overdue.
it’s hard to face this after months of neglect. the excuses are weak: at first, everything was fresh and exciting and BUSY, and rather than write about every experience, i chose to live each moment for what it was, and it was enough. then the routine settled in a bit, the weather turned cold, and in my hibernating winter state i couldn’t muster up the motivation to pick up the threads of where i left off—my very first weekend here!—and try to reconstruct the whole picture. it seems too much has happened to recount, millions of details which i would love to share with the world but for now lie solely within my memory and in the people who lived them with me. the months have flown by with little regard for our poor attempts to pace ourselves—time is a whirlpool, and all the events that make up the days are swirling around, colliding and overlapping, to the point where i am left with a general feeling of what has happened but no concrete linear picture. time here is different; it is all about Now. for the sake of this recording exercise, however, i will try to recount, and account for, the last 4 months.
august: a whirlwind of parties, endless drinking and dancing, flirting, exploring all the new people thrown together in this medley of languages and cultural backgrounds—all under the encouraging eye of the hot summer sun, baking us golden brown as we frolicked by the beach and pool. it felt like we had stepped into paradise. i did not see a drop of rain the entire month, and could count on each day being sunny and glorious. the dynamics in the ulpan shifted quickly as alliances were made and broken at the speed of soap opera plot twists; i soon acknowledged my disinterest in the unfolding drama, and despite a few true friendships, i kept my distance. i preferred to fly solo, as usual, making my own plans, doing my own thing, and meeting up with whoever happened to be in the same place at the same time. my beach trips were never boring, as i found it easy to chat up a group of people while trying to practice my hebrew (i wrote it off as homework), and playing mat-kot (the israeli national sport—hitting a squash ball back and forth with wooden paddles. nobody wins or loses, and the thwok of the ball is a deliciously satisfying and addictive sound). i began to get a feel for the kibbutz, making friends from every corner. it was easy getting used to my work detail: working in a daycare with 3-4 year olds. they were adorable and mischievous, as expected, and taught me scores of new hebrew words daily. i found i had an easier time conversing with a three year old than an adult, if anything because they were far less judgmental and i felt little pressure to speak intelligibly. my hebrew classes were another story: they put me in the highest level, despite my protests and clarification that i had never before studied the language, simply taught myself to read and write. no matter, they said, you’ll catch on. the problem was that most of the people in the ulpan came with a very low level, so the three other classes became introductory levels, and my class was a hodgepodge of the rest of us—those who had lived in israel as kids and spoke fluently, or who grew up with hebrew-speaking parents; those who had taken other ulpan courses before and understood the basics; and (this is where i fell in), the few random extras needed to fill out the numbers of the class, who in the placement test displayed maturity and a keen desire to study. never mind that we had almost no vocabulary whatsoever. never mind that we could barely read without the vowel inscriptions (dropped in grade school), let alone keep up with the class. i won’t lie: it was a daily struggle. some days i would leave feeling utterly battered and crushed, retreating to my room to let the frustration flow out in bitter tears as i repeated the mantra “slowly, slowly”…other times my mind would be on fire with the new discoveries of grammatical structure that explained SO MUCH, they barely fell short of epiphanic. still, it was impossible to see the pieces falling into place, the whole “forest for the trees” line…so i carried on, cramming my free time with extra study sessions (which included chatting up cute israelis on the beach), and hoped that eventually it would click. speaking of cute israelis on the beach, one day i was sitting with a girl friend who always knew every guy i pointed out (she was a great source of information), and we happened to spot a very nice-looking guy playing frisbee, whom neither of us had ever seen before. amazed that her omniscience fell short for once, i declared that i would be the one to find out who this mystery man was. after a while, he ambled over, and i asked him (in hebrew), “who are you?”. he said, “adi!” and i said (still in hebrew) that i was learning in the ulpan..and that was about the extent of my conversational hebrew. he switched into a perfect american english, which totally threw me off because most of the kibbutz guys i had been meeting had thick accents and a command of very basic english: conversation would quickly hit an impenetrable wall. here was an opportunity to strike up a real conversation with an israeli, and i jumped at it—he seemed just as interested in reaching out and talking to someone, too. we sat and chatted for about 4 hours, until the sun went down and i was too chilled to keep sitting…when parting, we looked at each other in amazement that we had somehow stumbled onto this clear connection, that rare and wondrous thing when you recognize a kindred spirit and feel, without a doubt, that you have found a friend.
september: the fun continued. adi became a staple in my day-to-day life, my most real friend, the only person i felt completely myself around and who just seemed to understand me (a rare gem when you are in a foreign land with language barriers stemming the flow of your personality…no coincidence that “adi” in hebrew means “jewel”). he took me surfing, coaxing out the motor-memory skill implanted 10 years ago, the last time i stood on a board. by the time i figured out how to do it again, i was exhausted (less than an hour, it took, to completely wind me. i decided i needed to get in better shape). so instead i watched adi carve the waves as if he’d been doing it since he was a kid (incidentally, he had been). he helped me find and repair an abandoned bicycle, my first (and only) step towards toning my muscles up. what a difference, though, to be able to get around by bike—soon my legs forgot the burn, and i was cruising all over the kibbutz on my rusty, cherished wheels. my cousin yoni announced his engagement and got married 3 and a half weeks later (yes, it can be done!), and the wedding was a great family affair. i pulled out my sewing supplies from storage and dabbled a bit, making a few trinkets and presents. i started spending time with adi’s family on weekends, enjoying not feeling completely out of place at a hebrew-speaking dinner table—his parents are from california, and raised the kids in english; his older siblings casually speak english and hebrew, not giving too much thought to either or, so i felt very comfortable alternating between my tentative hebrew, and my refuge of english. everyone in the ulpan kept telling me i needed to stop being stubborn and speak in hebrew, but it’s impossible to speak a language you don’t have the vocabulary for. i started to grasp the difference between active and passive language—i realized i could understand far more than i could utter, a classic step in the ladder of events leading to mastery of a language (i remembered this exact phase from my spanish studies, so i was bolstered and encouraged to be treading on familiar ground). the holidays were approaching, and life was impregnated with a sense of wonder and possibility. did i mention i danced my feet off? adi is an incredible dancer (he has studied contemporary, and some ballet, and currently dance theater which i think lets him express his “out-there” personality through movement), and we fast became each other’s favourite partner. not only did we cut up the floor at the kibbutz pub, he took me and some other friends to this random, beautiful club up in the carmel mountains (about a half an hour’s drive up, up, up a curvy, windy forest road)—the air was cool and fresh, the old hobbit-like building and courtyard made of cobbled stones, and the music unfaltering. we danced like fools under a canopy of stars, and for a moment i felt his solid gaze, and his familiar touch, like a new and daring question.
october: holidays and so, so much food. rosh hashanah, yom kippur, sukkot, simchat torah…one after the other, with days off school and so much time to laze around, tending to our fat bellies. adi and i are…confused. sort of. we spend all our free time together, and i have started staying over at his place (because, let’s face it, you can’t get much worse than my crowded, filthy ulpan room, and here at my disposal is a sanctuary with a big comfy bed and a place to cook my own food). i’m hesitant to start anything “serious” because i’m still coasting on this burst of freedom and selfishness, protecting myself from getting stuck in something i don’t feel ready for…and yet, we seem to be going ahead anyway. everyone starts asking if we are together, and our answer is always a shrug and a half-smile, like maybe we are, maybe we aren’t, but if we’re still in the dark well gosh darnit everyone else will be too. a few serious conversations later…our mutual respect and love for each other, as well as our bond of friendship, compel us to be brave and to brace ourselves to ride this wave without knowing how big or dangerous it might be. a lot of surfing metaphors arise. we agree to give it a shot. at his urging (and a major purging of the closet space), i pack up my things in the ulpan room and move in.
november: it’s bloody cold! the climate-control wars begin. adi, like most men i know, runs at a higher temperature and prefers to sleep with the windows open. i, on the other hand, can’t feel my feet. since i’m the one to get home first after school/work, i try to eke out some heat from the broken heater, wrap myself up in blankets, and get ready for the moment he walks in, says it’s too stuffy, and flings open the windows. we compromise: we keep them half-open at night, and i sleep with socks and a sweater in my down sleeping bag covered by two duvets, while he tosses around next to me, half-naked and sweating. this is the story of my life, but i think it comes as a bit of a shock to him…so, this month is all about learning how to co-exist in this itty-bitty space. mostly it’s fun, we watch movies and curl up, making winter cozy. i’m finally catching up in hebrew class, actually feeling like i’ve been improving, able to string sentences together (and make sense). work is work, the kids are delicious and infuriating; sometimes i am moved to another daycare with smaller tots, where cleaning and diaper-changing (which, up to now, i have managed to avoid) are the predominant activities. the babies are cute too, but i much prefer my kids, who walk and talk and (mostly) use the toilet on their own. it hits me that i should probably start thinking about what i’ll do after the program ends in december, when everyone leaves and a new batch rolls in, but i am happy here in this little niche. i don’t want to go yet. a lot of ulpanists want to stay and work, but one of the kibbutz’ biggest problems is housing: there is no space. i am one of the privileged few who have this nugget of good luck, a kibbutznik boyfriend and a room to live in—i can stay, i can work, i can be here for as long as i want. so it’s an option; i would also very much like to keep studying hebrew, to get my level up to qualify for university. maybe i’ll do a masters here? in…something? i still have no more clarity on that front that i did before i came to israel, but, i’m exploring all the options. i went with a friend to eilat for a few days’ vacation, to relax and check out the town, see if i could see myself living there at some point..i made a good connection with her israeli friend (who we were visiting), who promised she could find me work if i chose to move down south. it might be interesting, to work as a diver in the red sea, reconnect with that part of myself (sometimes, if i am overwhelmed or stressed, i close my eyes and imagine being underwater, hearing the fishes’ clicking conversation and my steady darth-vader-esque breathing…it is my most potent form of meditation). but eilat…it is so remote, so far from my friends and family, and such a strange place. dodgy vibes in the center, washed out people whose existence is pandering to tourists, always looking to make a few bucks; and the young crowd of workers who all hold tourism-industry or retail jobs are only there to save up money, nobody actually wants to live there long-term. anyway, i’m lining up my back-up plans in case life on the kibbutz, or with adi, doesn’t work out sometime in that nebulous future that awaits us all.
december: december?!? unbelievable. the program is winding down, and we can all sense it. some people are sad, others are rejoicing, and most are slacking off the way we used to in high school when the end was in sight. we’ve all had our in-class oral presentations (i did an hour-long meander through the history of sewing, ending with a hands-on workshop teaching my class an art they didn’t even know they’d lost), and the ministry exams are looming. i should be spending more time brushing up on vocabulary lists and reviewing the trickier grammatical rules, but it’s far too tempting to get into bed with snacks and feast on mindless hogwash (my current pick is “the vampire diaries”…it’s ridiculous, but i needed something to fill the void of “true blood”, which, let’s be frank, is even more ridiculous). when it’s nice out, i still go to the beach—i fell asleep in a T-shirt the other day, the sun warming my insides and sending me off into that hot soupy sleep you can only get from outdoor naps. the entire ulpan is going on an overnight trip to the negev (the desert) to swim in the dead sea, hike up masada (and a few other choice spots), and sleep all together in a big bedouin camp. part of me is dreading being herded along like cattle, being treated like an irresponsible child (as the majority of the ulpanists have proven themselves to be), freezing in the desert night, and worst of all, hiking in a group. i can think of few things i loathe more. nobody seems to appreciate my caribbean-adopted walking pace (which i have spent years perfecting to a slow stroll), but even less so on an upward climb with a goal. i pray for some redeeming moments: gorgeous views, bedouin tea and food, and maybe even some of that group bonding which i have so diligently dodged since the start.
well that about sums it up, and i can stop feeling guilty for depriving my faithful readers of snippets of my life, despite feeling somewhat narcissistic about the whole blog thing to begin with. i’m going to get back to my “living in the present moment” mode…l’hitraot!
everything is new.
i am writing from the slowly-dissipating haze of a late party night, coupled with the stiffness and soreness that are the price to pay for dancing barefoot like a maniac for hours. friday nights on the kibbutz are known for their riotousness, and last night was no exception. but let’s rewind to where we left off.
my processing through the bureaucratic hoops went extremely smoothly; immigration might be more popular if everyone’s experience is as efficient and painless as mine. my aunt dana helped me every step of the way, and i doubt it would have been as easy without her shlepping me to the various offices and bank branches to get sorted. nobody spoke any english—even in the absorption center, which, granted, was based in a heavily russian-populated area (the woman insisted i must speak russian, since my name is alexandra). the same problem arose when calling customer service: “press 2 for english” and lo and behold, the person on the other end speaks not a word! i have taken to keeping a translator handy any time i need to make a call to one of these offices for information. the one time i ventured out on my own in rishon, i needed to take a bus back to the house and couldn’t find the right station; i asked a few people who didn’t know, or didn’t understand my shy attempt at asking in hebrew. a woman broke her teeth trying to eke out a few words in english, then out of nowhere asked, “parlez-vous français?” i gave her a relieved and resounding “OUI!!” and after she recovered from her moment of surprise, she got me to my bus. for the millionth time, i mentally thanked my parents for putting me through french school. needless to say, i have come out the other end: i have a bank account, an israeli I.D. (meaning i am officially a citizen), and if the phone company comes through for me, a hooked-up number in a day or two. on with the show!
i spent a night and day in tel aviv, visiting with my cousins tamar and yoni and squeezing in an hour with my dear friend bat chen (those of you who have followed my adventures from the very beginning, she is the army girl i met on a bus a few years ago, and with whom i became fast friends). the city was crowded, and hot, and i couldn’t wait to get out of there. although it was exciting to see the “tent city” (about 450 tents set up along the entire length of rothschild boulevard in protest over staggeringly high rental prices and the overall impossible cost of living). according to yoni, the week before there had been 2 tents and a guy with a megaphone. now the spark has caught and these tent cities have flared up all over the country, with demonstrations being held and televised..the media is all over it, and there is a feeling of change among the youth. idealism at its finest: they camp out on the streets, bibi makes a speech, the officials stand guard, and slowly people will slink back to their lives with a renewed sense of contentment in their routine knowing that they “did” something. will things really change?
as my date to move to the kibbutz approached, i struggled with what to bring and ended up condensing everything into one small but heavy duffel bag. this presented me with a slight problem in the train stations, as there are rarely escalators but often endless stairs from one platform to another. dana joked that i would be perceived as a damsel in distress, and not to worry because someone would come to my aid—but she was right! an officer not only carried my burdensome bag for me (as if they don’t get enough of lugging heavy crap around), but chatted and laughed with me the whole way, ensuring i switched at the right stop and generally making the trip a whole lot less stressful than had i been trying to navigate it alone. i was reminded of how easy it is to make friends here, and how eye contact and a warm smile will often unlock a person’s kindness. sometimes it unlocks too much kindness, however: the director of the ulpan program called me to his office today, and said he got an email from an officer in the army who was looking for me, that i had forgotten something on the train, he had it for me, and could i please call him. i have unpacked everything, and i assure you, dear reader, nothing was left on that train. except, maybe, the officer. he gets points for effort, but next time i meet a kind stranger, i’ll tell them i live on a kibbutz in the desert.
i arrived at the kibbutz ulpan office and was ushered to sit down while another girl was being given the run-down. everyone was speaking spanish (this is a popular program for latin americans, but most of the staff speak spanish as well), and eventually the office lady asked me, in hebrew, if i spoke hebrew, to which i replied, in spanish, yes but my spanish is much better. shock! she couldn’t speak any english so our “interview” was conducted in español, and i was yet again thankful for my linguistic education. she seemed impressed by my credentials, and because of my experience working with small children, recommended i sign up to work with the toddlers and newborns. i am hopeful for this assignment, as i would far prefer taking care of the kiddies to folding laundry or being on the plastics factory assembly line. and i’ll take cleaning up kids’ poop over shoveling cow or horse shit ANY day. i was the first in my room, so had the privilege of choosing the best bed (out of three—it’s a tad cramped), and the pleasure of scrubbing the layer of grime off every possible surface. it’s amazing how quickly i became my mother, shifting into cleaning-frenzy overdrive. it’s not terrible—i’ve definitely lived in worse conditions—and i’ve acquired one roommate so far, a girl my age from the philippines who is also intent on keeping our space sacrosanct. so far, so good, though she doesn’t share my “if it’s yellow, let it mellow” flushing philosophy, and i will have to re-learn how to flush after every pee. it’s like throwing recyclables into the garbage—i cringe every time. the shower is in typical israeli style, which means there is no curtain, it’s essentially right over the toilet, you get absolutely everything wet and then try to wipe it all down with an oversized squeegee. i would like to have words with the person who invented such a thing. one of the best aspects of the room is the graffiti from bygone years of ulpanists, sharing advice and imparting crucial knowledge about which kibbutznik men to avoid like the plague. an excerpt from under my cubby: “don’t get with bernardo, he has the smallest penis in the world. avoid a soldier named ariel, he will try to rape you. never give niv your number.” and, in my closet: “girls: do us a favour and cut jono and miki’s balls off. thank you.”
i have yet to fully explore the kibbutz—it’s huge!—but what i have seen, i have loved. the kibbutzniks have been friendly so far, instantly recognizing a new face, welcoming us to the ulpan, wishing us luck. there is a sculpture garden with interesting pieces scattered throughout, and little flower gardens tucked away in corners overlooking nice views of the mountains. there is a petting zoo with monkeys and other loudly jeering creatures you can hear a mile away. the walk to the beach is about 15 minutes, across a land bridge through the kibbutz’s fish ponds, and the beach itself is perfect, clean and private and utterly spectacular with the carmel mountains in the distance framing the view. we hitched a ride back with a kibbutznik girl in a golf cart—she had just gotten her license, and a few times i was required to grab the wheel while she dug her ringing phone out of her pocket. the dining room experience was a bit chaotic, as nobody really told us what to do, but essentially you grab whatever food you want from the extensive buffet and are debited on our I.D. swipe card from the daily budget allotted to each person. since it was friday night, families were sitting together for their dinner, dressed nicely for shabbat—it felt completely different than anywhere i’ve been in israel so far. actually, it felt like a resort: good food, sparkling clean everything, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows facing the sea so we could watch the sunset as we dined. it was ridiculous.
the bar is 100m from my room, and on friday night it is open to people from outside the kibbutz. the crowd thickened around midnight, and the music blared until 4 in the morning; everyone danced and drank, and it was the epitome of a Good Time. i had been in serious need of a dancefest, not having partied like that since timmy’s beach-bar in the bahamas, and i was rewarded by my workout with sweat-drenched clothes and a new friend, mark from boston (also in the ulpan), who loves to dance as much as i do. we’ll be sure to exercise our dancing feet together at the next party (which, incidentally, will be my birthday). the gaggle of groggy-eyed ulpanists has dragged itself up and out, and is heading to the beach to roast in the sun; i am going to slap on some sunscreen and hit the “hof”.
the beginning (again).
trials and tribulations always make for good stories—and i’ll try to remember that every time a supposedly easy task goes awry (which i anticipate happening more often than not). it all started off too smoothly: no line at the US airways check-in desk, my 3 allowed bags passed the weight test, security and customs went slowly but surely, and i found delicious (and cheap!) sushi to settle down at my gate with to wait out my ample hour before boarding. three bites in, and i am being paged to the desk. i think, “this cannot be good”. the flight that, moments before, had been perfectly on time was suddenly delayed, which meant i would most likely not make my connection in philadelphia. clickety-clack went the attendant’s keyboard, and presto! i was on board an air france plane to paris. i had about one second of romantic elation at the thought of flying to paris before the lady at the desk informed me it was now time to RUN to go pick up my bags from the carousel, go through canadian customs (though i had not even left the airport), go back to departures and check in at the air france desk (which had a predictably long line-up), go back through the security checks…and, oh, i would now be sitting at the very back of the plane, and as it would happen, air france wouldn’t honour my third luggage provision and charged me $200 for the privilege. i had a minor meltdown at the check-in desk, and a borderline major one at the gate. i avoided making eye contact with anyone because the slightest hint of sincere sympathy might set me off completely, and it wouldn’t be the first time i’d made my fellow travelers uncomfortable by breaking down, seemingly unprovoked, into a mass of heaving sobs.
it had been an emotional past few days. lesson one (a reminder): things will be hard.
once on the plane, things started to perk up (well, i couldn’t get much lower at that point). i sat with a sweet irish girl my age, and our three hours of banter eased my mind off the stress of the build-up. she napped while i escaped to harry potter movie-land, and with an empty seat between us we took turns curling up in the middle. air france lived up to its heritage by providing swanky menus and free champagne, wine, and cognac (which we partook of whole-heartedly, though my salmon parmentier was more a mushy mass of powder-potatoes tasting faintly of fish, and the booze induced a fat headache rather than the intended drowsiness). the second leg of the journey was uneventful; i snoozed a good part of the way, comfortably crumpled up in my window seat, though i did impress my elderly row-mates by nimbly jumping over them, rather than force them to get up, every time i needed the loo. a lady in the row over clapped her approval; i must say i am proud of this skill, earned through years of practice.
we landed. i began to see life through the growing haze of accumulated travel-hours, that is to say everything took on a surreal quality as i glided through the movements. my processing through the ministry of absorption, still inside the airport, took only 3 hours—fast by my adjusted israeli standards. the stone-faced russian staff barely spoke a word to me, which was a bit disheartening, and slightly ironic since there is so much fanfare for the new immigrants on the publicized group flights—turn the cameras off, and they’re the ones doing you a huge favour. i quickly made friends with some young mexican olim (one of whom will be studying in the same kibbutz as i am), and a german woman and her 11-yr-old son who seemed considerably depressed stuck in this waiting room, ripped out from his 11-yr-old life in munich, isolated by the language barrier in a strange new land. he was so cute and pitiful, at one point i tapped his shoulder and handed him the bag of m&m’s i’d been saving—he looked at me with big eyes and asked, with a sweet little german accent, “fur me?” i nodded and smiled, and for a brief moment his face lit up. oh, the power of chocolate. my mom bought me those m&m’s at the airport in montreal, and i hadn’t had the stomach to eat them—mom, thank you. your contribution of $1.69 just made a boy’s difficult life transition a little bit sweeter. i hope that when he’s older, reminiscing about his aliyah experience, he will remember the m&m’s lady. the cherry on top was that i received an email from the agency that set up my flight (in reply to my situation update) that US airways would reimburse me for that extra bag charge. lesson two (a reminder): things work themselves out.
praise the lord, my three bags made it unscathed, and after being told to wait just 5 minutes (again, a readjustment: in israel this means at least 15), i was loaded into a taxi with a russian couple who could barely muster a few words in either english or hebrew. the driver turned to me to figure out where they were going, and after quite a bit of sign language, i actually managed to be a proficient translator—enough so that the driver continued chatting with me in hebrew even though i assured him i did not understand a word he was saying. after a few exhausting minutes of trying to keep up, i sighed and said “listen buddy, i speak english, french and spanish, and hebrew is next on the list, but right now i just can’t do it”. he took that in for a moment, cocked his head, and asked, “¿hablas español?” at which point my desire to communicate exploded into fully fluent spanish (which i KNEW was hiding in my brain somewhere!), and we had a heated conversation the entire rest of the way, covering every topic from philosophy to politics, the woes of capitalism to the weather in canada. despite the fat belly and pit stains on his grubby white T-shirt, he turned out to be a very nice, animated, intelligent man. lesson three (a reminder): things are rarely what they seem.
a shower and celebratory glass of wine later with my “aunt” and “uncle” (but really second cousins once removed, or something), i melted blissfully into bed. i would like to take a moment here to praise the perfection of sleeping horizontally. there is nothing in this world like it, and only when we are deprived of such a pleasure do we fully appreciate the extent of it. i enjoyed it so much, i remained that way for 14 hours. i was treated to lunch by my stand-in grandparents (my grandmother’s brother and sister-in-law) who are very russian, speak limited english, and in no language do they understand “i don’t eat meat” and “please stop feeding me i am seriously going to puke”. their couch was inviting though, so i felt it my duty to test out its horizontal-sleep capacity. it, much like the bed, was fantastic.
tomorrow begins the fun: attempting to open a bank account, and to set up a phone plan that will not bind me for years to an extortionist contract. thankfully my auntie dana (that’s funny—i just realized as i typed that that i have a [real] auntie dawna in montreal) is helping me through these hoops, and hopefully by the end of next week i will have completed all the important first steps before i move into my new accommodations on the kibbutz. more to follow as the trials and tribulations—i mean, stories—unfold!
hit and run: the art of making decisions.
you never know what each split-second decision will cause, what chain of consequences, unleashed and unstoppable, will determine the course of your life. i felt acutely aware of that tonight, driving home late from a theme party for which i dressed up as a partisan in chairman mao’s red army. i had been checking the minutes on the clock, debating whether i should leave or not. 3:14 was too soon; 3:18 made more sense. small details that seem enormous in retrospect. my thoughts flowed as i snaked along the roads: how i hate driving all the way downtown; how much gas this trip had used up on an ever-diminishing tank; how calmly and carefully i was trying to drive despite the roads being empty, reminding myself to just relax, to stop rushing; how i didn’t want to abuse the privilege of borrowing lorrie’s car, resolving to bike the rest of the weekend. and then, a decision: take the cote-des-neiges bus route, or go around the mountain on cote-ste-catherine, through sleepy outremont? i figure cote-des-neiges is closest but i miss the left-hand merge lane and get stuck at a red light instead, so then i figure since i’m waiting anyway, i might as well go straight on doctor penfield to take the scenic route i prefer. one light. two lights. i’m alone, it’s quiet. i come up behind a few cars stopped at a red, and as the green light flashes on i think about how i used to visit karen in her apartment on this corner. and then, as i’m cruising through the intersection lagging slightly behind the pack, i realize the car flying down peel is not going to stop, he is running through the red, ohmygod he’s going to hit me. i instinctively swerve but feel the impact smash into the back of the jeep, and i am stunned. the sound is so loud i don’t even hear it. i twist around to see a small green car full of hooting men shoot off down the street, without so much as a pause or backward glance. shock. did that just happen? really?? i pull over to the side of the road and take a few seconds to literally pull myself together, and i step out to assess the damage. there is shattered glass all over the road, a few large hunks of metal debris—but the jeep seems to be in one piece. well, the bumper in the back is wrong, like a broken bone misplaced and jutting under skin, and the tire is badly hurt, flat and mangled—it took the brunt of the smaller car’s force. i’m paralyzed, i can’t think of what i’m supposed to do now. a silver car pulls up ahead—two young guys come out to see if i’m okay. i’m okay. i’m okay! am i okay? yes, my heart is pounding out of my chest and i’m scared shitless but i’m fine. another car pulls over and one of the guys points, that’s them, that’s them—i say no, it was a green car. wasn’t it a green car? two black men step out and i ask, unsure, did you just hit me? a chuckle and a no, but we want to be your witnesses, we want to see that you’re alright. i borrow a phone and call 911, and in a smattering of french and english i give my story and am told to sit tight. one minute later a huge flatbed truck pulls up. my four self-appointed guardians are conferring with one another, recounting their own details, agreeing, disagreeing. i start to shiver and the youngest one runs to the silver car and grabs his coat for me. the tow-truck man looks over the damage and says he’ll send over a service truck to change the flat, so i should be able to drive home. we wait on the corner for what seems like an eternal suspended moment. i’m cold. i’m replaying the accident, over and over, slow-motion and yet still too fast to grasp. finally the police show up and again the report is relayed, the witnesses are questioned, briefly; nobody could see the license plate. of course i tried to check—i hate it in movies when nobody thinks to and it’s so clear, so obvious—but the car never stopped, and with my impaired vision i can barely read the names off street signs at night at a crawl, let alone catch a speeding plate number 30 feet away and counting. so there’s nothing they can do; there’s no investigation, no case—a classic drunken hit-and-run. the cops smile sympathetically and leave. the two black blokes wish me luck and leave. the two persian men, who had made their own split-second decision to stop and check on me instead of chasing after the culprit, said they would change the tire for me. i start digging through the manual: where are these mysterious tools, how many secret compartments does this trunk have, why won’t the jack come out now that we’ve found it? our fingers are getting too cold to be nimble. the new service man pulls up and after conferring with his boss over the phone, twice, says he’ll change the tire for $90. the guys look at each other, and me, shaking their heads—total scam, we’ll do it for nothing. more fussing about, but to no avail. they stop a taxi driver, he comes out, he knows the trick and releases the jack. there is a sense of cheer among the men, they are bonding in this mission. we must speak at least half a dozen languages between us and reflect just as wide a breadth of cultural diversity, and for some reason they’ve decided we’re all in this together. the awesomeness of this pierces through the chaos, quickly. then i am discussing my options with the service man; he is telling me if i don’t have a special lock key, i won’t be able to get the tire off, and i will need to be towed. i don’t speak the language of mechanics. i look in the car, i don’t know what i’m looking for and i don’t find it, and suddenly i am completely overwhelmed and too tired to care anymore about a hundred bucks and a stupid lock key, it’s 4:30 in the morning and i just want to go home. so i admit my defeat, thank and hug my friends—because that’s what they have become, sharing my plight these past 45 minutes—and resign myself to a binding agreement with this sad-looking, unhelpful, unfriendly tow man. he tells me if i pay him cash, he’ll take $80 and i say fine, fine, can i please sit in the cab now because i’m freezing here? he takes a few minutes to hook up the car and i kick myself for not making that left-hand turn onto cote-des-neiges, or driving slower, or faster, because this all could have been avoided with the simple tweaking of a few seconds—but then that same line of reasoning could have put me in a far worse situation, and through the false sense of security that comes with driving a tough truck, i am shaken with gratitude, i was lucky, god damn i was so lucky. and then i realize what i must have looked like to these people and the passing cars, a stranded girl in a chinese communist military uniform amid a sea of sparkling glass at the crack of dawn. it takes over half an hour to drive home at 45 km/h, but at least there is heat blasting at me and i can start hoping to see the end of this night. the sad man with an unfortunate lack of social grace clearly decides i’m the right person to talk to at 5 am, because he fights through a stutter to tell me about his two recent ex-girlfriends who both cheated on him, leaving him high and dry and missing the children they had brought into his life and abruptly took away. i had been upset with him earlier when he would not try to help get the jack out of my car, or even lend a flashlight to my flailing would-be saviours, insisting on his highly-priced services; now i just feel pity. my truck had been hit by a car; his life had been run over by a truck. when we finally reached the longed-for driveway in TMR, he surprised me by giving me his personal phone number with instructions to call tomorrow if i found the magical lock key—he said he would come back and change the tire on his own time, most likely for the free therapy session of revealing his deepest pains to a complete stranger. so the ordeal is done; the car is stowed safely, if not soundly, in the garage. i will break the news to lorrie, who happens to be enjoying ignorant bliss in boston. my hands were still shaking when i started writing this; now, i am calm, and the sun is rising against that perfect pale montreal spring sky. another day, as though nothing has ever happened. this was an experience. this was an adventure. the gain of knowing the universe is taking care of me through the support of strangers is worth more than the value of the inflicted damages; nothing was lost here but money.
naughty nimbin
a cacophony of feeding beasts wails in the descending darkness: frogs, crickets, birds, bats, and unknown nocturnal creatures make themselves heard as the day recedes and they assume their territories. i am walking up the short path from my studio bedroom to the main house, hair wet, cool in the fresh air, skin scrubbed clean from a glorious post-work shower. today was the dirtiest yet.
we are in nimbin, pot capital of australia, where the grass is green, my friends, and the hippies abound. what began as an age of aquarius festival in 1973 continued as a settlement and remains today a full-fledged community; some are drawn here by the alternative lifestyle, while others simply never left the good-time party. so we are here, not for the special “nimbin cookies” (which i hear are seriously good), but to take a good long break from the mainstream commercial bullshit of the tourist traps. we are wwoofing for a family with two kids, the youngest being a little bean of 3 who floats around proclaiming herself to be cinderellatinkerbell and tacking ‘naughty’ onto the end of her sentences, as in: “i want a glass of milk naughty” and “where’s my undies naughty”–the kids run around half-naked, come on, it’s hot here and they’re hippies-in-training. the house lies 5 minutes out of town (“town” being the main street with its cornerstone Emporium health foods, Hemp Cafe, and Bringabong, to name a few), surrounded by lush mountains and tropical trees, with a brand new lap pool we are helping to make nice-nice. it’s a gorgeous place, and in full process of being made gorgeouser (with the help of our willing hands, thank you). it’s been 2 weeks so far and we’re thinkin’, let’s stretch this till christmas shall we?
the heat has been turned up a few notches so what was a passably warm morning to work through last week has become a swelterfest by 10 am and we’re just not up to it. so today we just hung our hats and waited for the heat to burn off by reading in the hammocks and dozing. by 5 pm we had our work gloves back on and shovels at the ready. picture this scene: i am standing ankle-deep and barefoot in a huge pile of sun-warmed soil, heaving shovelful after shovelful into the reverse “wheelbarrow-of-plenty”–dom is so fast running them up the hill, as soon as i fill one up, he’s back with an empty one. so i focus on bending my knees, and the sweat is trickling down my back, and i’m humming some beatles tune when suddenly my thoughts drift to the accounting office i worked at in montreal, and i wonder if it’s business as usual over there under those cold fluorescent lights. probably. and nobody is covered in dirt breaking their back trying to lift another heavy load and bend your knees dammit oh god this is getting tiring–but then the sun is setting and something is keeping dom up there so i take a break and turn around to face that tell-tale sunset glow on the cliffs and green slopes, and i breathe deeply in, and out–yep. just another day at the office.
the promise of food is making my stomach growl in anticipation, and what do you know, “one more shovel” actually becomes “ok last one!” and that’s it, wipe the sweat from my brow, plant the shovel deep in the mud-mound, and hightail it to the house where a delicious shower and meal await. we’ve joked about staying for our whole year, but we both know we’ll tire of manual labour and want something else–the beaches, mostly–but for now we’ve got muscle to offer and it’s a fair trade…so we don’t think about the campervan, and we don’t make too many plans–we’ll just sit tight in our little pocket of paradise and hang on until the winds change and, like mary poppins, sail away to other adventures in the clouds.
ps. i know “gorgeouser” is not a real word, but i’m instituting it now, dammit.
sydney suckerpunch
the idea was to embark on an adventure without a plan, and let the winds guide us along. brilliant. how courageous we are, how carefree! well, i’ve spent the last two and a half weeks in a state of quasi-panic with my stomach in knots, dreading the not knowing. brilliant, indeed. the number one stress-inducer is the question, “where are we sleeping tonight?” we spent our first few nights in a backpacker’s hostel in bondi beach, which was great for its proximity to the sea but a black hole for our budget: a week’s rent could afford a month’s travel in india. there was also the inconvenience of being woken up every morning by the sounds of excruciatingly loud, brain-jarring jack-hammering and even louder workmen shouting at each other in russian. we were fortunate enough to find a couchsurfing host who has graciously accommodated us since, plying us with french cheese, strong coffee, and a wonderfully sarcastic humour. he has kindly offered sound advice on our campervan project, which has been the second-most stress-inducer consuming us since our arrival. despite dom’s comedic spin on the whole affair (read his blog!), our avid hunt has been quite un-hilarious. we made the mistake of becoming emotionally involved with the vans, and when the deals fell through, it felt like we were losing the promise of an idyllic life on the road. we’ve recuperated, however, and realized (with the help of our wise host) that there are hundreds of campervans with high traveler turn-over rates, so it’s just a matter of time before we find the right one and hit the road with our house-on-wheels. so…we bought a tent instead! (you see? i’m getting better at this whole door-closing/window-opening thing). the third biggest stress-inducer has been the obnoxiously loud, aggravatingly bustling, exceedingly unfriendly, ridiculously expensive, consumption-obsessed metropolis (i’ll say it loud and clear, and i don’t care who hears: sydney sucks*!). the nicest people we’ve met were from elsewhere, and every single person we’ve asked for directions seems to have their head up their ass and has no clue where anything is in their own friggin’ city, especially if it’s how to get there by foot (we’ve preferred walking, and have gravely offended people who’ve thought us preposterous and inexcusable for not taking the bus). though we’ve spent a few glorious days at the beaches here, the weather has been iffy at best and our sleep has had to compete with the endless traffic and all-morning demolition racket (a construction crew is tearing down the neighboring building, starting at 7am sharp, just our luck)…so we are planning our joyous escape with a rideshare up to byron bay (on the coast just before brisbane), where we can plant our new tent for a while and enjoy some warmer waters. despite our intended m.o., i am a shameless sucker for planning (i can’t help it dammit!), and have been in touch with quite a few couchsurfing hosts in various towns on the coast, which at the very least will give us some structure along the way.
so, to recap the trip so far: bloody long bumpy plane ride, buy-a-van attempt #1, stress, stress, turn-brain-off day at the beach, buy-a-van attempt #2, stress, self-medicate with calm walk in the park, day at the beach, check out some more vans, stress, visit the aquarium (stress about sharks and crocs and jellyfish), wake up and say “screw this noise!”, buy a tent, get out of town.
sound like we’re having a good time? well, we are, in doses that balance out the crap we have to deal with. everyone promises us that the beginning is always the roughest (i mean, who wants to bother with bank accounts and tax file numbers and learning the ins and outs of every state’s car registration/insurance policies? this is supposed to be fun!); so, we have solemnly paid our dues to the gods of western civilization and are gearing up to break free of our sydney shackles and tackle the wilder side of this immense and forbidding land. let the real adventure begin!
*disclaimer: this opinion is not shared by my more easy-going companion
+ alex's first "real" book
the fruits of my labours. only took me 3 years! feel free to browse (good luck reading the small print) and buy yourself a copy for your coffee table. (let it be known i’m not making any profit on this project—if it gives you pleasure to read it, that’s enough for me)
