of being born in this country.

The rest of the stations passed by without getting any easier. I won't give you the grueling details, but suffice it to say that I was mentally exhausted and ready to give up after the first few hours. Of course, I know this is what I came here to do, and so I carried on, but my obvious disadvantage kept me stressed. I wish I could say that today was a success, but the truth is that I have no idea. In a week or so, I'll be receiving my Manila with a list of possible jobs for me dictated by today's performance. I think I'll only be able to decide how successful I was when my Manila comes and guarding ketchup isn't listed as one of my jobs.

On the upside, here are some new pictures of my cats. :)

Post-Honeymoon Stage

A very wise Doctor once spoke of a dark and dreary room known only as The Waiting Place, “… for people just waiting. Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or No or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting.” At this point, that’s exactly what it feels like on the kibbutz, waiting for the army. This blog post is titled “Post-Honeymoon Stage” because now that I’ve been here for a little over a month and a half, I’m finally realizing what people were talking about when they said things were going to be hard. Honestly, Dr. Seuss may as well have written, “Waiting for their draft dates to come or their nose rings to go, or their medical test results to come or their sense of freedom to go, or the bureaucracy to end or waiting around for a fax to send or waiting to get Sal Klita money to spend. Everyone is just waiting.” (The Sal Klita is one of the benefits that people get for making Aliyah, and it includes a monthly stipend. That is, when the government remembers to give it to us on time.) We’re all just waiting with bated breath for the next step of our enlistment process. Once in a while, a member of my Garin will get an update that moves him/her ahead in the process and the rest of us, while congratulating the lucky kid, will silently be asking ourselves why we didn’t get the same update. My most recent update is that I received my date of enlistment! Of course, it’s only a technicality. I won’t get my real enlistment date until I know what position I’m going to hold. But for right now, December 17^th is the closest thing I have to any sort of official date, so I’m excitedly telling everyone about it until I hear otherwise.

The next thing I have to look forward to (it’s virtually impossible to convey via text the heavy sarcasm that is plaguing my voice in my head right now, but please note that this was, in fact, sarcastic) is something called Yom HaMe’ah. This is a day for all the girls who are enlisting to go and show off their skills to the army. Some of the girls in my Garin have already done it, but since my medical results got held up, I couldn’t go when they did. From what I’ve been told, you’re with a group of vicious Israeli girls and you go from station to station, each station designed to test a different skill. In order to succeed, you have to stand out from all the other girls by showing off in a way that is all too reminiscent of The Hunger Games. Following Yom HaMe’ah, you receive something in the mail called a “manila,” brilliantly named after the manila envelope it comes in, which contains the list of jobs that the army believes you could do well. After that, I’m not sure, but I’ll keep you updated.

Aside from the army stuff, the only other especially interesting thing that’s happened here was Lila Lavan, or White Night, which is basically just an all-nighter. Pictures of that (and other things, including the cats I’ve taken to feeding) are attached. At 11 PM sharp, the girls suited up into long-sleeved black shirts and pants and stood outside our apartment. The next 4ish hours were a grueling combination of running, push-ups, teamwork “games,” mud fights, carrying two cinderblocks in our backpacks for no obvious reason, and crawling on our stomachs through thick, mushy mud (which, oddly enough, was a product of the first rain of the season, which consisted of maybe 15 raindrops). As a Lila Lavan survivor, I think it’s safe for me to say that if that’s how the army is really going to be, I’m quitting.

But in all seriousness, Lila Lavan was actually really fun. I truly believe that you’re never closer to a person than when you’re covered in mud, with streaks down the sides of your face from the sweat, and a little bit of blood running down your legs, with dirt in your hair and up your nose, with any trace of your normal scent hidden behind the grime of this distinctly putrid mud-sweat-blood paste, and that person still wants to be your friend. It allowed us girls to bond in a way that I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before. These girls are like my sisters. (But I still love Sarah a little more. No offense.) It only sucks that we had to do things that – 5 days later – still have me sore. Oh well.

However, despite the soreness, despite the bureaucracy, despite the waiting, despite the ants that I’ve learned to treat as 8^th and 9^th and 10^th and 11^th and 12-trillionth roommates, despite the no-shorts-on-kibbutz rule, despite the overwhelming heat, and despite the tarantula that I swear I saw on a run a few days ago, the most frustrating thing that I’ve faced thus far is still the fact that Israelis approach me, and without me even saying a single word, they automatically talk to me in English. Is there something about me that is so obviously American that everyone just assumes I don’t speak Hebrew? It feels like I’m living in Where’s Waldo, where I am Waldo, and instead of being disguised in a crowd of red- and white-striped shirts, I’m in like a mime convention or something, where the only other colors are black and white. It’s the easiest game of Where’s Waldo ever. I’ve affectionately renamed it Spot the Tourist, and the Israelis are winning. It definitely doesn’t help that, most of the time, I am the only blonde in a 20-kilometer radius. (Note my usage of the metric system. I’m really working on that.) But how am I ever supposed to learn to comfortably speak Hebrew if everyone is talking to me in English? I’ve decided that what I’m going to do is tell people that I’m Swedish. The Swedish boy in my Garin told me that I could easily be a member of the Swedish mafia (which has to be one of the sweetest – albeit, weirdest – compliments I’ve ever gotten), so I’m just going to go with it. When people speak to me in English, I’ll give them my most European look and say “Ja, ja, hej,” until they realize that if we’re going to communicate, it needs to be in Hebrew. All I need to do is drink cider and wear brightly colored, traditional Swedish garb, or whatever they do in Sweden. I wonder if they sell that on eBay?

Happy Sukkot!

P.S. Feel free to post your comments! It makes me feel like I wasn’t wasting time when I wrote this novel of a blog post because someone is actually reading it. 

My Garin

A free street concert in Haifa

Scary Bug #1

Scary Bug #2

Oreo and Pikachu <3