05 October 2008
24 September 2008
ON THE TELLY
Rebecca. Dir. Alfred Hitchcock. 1940. Starring Laurence Olivier, Joan Fontaine and Agnes Moorehead.
THIS MORNING'S NEWS
It's three in the afternoon and all day I've been angry with you for being sick. Think you are revelling in it, but can't be entirely sure. Struggle to give you the benefit of the doubt because a significant part of myself - let's say 85.3% - wants to love you.
I've been feeling guilty all the time these days. It's not clear to me whether you've noticed this or not. I see everything and everything's grey.
My grandparents called at 7:45 this morning and woke me with their singing and their vague platitudes about how happy they are that I'm happy and that being happy is really what matters in life. It took all my energy to agree with them. Their intentions were good.
Woke a second time to you carrying green tea and toast up the stairs to my attic bed. Nutella and banana slices. Your intentions were good, too, and you tried to cheer me by stretching that smile of yours wearily across your face and speaking in a tone of voice that was too positive and that I didn't recognize. I could see the effort this simple act entailed and it did nothing but depress me. Only your eyes told the truth and they were dull and vacant.
Then you were gone and I locked the door behind you. Stared in the mirror for awhile. Shaved my legs extra carefully. I changed my outfit twice. Looked at the phone which was not ringing.
I move as slow as molasses these days.
On the way to Neve Tzedek I had to stop for a smoothie. Two men were in line in front of me. I hated them for taking too long to decide. Carrot juice? Pomegranate juice? They reminded me of myself.
I regretted paying for a medium and didn't think I could finish it. Surprise, surprise, I did.
A woman on a bus bench was plucking her nose hairs out with a tiny magnifying mirror and a pair of rusty tweezers. It disgusted me until I spotted a man's very sad face through the window of a falafel shop and thought about him instead.
It is unbearably hot here.
My favorite table at the cafe was taken and I had to pause a long time before picking a new one.
You are late and don't call and I wonder where you are. Of course I am thinking of home again. It is my birthday and I wish I were not here.
I am twenty five years old.
I always thought I would be an actress when I grew up.
Now it would just be nice to be a child again.
I've been feeling guilty all the time these days. It's not clear to me whether you've noticed this or not. I see everything and everything's grey.
My grandparents called at 7:45 this morning and woke me with their singing and their vague platitudes about how happy they are that I'm happy and that being happy is really what matters in life. It took all my energy to agree with them. Their intentions were good.
Woke a second time to you carrying green tea and toast up the stairs to my attic bed. Nutella and banana slices. Your intentions were good, too, and you tried to cheer me by stretching that smile of yours wearily across your face and speaking in a tone of voice that was too positive and that I didn't recognize. I could see the effort this simple act entailed and it did nothing but depress me. Only your eyes told the truth and they were dull and vacant.
Then you were gone and I locked the door behind you. Stared in the mirror for awhile. Shaved my legs extra carefully. I changed my outfit twice. Looked at the phone which was not ringing.
I move as slow as molasses these days.
On the way to Neve Tzedek I had to stop for a smoothie. Two men were in line in front of me. I hated them for taking too long to decide. Carrot juice? Pomegranate juice? They reminded me of myself.
I regretted paying for a medium and didn't think I could finish it. Surprise, surprise, I did.
A woman on a bus bench was plucking her nose hairs out with a tiny magnifying mirror and a pair of rusty tweezers. It disgusted me until I spotted a man's very sad face through the window of a falafel shop and thought about him instead.
It is unbearably hot here.
My favorite table at the cafe was taken and I had to pause a long time before picking a new one.
You are late and don't call and I wonder where you are. Of course I am thinking of home again. It is my birthday and I wish I were not here.
I am twenty five years old.
I always thought I would be an actress when I grew up.
Now it would just be nice to be a child again.
18 September 2008
DON'T: How to Get Stabbed in Jerusalem in Just Ten Easy Steps
1. Be blissfully ignorant. Jerusalem is a tense place, sure, but it's also beautiful! Focus on the positive. Don't let the fact that centuries of wars have been waged over this land get you down! And certainly don't let it force you take extra precautions. Those ten soldiers standing on the corner with their machine guns? They're just hanging out.
2. The very best time to visit Jerusalem is when there are no other tourists around. Make sure that you arrive at dusk and it's always a great idea to wander away from the populated areas without a map. Who says getting lost isn't fun?!
3. Don't be a wallflower. Express yourself! People here like to dress modestly so show them another way of doing things and dress as inappropriately as possible. I'd reveal my shoulders, my knees and, if I were feeling particularly frisky, even my bellybutton. Because everyone likes to be shocked and offended. Trust me on this one.
4. George Michael said it right: "Sometimes the clothes do not make the man." It's not always enough to just dress differently. If you're blue-eyed, freckle-faced,and blonde, you'll automatically make a bigger and better splash when entering the Muslim quarter. And if you're not lucky enough to boast these attributes, don't worry. You can always discuss Zionism in a voice that is ten decibles too loud.
5. Well, you bargained at the bazaars in Turkey and Egypt, so why not bargain here? Even though your boyfriend has plenty of money in his pocket, it's always fun to dispute minor sums of money. For kicks and giggles, try going to a falafel stand, eating and drinking there with gusto, and then refusing to pay the full price for your meal!
6. As soon as you see the terribly tall, frighteningly large restaurant owner get a little angry, you can easily calm him down by calling him "habibi." This means plaything and, yes, it has a slight sexual connotation! There's a small percentage chance that he'll be amused. Probably not. But either way, his contorted facial expressions will certainly be entertaining.
7. Raise everybody's blood pressure by trying to involve the authorities. What are those soldiers with their big guns there for anyway? Tell them to stop chit chatting and get to work!
8. Stand your ground even more firmly than ever as the argument escalates. Absolutely no smiling allowed. Refuse to back down even when you are told by other customers that the restaurant is, in fact, charging you the correct amount. The truth is inconsequential. It's a matter of principal. Winning is everything.
9. Remain seated and indignant. Wait until the owner stands over you and gives you a venemous deathstare. And whatever you do, DO NOT PAY THE FULL PRICE. Throw a few coins on the table and roll your eyes, muttering cursewords slightly under your breath but really just loud enough so that you're sure the waiter can hear you.
10. At this point, the best way to seal the deal is always to stand up suddenly and wave your arms wildly around while you raise your voice. If possible, it's a nice touch to elbow the restaurant owner just slightly as you move aggressively past him, huffing and puffing as you go. Then run. Just run.
2. The very best time to visit Jerusalem is when there are no other tourists around. Make sure that you arrive at dusk and it's always a great idea to wander away from the populated areas without a map. Who says getting lost isn't fun?!
3. Don't be a wallflower. Express yourself! People here like to dress modestly so show them another way of doing things and dress as inappropriately as possible. I'd reveal my shoulders, my knees and, if I were feeling particularly frisky, even my bellybutton. Because everyone likes to be shocked and offended. Trust me on this one.
4. George Michael said it right: "Sometimes the clothes do not make the man." It's not always enough to just dress differently. If you're blue-eyed, freckle-faced,and blonde, you'll automatically make a bigger and better splash when entering the Muslim quarter. And if you're not lucky enough to boast these attributes, don't worry. You can always discuss Zionism in a voice that is ten decibles too loud.
5. Well, you bargained at the bazaars in Turkey and Egypt, so why not bargain here? Even though your boyfriend has plenty of money in his pocket, it's always fun to dispute minor sums of money. For kicks and giggles, try going to a falafel stand, eating and drinking there with gusto, and then refusing to pay the full price for your meal!
6. As soon as you see the terribly tall, frighteningly large restaurant owner get a little angry, you can easily calm him down by calling him "habibi." This means plaything and, yes, it has a slight sexual connotation! There's a small percentage chance that he'll be amused. Probably not. But either way, his contorted facial expressions will certainly be entertaining.
7. Raise everybody's blood pressure by trying to involve the authorities. What are those soldiers with their big guns there for anyway? Tell them to stop chit chatting and get to work!
8. Stand your ground even more firmly than ever as the argument escalates. Absolutely no smiling allowed. Refuse to back down even when you are told by other customers that the restaurant is, in fact, charging you the correct amount. The truth is inconsequential. It's a matter of principal. Winning is everything.
9. Remain seated and indignant. Wait until the owner stands over you and gives you a venemous deathstare. And whatever you do, DO NOT PAY THE FULL PRICE. Throw a few coins on the table and roll your eyes, muttering cursewords slightly under your breath but really just loud enough so that you're sure the waiter can hear you.
10. At this point, the best way to seal the deal is always to stand up suddenly and wave your arms wildly around while you raise your voice. If possible, it's a nice touch to elbow the restaurant owner just slightly as you move aggressively past him, huffing and puffing as you go. Then run. Just run.
THE TEL AVIV REPORT: Chill The Fuck Out
Even when Israelis are complimenting one another I could swear to you that it looks and sounds as if they're getting into some sort of major blowout fight. I'm not used to this, coming from sunny L.A. where people smile even when they hate you. And since I don't speak Hebrew, it was with some confusion the other day that I started listening in on a particularly voluble conversation that was occurring next to my table at the Little Prince coffee shop.
Were these two writers comparing notes? Joking back and forth? Asking eachother out for dinner?
I couldn't help staring at them blankly as if I were stumped in the middle of a Crosswords puzzle. And it was then that I noticed several other customers joining me in my fascination as they ceased doing their work, turned, and gazed open-mouthed at the scene. A heavyset, redhaired woman by the window was gesturing wildly with her pen and smirking sarcastically as she rattled off words that, to me, were unintelligible. I noticed that in her distraction, her computer's screensaver had switched on: It was an underwater photo of an alienesque infant learning how to swim. Was this a mother whose eyes flashed so maniacally behind her tiny glasses? A younger, cockily rougish and semi-attractive man was laughing disdainfully at the table in front of her. Muttering hotly underneath his breath, I watched hungrily as he turned his back to the redhead in a posture of utter condescension until finally - what a delicious surprise - the conversation broke into lightly accented English:
"Like, whatever. Whatever." The redhead said, shuffling her papers exasperatedly.
"What-ever. Sababa," her nemesis responded in agreement.
"Yeah, exactly." Now it was her turn to laugh lustily to the point where the man had to turn back and make eye contact with her. "I am a cool guy," he said, elongating his adjective to emphasize its connotation of laid-back self-assuredness. But the redhead was ready with her retort and when she spoke, it was with unequivocal authority:
"You're a shmuck."
No laughter this time from her male counterpart. His tone became more venemous, his volume more forceful. "Sorry I'm not as bright a star as you, ba-by..." Elongation again. It was impossible to tell who had come out the loser, who the winner, as his words hung heavily in the air and the redhead chose not to respond. Then she broke slowly into a half-hidden smile. It was enough to make the man try again, this time less self-assured, more desperate:
"You know what? I am so not into bullshit," the less-bright star declared in frustration.
But she responded quickly: "Oh, you are the king of bullshit!" Her voice was shrill, to be sure, but somehow still filled with humor. Meanwhile, I was lapping up every eye roll, delighting in each hand flick, passionately charting the degree to which the redhead's mouth would curl up at the corner as she thought of her next barb. And for some reason, I was on her side of an argument whose origin and subject matter I could not pretend to know. This hotshot guy, I thought to myself, this hot shot guy taking up the biggest table in the cafe, his papers spread all over, his feet up on the chair, so full of himself he makes me want to vomit...
"Chill. The. Fuck. Out."
It proved to be the hotshot's final line. Silence descended between them. Neither got up to leave. Both simply turned back to their computers. And I suddenly became aware that The Smiths had been playing on the speakers.
My fellow rubbernecking cafe patrons looked around the room, smiling at eachother in complicity. Morrissey sang on.
"Well, if it's not love then it's the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb that will bring us together..."
How true, Steven. How true.
Were these two writers comparing notes? Joking back and forth? Asking eachother out for dinner?
I couldn't help staring at them blankly as if I were stumped in the middle of a Crosswords puzzle. And it was then that I noticed several other customers joining me in my fascination as they ceased doing their work, turned, and gazed open-mouthed at the scene. A heavyset, redhaired woman by the window was gesturing wildly with her pen and smirking sarcastically as she rattled off words that, to me, were unintelligible. I noticed that in her distraction, her computer's screensaver had switched on: It was an underwater photo of an alienesque infant learning how to swim. Was this a mother whose eyes flashed so maniacally behind her tiny glasses? A younger, cockily rougish and semi-attractive man was laughing disdainfully at the table in front of her. Muttering hotly underneath his breath, I watched hungrily as he turned his back to the redhead in a posture of utter condescension until finally - what a delicious surprise - the conversation broke into lightly accented English:
"Like, whatever. Whatever." The redhead said, shuffling her papers exasperatedly.
"What-ever. Sababa," her nemesis responded in agreement.
"Yeah, exactly." Now it was her turn to laugh lustily to the point where the man had to turn back and make eye contact with her. "I am a cool guy," he said, elongating his adjective to emphasize its connotation of laid-back self-assuredness. But the redhead was ready with her retort and when she spoke, it was with unequivocal authority:
"You're a shmuck."
No laughter this time from her male counterpart. His tone became more venemous, his volume more forceful. "Sorry I'm not as bright a star as you, ba-by..." Elongation again. It was impossible to tell who had come out the loser, who the winner, as his words hung heavily in the air and the redhead chose not to respond. Then she broke slowly into a half-hidden smile. It was enough to make the man try again, this time less self-assured, more desperate:
"You know what? I am so not into bullshit," the less-bright star declared in frustration.
But she responded quickly: "Oh, you are the king of bullshit!" Her voice was shrill, to be sure, but somehow still filled with humor. Meanwhile, I was lapping up every eye roll, delighting in each hand flick, passionately charting the degree to which the redhead's mouth would curl up at the corner as she thought of her next barb. And for some reason, I was on her side of an argument whose origin and subject matter I could not pretend to know. This hotshot guy, I thought to myself, this hot shot guy taking up the biggest table in the cafe, his papers spread all over, his feet up on the chair, so full of himself he makes me want to vomit...
"Chill. The. Fuck. Out."
It proved to be the hotshot's final line. Silence descended between them. Neither got up to leave. Both simply turned back to their computers. And I suddenly became aware that The Smiths had been playing on the speakers.
My fellow rubbernecking cafe patrons looked around the room, smiling at eachother in complicity. Morrissey sang on.
"Well, if it's not love then it's the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb that will bring us together..."
How true, Steven. How true.
HOW I WASTE MY DAY: Caffe Tazza d'Oro
When people hear that I've been living in Tel Aviv since July, they want to know what I'm doing here. How did I get here? Why do I stay? And, above all, what on earth do I do all day? I used to stumble over unconnected words as I concocted vague, half-hearted answers to these questions. But now I just answer simply and with a somberly serious, straight face: I'm building a cafe directory.
That's right. The official Tel Avivian Cafe directory. I'm a writer, I say, and I spend my days making the rounds from coffee shop to lunch place, always searching for the next best place to work and people watch. At each new cafe, I study the faces of the customers. The relationships between the waiters. I sit inside and then outside again. I eavesdrop on my neighbors' conversations. I order iced coffee because I'm too hot and then mint tea because I'm too cold. Occasionally, I eat a pastry.
Today, I am reveling in the air conditioning inside Caffe Tazza d'Oro at Ahad Ha'am 6 in Neve Tzedek. It is three fifteen in the afternoon. I've chosen the corner table because it's quiet and isolated with an outlet for my computer and a view onto the street. There are only two other tables occupied inside, although there's also a young guy sitting at the bar with a paper open in front of him and his moto helmet on a nearby bar stool. A young father with his infant daughter stand in the doorway, ordering takeout. The courtyard outside is, similarly, neither empty nor crowded and possesses the cheerily laid-back atmosphere of my favorite cafes in all sorts of capital cities along the Mediterranean. Chill out music plays at just the right volume. The walls are a happy yellow color that's been dotted with black and white photos of Pina Bausch performances. The bar boasts a plethora of the cafe's namesake coffee and also, surprisingly perhaps, an impressive selection of alcohol. I like this because my personal vision of heaven is a place where you can arrive for your caffeine fix in the morning and then stay long enough to drink a glass of dry white wine with your late lunch.
Unlike the waitstaff at so many places in this city, the four people working here actually smile when I walk in the door. And the second I finish my drink, a girl in her late twenties - who is friendlier than she is trendy (a welcome priority switch) - is asking me in English if I'd like anything else. What a relief to not have to fight for attention. The place achieves that delicate balance between being a neighborhood hangout and a serious business. Yes, everybody knows everybody and the waiters chat up a storm with eachother and the customers as they go about their work. But that's just it. They're actually doing their work. And their easy going attitudes somehow add, rather than subtract, from their efficiency. It's a sharp contrast to the waiters at Brasserie who I recently watched start a massage train in the middle of the restaurant while I tried desperately - and unsuccessfully - to get ahold of a clean fork.
Thus far, my favorite thing on the menu here is the chopped vegetable and chicken salad in Tahini and lemon. I'm highly aware that this sounds like standard Tel Avivian fare, but trust me when I say that the dressing is so remarkable that it has become nearly impossible for me to order this salad anywhere but here.
And then, of course, there's the coffee. This is the only place in Tel Aviv where you can get the Tazza d'Oro brand. And for anyone who doesn't know how significant a fact this is, I pity you. When my boyfriend and I were in Rome we stalked a Tazza d'Oro coffee shop near the Pantheon. We would quite literally walk in the opposite direction from our intended destination just so that we could have the sincere pleasure of hassling with the cafe's coked up staff members, fighting to get ahold of one, two, three tiny cups of espresso which we would then swallow like shots, standing up at an incredibly dirty, noisy counter and feeling better by the second. What a great Roman holiday. It's true that sometimes the quality of your day is determined by the quality of your coffee.
And people ask me what I'm doing here. Can they not guess that I am happier now than I've ever been during these past three years? Life is simple. Our needs are few. Contentment is far more easily reached than I ever imagined.
Drink good coffee.
That's right. The official Tel Avivian Cafe directory. I'm a writer, I say, and I spend my days making the rounds from coffee shop to lunch place, always searching for the next best place to work and people watch. At each new cafe, I study the faces of the customers. The relationships between the waiters. I sit inside and then outside again. I eavesdrop on my neighbors' conversations. I order iced coffee because I'm too hot and then mint tea because I'm too cold. Occasionally, I eat a pastry.
Today, I am reveling in the air conditioning inside Caffe Tazza d'Oro at Ahad Ha'am 6 in Neve Tzedek. It is three fifteen in the afternoon. I've chosen the corner table because it's quiet and isolated with an outlet for my computer and a view onto the street. There are only two other tables occupied inside, although there's also a young guy sitting at the bar with a paper open in front of him and his moto helmet on a nearby bar stool. A young father with his infant daughter stand in the doorway, ordering takeout. The courtyard outside is, similarly, neither empty nor crowded and possesses the cheerily laid-back atmosphere of my favorite cafes in all sorts of capital cities along the Mediterranean. Chill out music plays at just the right volume. The walls are a happy yellow color that's been dotted with black and white photos of Pina Bausch performances. The bar boasts a plethora of the cafe's namesake coffee and also, surprisingly perhaps, an impressive selection of alcohol. I like this because my personal vision of heaven is a place where you can arrive for your caffeine fix in the morning and then stay long enough to drink a glass of dry white wine with your late lunch.
Unlike the waitstaff at so many places in this city, the four people working here actually smile when I walk in the door. And the second I finish my drink, a girl in her late twenties - who is friendlier than she is trendy (a welcome priority switch) - is asking me in English if I'd like anything else. What a relief to not have to fight for attention. The place achieves that delicate balance between being a neighborhood hangout and a serious business. Yes, everybody knows everybody and the waiters chat up a storm with eachother and the customers as they go about their work. But that's just it. They're actually doing their work. And their easy going attitudes somehow add, rather than subtract, from their efficiency. It's a sharp contrast to the waiters at Brasserie who I recently watched start a massage train in the middle of the restaurant while I tried desperately - and unsuccessfully - to get ahold of a clean fork.
Thus far, my favorite thing on the menu here is the chopped vegetable and chicken salad in Tahini and lemon. I'm highly aware that this sounds like standard Tel Avivian fare, but trust me when I say that the dressing is so remarkable that it has become nearly impossible for me to order this salad anywhere but here.
And then, of course, there's the coffee. This is the only place in Tel Aviv where you can get the Tazza d'Oro brand. And for anyone who doesn't know how significant a fact this is, I pity you. When my boyfriend and I were in Rome we stalked a Tazza d'Oro coffee shop near the Pantheon. We would quite literally walk in the opposite direction from our intended destination just so that we could have the sincere pleasure of hassling with the cafe's coked up staff members, fighting to get ahold of one, two, three tiny cups of espresso which we would then swallow like shots, standing up at an incredibly dirty, noisy counter and feeling better by the second. What a great Roman holiday. It's true that sometimes the quality of your day is determined by the quality of your coffee.
And people ask me what I'm doing here. Can they not guess that I am happier now than I've ever been during these past three years? Life is simple. Our needs are few. Contentment is far more easily reached than I ever imagined.
Drink good coffee.
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