When Moving Abroad Means Living Closer to Home...

I knew there would be obstacles when I made the definitive decision to pursue my Masters degree abroad - for example, the abhorrence and intrigue of anything that contrasts from your own way of life, ala the peculiar cuisine, social practices and the inevitable language barrier... But whatever I had prepared myself for, the one crucial factor I had neglected was the terrifying reality of living near (very near) my parents again.  

Though charismatic, my parents are also Jewish - and consequently critical of every aspect of my life. As an astute 18 year old, I knew attending University across the country was a quick way to independence, and have since managed to maintain -  if not elongate - the physical distance between my parents and me. This is probably why the challenges of living near family eluded me before moving to Tel Aviv.

I knew I wanted to live in Israel at some point, the only problem is my parents beat me to it. My father, Israeli, and my mother, Brazilian, were going through the all-american mid-life crisis, and reacted by moving to my father's homebase - Tel Aviv. Having settled into the city five years before me, they had also spent that time spewing compelling arguments my way in an attempt to get me to move here as well. Eventually I caved, which is inevitable when you have parents well-versed in the clever, persistent tactics of Israeli manipulation. Not only did they convince me to move, they also made me believe it was my idea.

It was only when I unpacked my bags and had my parents knocking on my bedroom door (in their house) every ten minutes that the reality of my new situation sunk in. Though I later moved into my own place, I am still bombarded by phone calls wanting to know nothing more than if I'm free for dinner (again this week). The usual critique/ jokes regarding my physical appearance, once reserved for our visits twice or thrice a year, have became a weekly ritual - which my friends enjoy a bit too much in my opinion. Then there is the  "we don't see you enough" parental tag line, an inescapable declaration to which my parents have assured me I have no suitable response.

Yet there are also perks to having them nearby. In contrast to my old place, my fridge now is somewhat filled with fresh food, complementary of my parents who "allow" me to steal fruit and baked goods from their apartment at my leisure. Not to mention my fancy hand-me-down furniture, which beats my poorly assembled Ikea furniture I prided myself on owning while in NYC. They are also there to aid me through the complications of foreign bills, banks, and all the financial problems in between, which make the cultural gap between Israelis and Americans almost unbearable.

 

But regardless of whether its good or bad to live near your parents, what I find disheartening is that for all intensive purposes, moving abroad has become for me an experience of moving back home. Well, not exactly like moving home. It's like when you're a kid and your family moves to a new neighborhood. Everything seems familiar, but also a little foreign. All my clothes and furniture have been shuffled and reassembled, and my favorite diners replaced by coffee shops bombarded by loud foreigners (or locals, depending on where you're standing). So while life abroad is filled with new friends and new challenges, for better or for worse, this new place feels an awful lot like home. 

To jog or not to jog

Over the easter/passover holidays I celebrated my teeny weeny little sister's 18th birthday, and it made me realize that I am definitely not getting any younger. To tell you the truth I have no idea what I've been doing all this time. One thing is certain, for a time there things weren't looking good for my grand plan of becoming a healthy human being with cucumbers in the fridge and worn out running-shoes by the time i turn 25.

So this easter I decided to start a new life. This basically involves more vegetables, less chocolate and a pair of happy looking running-shoes. I have become a jogger. I do admit there is more walking than running involved, but nevertheless, I am no longer a couch potato. There is, however, a few things I hadn't thought through before I started this new healthy hobby of mine. I will elaborate.


I don't know how this works in the rest of the world, but where I come from, in the modest yet glorious Kingdom of Norway, this is a golden rule: whenever a person goes missing only to be found weeks or months later lying dead in a swamp, a ditch, behind a tree or under the melting ice, he or she is always found by an innocent jogger.

Norwegian newspaper reports: "Jogger found dead person in the forest".

I am not sure I am ready for this. I am barely coping with the taste of blood in my mouth after running, and now I have to handle other people's blood as well? Isn't it a little too much to ask? To be frank, I'm pretty sure nothing takes the joy out of jogging like stumbling over a dead body. It would scare the jogging-urge out of me, thats for sure.

But there is more. In quite a few of the cases where a person goes missing and is found lying dead out in the wilderness, this dead person is in fact a once oh-so-happy jogger. He or she used to be a happy trouper, running around spotting dead bodies in the terrain, but something went wrong and boom! the hunter becomes the hunted.

So now I find myself forced to reconsider. Is jogging really worth the risk?

(The above pictures were borrowed from here and here.)

Lowest price guaranteed! Pt 2.

Getting your groceries

This is simple enough in any store right? Not so much.

This is where your stretching will come in handy. Trolley in both hands, you need to weave your way through the human traffic.

You will inevitably reach a point where you will have to decide on whether to move aside with your trolley to let someone through or play chicken, Shufersal/Mega/Super-Bonus style. Bearing in mind that most Israelis do not know the meaning of the ‘one metre rule’ when moving past someone in the street, upon deciding to move aside make sure to leave extra room.

Like any store, the fresh produce section is always the first one you encounter. There are some things that you must be aware of when trying to get your tomatoes or oranges. The first is old people. More exactly, old people that drop things – they can be very dangerous when wearing flip-flops (thongs for Australians) and a rock hard avocado comes hurling your way. The next thing to know is that if you’re planning to drink an ice cold Corona with a quarter lime in it there’s no chance you will find that elusive lime. For some reason, most supermarkets don’t stock them in Israel. The last thing to know is that finally enough the best produce is exported overseas (mainly citrus fruits to Spain) for absurdly high prices...in Euros...so don’t expect the best of the best.

So you’ve got your fresh produce, that’s great! The easy part is over.

When getting your bread, digging for the bottom piece is not recommended – it will always be the one that someone has taken a piece out of which you will only find out at home much to your dismay. So when buying bread, make sure to turn the item 360 degrees making sure no one has sneaked a bite out of it – again, old people are the prime suspect.

The meat and deli sections are also an interesting experience. You have to contend with people who are only there to taste test every single cheese that is on display as if this is their first time buying any sort of cheese. Be aware that the butcher will mostly ignore you until you approach them and make eye contact – such is customer service in Israel. Chicken and turkey is more loved here in Israel than the red meats such as beef and lamb. Unfortunately for me, as a lamb lover I suffer the most because lamb chops are around double the price anywhere else in the world. You can go for the frozen variety but supermarkets have been known to hold one year old stock of frozen meat – not exactly part of a healthy diet.

No one buys single items anymore, there’s always some 2 for 1 deal, half price for the next item if you buy 2, buy 3 and get the fourth free. Don’t be fooled, these are merely illusions in the way of the truth, the other brands are the same quality and a lower price. No supermarket in Israel is genuinely a benevolent organisation. The only reason things are on sale is that the consumer has not bought them so chances are they are crapilicious – or – their used by date is near so they must: Go! Go! Go!

At the register

So you’ve got all your groceries, ticked off everything in your list and now it is time to go to the cash register. At first you’ll be surprised by the fact that the cashier is sitting down with the bags nowhere near her/him (99% usually her). That’s right, you have to pack your own bags – I guess scanning items is enough to ask of a cashier.

Now, remember the lady we met walking into the store who was soliciting a credit card? Well she’s back, now with her final trick up her sleeve. The cashier asks her if she’s talked to me about a credit card. Her reply is that ‘He doesn’t want it but he’s missing out’. It is at this point that the cashier asks you whether the groceries you have placed down are yours.

So many sly remarks can be made here but it is best to just say ‘Yes...yes they are’ to avoid angering the cashier and an awkward few minutes. While she scans all the items make sure that you have enough plastic bags open so that there’s no grocery traffic jam created at the register. Israel hasn’t caught on to the green bags phenomenon yet so plastic bags are a plenty.

Luckily in Israel all items have a price tag on them so there’s no problem there if one doesn’t scan, it’s all those 2 for 1, half price and 3^rd item free issues that will inevitably cause the machine to crash forcing you to explain that this item is indeed on sale and you’re not just dishonest.

Well now that you’ve paid, got back to your car and put all your groceries in your boot/trunk – all you have to do now is survive the drive home. This will be the last part of the shopping series...

Watch this space.

Lowest price guaranteed! Pt 1.

Ah grocery shopping in Israel – who would have thought that something as simple as going to buy your groceries can be made so difficult by the simplest things.

This is a short guide to the perplexed and for those who are yet to experience the full measure of grocery shopping in Israel. In this first instalment, we will have a look at finding a parking spot and entering the store. More to come next time...

Finding a parking spot

For some reason, and this is beyond the realms of science, Israeli culture forbids anyone to park within the allotted white lines. Parking techniques vary from:

‘I just turned my wheel and stopped the car when I heard a bump’
‘There were three spots available, I went ahead and took all three because I need my space’
‘The car next to me wasn’t straight so in the interest of continuity I parked the same way’
‘It’s ok to mount the curb and park there because...well just because’
‘My driving instructor only had time to teach me how to turn into a parallel parking spot, and not how to break the wheel’
‘Hey there’s a gap between the cars, I’m just gonna go ahead and park perpendicular to both cars’ (A Tel Aviv University special)
‘Red and white on the curb means I can park, right?’
‘Blocking the fire exits is fine as long as you have a fire extinguisher in your car’
‘My van can fit there right?’

Ok so you’ve found a parking spot, good for you! Make sure that your car is far enough from the trolleys (sorry: shopping carts right?) but not SO far that you can’t be bothered getting a trolley yourself.

Make sure your trolley is suitable for quick manoeuvres in tight spaces and is fitted with the latest ABS brakes and air bags, you will need them. There’s nothing worse than a drunk trolley that always moves left or right but never straight.

Have a look out for any suspicious people who are prone to wayward trolley crime. Some prime suspects include – everyone that is holding a trolley at any particular store. Ironically, measures taken to reduce wayward trolley crime have been ineffective in this country, how does that old saying go... trolleys don’t hit cars...people hit cars?

Entering the store

It is suggested that you warm up and stretch all your muscles beforehand, parking away from the store and jogging there will do the trick – you’re not going to find a closer spot anyway so you may as well.

Passing the security guard is easy; he/she will check your bag and move you into the store.
A note here for all males with a side bag – to avoid any awkward moments when said security guard reaches under your bag to feel what’s inside, have the bag on your hip not square under your stomach, security guards invariably feel for something round without looking.

If you thought that once past the security guard you can go ahead and do your shopping you are sadly mistaken. You have one final hurdle to overcome:

‘Would you like to sign up for a Shufersal credit card?’

Yes, there is no organisation I would want handling my credit more than a supermarket...

‘Those with Shufersal credit cards enjoy great savings on sale items!’

It is at this point that you kindly tell the lady you don’t speak any Hebrew – she will leave you, for now.

Well now you have successfully entered an Israeli supermarket, you’ve managed to find a parking spot, get past security and credit sharks, well done!

Tune in next time when we will go over finding your groceries, moving between the aisles and paying for your groceries at the counter...

Peace and Love, the Norwegian Way

It's been a couple of days since I last put on my blogger-outfit and wrote a sparkling post for our famous blog, and the reason is of course the veggie vs. meat conflict. While the cynic and the gossip engaged in a blog post war, I have been standing on the side line like a true Norwegian, trying to get an overview of the situation in order to later lend a hand in the peace talks. As you all should know by now, Norwegians are born with two things:

1.Skis
2.Mad negotiation skills

This is why, in every conflict possible, Norway butts in and force the arguing parts to shake hands. Suuurely you all remember the glorious moment in 1993 when Norway at last made peace possible in the Middle East?


It was during the famous Oslo- accords that the Norwegians introduced their new negotiation style: “Hey hey hey, don't fight! Let's all go home to my place and I'll wait outside while you sort out your problems. Later I'll give my friend full credit for the whole achievement.”

Norway as a country take great pride in being everybody's friend. Your friend. My friend. Palestine's friend. Israel's friend. The underdog's friend. We Norwegians like to think that we are tolerant and awesome, and that everyone should strive to be like us. And we do not like war. We live in our safe Scandinavian bubble and condemn everyone who uses a weapon to fight, nearly regardless of the cause. We want everyone to have peace, love and freedom just like we do, and whenever Israel goes to war, we feel comfortable enough in our friendship to tell them that they are wrong and should bring the Palestinians to our place and talk it all out. It is the Norwegian way.

This week, however, Norway's self-esteem suffered a serious blow when the famous Israeli newspaper The Jerusalem Post put Norway's friendship with Israel to the test by publishing an article in which the Norwegian foreign minister was accused of having yelled “death to the Jews!” in a public demonstration rally in Oslo during the Gaza war. (Long sentence! I dare you to analyze it and translate it into Arabic with the correct case endings and helping vowels.)

This inane article basically suggests that Norway is now the #1 anti-semitic country in Europe. As a gentile, I can't attest to what life is really like for the Jews in Norway, all I can do is to carefully footnote my sources when I say that I think the journalist needs to get her facts right; the article was removed, fixed, and published again after complaints from Norwegian Jews who walk the streets of Norway feeling perfectly safe. And about the “death to the Jews”- incident: our foreign minister of course never said anything of the sort.

In conclusion, Norway is awesome, and the media is to blame for all the madness in the world. All I can say is that today's journalists could really learn a thing or two about footnoting. And to my dear partners in blogging: I invite you to my place for a peace talk- barbie in the near future. Bring your meat and vegetables.

I'll have the meatlovers thanks

'Eat Lamb on Australia Day!'

That was and still is the theme of every January 26 since 2005 when the lamb industry in Australia decided to go on the offensive against those 'health' experts claiming our love affair with meat was causing Australians to be morbidly obese.

For the record, Australians are per capita the fattest people on earth, higher than the US so at least we can claim to be a world leader in something 'substantial'.

I can't imagine a world where we would all be eating vegetarian food, I mean it's OK as a side dish, or mixed in with meat but on its own?!

There's something magical about cooking your own piece of lamb to perfection, its juicy red meat sizzling with flavour. Imagine cooking a vegetable... just wait until it shrivels up enough and has lost all flavour for it be cooked. Then throw enough teriyaki/soy sauce on it until the vegetable surrenders.

Imagine for a moment what an Australia day barbie

[not the doll for those blissfully unaware] would be like.

Instead of eating lamb chops, sausages, steak, burgers and chicken wings all that we would be left to cook would be things we thought were named after some sort of chronic illness:

Brussels sprouts, kohlrabi, leek, parsnips, rhubarb...

'Yeah man, I came down with a bad case of parsnips it was horrible'

'Those brussels sprouts can get really itchy'

If you are a vegetarian you can't have some beer with your meal either, it just doesn't work.

And what about the meat pie!... the sausage roll?! Or the late night hot dog with cheese and tomato sauce from Harry's Cafe de Wheels [google it if you're not from Sydney]. Or if you're really crazy: a meat pie with potato, gravy and peas on top.

It's not just eating the meat, it's the whole experience and culture around it. I can't imagine myself sitting with my friends eating late night broccoli outside Harry's.

So I return to my original point, eating veggies is a good thing, but by themselves - no way - no amount of deep fried falafel will induce me to turn away from meat for a supposedly guilt free diet.

After all, 'throw another 'broc on the barbie' doesn't quite have that ring to it...

Eerie Poem with a Sweet Message

None of us have time to blog as papers are due days away, but I wanted to share a poem I've been thinking about recently, Robert Browning’s “Porphyria’s Lover.” The poem trails a man who sits alone in his cottage one stormy night when the object of his affection, a beautiful and high-class maiden, Porphyria, storms into his abode. Porphyria warms the small home with her fair beauty and a shocking confession – she loves him too! She offers herself to him for the night, but admits because of her higher position in society, she could never marry him. 

Consumed by her confession, the purity of their love, and their love’s inevitable squandering, Porphyria’s lover strangles her with her own hair. He then spends the latter of the night holding her in his arms, basking in the moment. On the surface, Browning’s poem appears to tell the tale of a madman who without a sufficient motive kills his lover. However, the story is actually a love story about a man, who discovers a way to capture fleeting love forever, and saves himself in the process.

And, no, I don't think you should kill your lovers, but I think the ultimate idea of the poem is rather enchanting. Come on, if you could capture those short-lived, passing moments, wouldn't you? Anyway, hope you all enjoy it!

Porphyria’s Lover by Robert Browning

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm'right-tops down for spite,
and did its worst to vex the lake:

I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied

Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,

And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,

Murmuring how she loved me--she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,

And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale

For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew

Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again

Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:

I propped her head up as before
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,

So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how

Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet god has not said a word!


-

A Vegetarian Life for Me: And 5 Reasons You Should Kill to Be One Too

Two weeks upon landing in this controversial little country of ours, I decided to become a vegetarian. Coincidentally, I've also been single for the same amount of time - so you can say I've been off meat for about six, seven months? However, unlike being single, I love being a vegetarian.... mainly, because I'm not one: I'm a pescetarian. For you foreigners and poor English speakers, a pescetarian is much like a vegetarian, except I eat fish. 

Which brings me to the number one reason I'm devoted to vegetarianism: nothing aggravates a vegetarian more than a pescetarian parading under the guise of a vegetarian. A good day is when I confess my vegetarianism to a dinner party, only to detect another vegetarian in the shuffle. At first they give me a nod of acceptance. I've made it into their exclusive, psuedo-superior club, and for a brief moment we connect. They respect me and I identify with them. Then it comes time to order. They order a vegetable salad, or something equally trivial, and I proudly ask for the salmon... no, wait, how is the Denise today? As I finish up my order, I feel the vegetarian's eyes, filled with rage, drilling a hole through me, waiting for the right moment to pounce and ask again: "Wait! I thought you were vegetarian?!"

Appearing confused, knowing all the while it's fueling their anger, I causally respond, "Yeah... I sort of eat a little fish.  They don't really count anyway, do they?" This of course prompts the whole, why did you become a vegetarian conversation, which brings me to reason #2 being a vegetarian rocks. I have no explanation for converting into one. I have no moral qualms with killing animals for meat. Are we not on the top of the food chain? 
Then there are the environmental reasons, which, sure, make me feel all do-gooder on the inside, but I wouldn't necessarily admit that's what propelled my vegetarianism. In short, I'm vegetarian because I choose to be one! I've never been such a big fan of meat. And in Israel, since kosher-ness (or Kashrut, for Hebrew speakers) is such an issue, restaurants offer great vegetarian - and pescetarian - alternatives to dinning out. Goat cheese sandwiches with tasty vegetables, falafel, fresh fish. What more could you want?

But there is also the matter of dining in. Eating at a friend's place can be slightly problematic, especially once they learn you're a vegetarian merely for argument's sake. But this brings me to reason #3 this new-found life is living at its core. When you're starving and food you can nosh is sparse, you have to make do with what you've got. It's an excellent exercise of will power (I know, I have psychological issues. whatever). Then there is the response I reserve for the most special of occasions:"Oh, I don't eat meat because no one in Hollywood does anymore. I heard Carrie Underwood is off meat too!"

This brings me to reason #4 I'm a vegetarian, and so should you. You don't have to eat bad meat. As student at Tel Aviv University, most of my friends are subsequently students, and thus, we are all living on a student budget. Which means, clean and tasty meat is a delacacy, and for many of us, an urban myth. Being a vegetarian means you also spend less on food, and escape becoming deathly ill over middle-eastern meat gone wild, the worst of all bad meats.  

Thus, saving money on food and unnecessary hospital visits only leads to one thing: More money for alcohol, and reason #5 you could/ should live better. I believe all roads in life should lead to the consumption of liquor, and, vegetarianism is like a highway to that ideal.  

If you are not fully convinced you should be a vegetarian, this should be what tips the scale. No meat equals one free drink a night. Seriously! 

So, next time you're about to pick up a tasty, chewy, and bloody piece of ribeye, I hope you remember these rules for saying good-bye to meat, and make the obvious, positive choice. Plus, Carrie Underwood really doesn't eat meat... just in case that influences your decision.

Love,

A vegetarian who cares... about herself

On etiquette...

It seems as if Generation Me are living up to their name. Leave it to the cynic to find out the hard way.

I was all packed and ready to go up to my weekly escape in Haifa for the weekend when I began to make my way out of my dorm room.

Delighted that this meant another week gone by in the worst maintained buildings on earth - I lifted my bag [ I mean a medium sized suitcase that looks like a sport bag] remembering to bend my knees and lift with my legs like a good OH&S person will tell you.

Riding this wave of relief I proceeded to walk down the stairs and make my way to Arabic class when I was greeted by not one, not two, not three, but yes, FOUR girls who wanted to make their way up the stairs.

Totally ignorant to the fact that:

1. my bag was horizontal and they could not fit past me

2. my bag was 20 kilos (44 pounds for those that use that archaic system)

3. I was the one coming down the stairs

The first girl managed to squeeze past, the second barely, the third forced me to move my back and scrape half the wall with what is likely carcinogenic paint.

Finally comes the fourth girl, I thought maybe... JUUUUUUUUUST maybe they would realise that a person carrying a bag down the stairs means you should move aside so they can get through...

But alas - this did not take place as I had to again stop because this girl somehow managed to walk under my bag.

That wasn't the end of the story though, oh no...

It was at this point that those people who realise they're wrong and just move on keep walking up the stairs but I was met with howls of "DUDE DUDE DUDE"

"Yes?" I enquired, still holding my bag.

"You could've said sorry," the girl said.

"It would've been easier had you moved aside," I replied.

The girls walked up the stairs but not before the foul cry of "Asshole" rang out and echoed through the stairwell.

I, like the normal person I am went on my way putting it down to just a freak series of events and thought nothing of it.

The roommate above me was then asked whether I was his roommate at which point he saw these aforementioned girls knocking on every door trying to hunt down the guy who had the audacity to walk down the stairs with a heavy bag hoping someone will move aside for two seconds to let him through.

I simply ask where do you draw the line when you decide to move aside or just walk past someone?

Did I need to be carrying a fridge for them to move aside?

Or maybe a plasma screen?

Or maybe the answer is just hold your heavy item until people walk past you.

Here's to one less week of having to carry my bag down those ill fated dorm room stairs.

L'chaim.

- the cynic -

The Afikoman vs. The Easter Egg

In the midst of this paper-ordeal, I am distracted by sweet thoughts about the upcoming holiday. While the Israelis prepare for passover by ridding the country of wheat and its like, I am preparing myself to go home to good, old Norway to celebrate easter. This year, easter and passover fall conveniently on the same dates, and I get to leave the country without missing valuable lectures in Arabic and other Middle Eastern peculiarities. I am free to explore the ski tracks of the snow- covered Norwegian forests without having to think about heavy grammar, impossible shadda's and squiggly letters. I will embrace the piles of yellow easter chickens that will fill each and every house and store, I will take a deep breath and finally relax.



Around three years ago, I came to Israel to visit my boyfriend's family for the first time. It was easter and I packed my bags feeling lucky that I would escape the holiday-closed Norway and spend my vacation in exciting Israel. I had no idea passover would be even more holy and strict than the easter I was used to, in fact I had no idea about passover at all. My boyfriend had informed me that there would be a family dinner, and although nervous, I felt confident that I would at least survive it.

Little did I know that passover dinner, the Seder, is not even comparable to a normal dinner. When the eggs and the salty water and what not were passed around and my boyfriend's family was reading the Hagada (the story about the Jewish liberation from slavery in Egypt), I didn't know what to say, let alone what to do. I watched as the youngest one got up on her chair to sing some odd song, and devoid of anything better to do, I took part in the clapping. I ate the grayish gefilte fish and did my best to hide the fact that I thought I was going to die. My first Seder dinner still stands as the most obscure encounter I've had with a different culture.

If you're not Jewish, moving to Israel can be confusing to say the least. Luckily for me, my boyfriend's family is what I would call extremely secular, something which in most situations has made my encounter with the Jewish/Israeli world easier. As an ignorant gentile I have had to learn the customs and traditions from scratch, and after all together 2,5 years in Israel I can finally say that I know a thing or two about Jewish holidays and traditions. I am no longer surprised when I, on what I assume is a normal week day, enter the super market only to be met by huge “happy holiday”- signs. After all, this happens at least once a month. I have even learned to like it.

Passover can be quite nice, so why am I so happy about going back to Norway for the holidays? What can the yellow easter chickens and the fluffy easter bunny possibly offer me that passover can't? The answer is simple. When having to choose between the Afikoman (a piece of the cardboard tasting matza bread our beloved cynic wrote about in the previous post, wrapped in a napkin and hidden around the house for the kids to search for after the Seder dinner) and any average candy-filled easter egg, I'd be out of my mind not to choose the latter.




I will admit that the whole easter bunny – thing is weird and somewhat disturbing, but as long as those eggs keep popping up around my garden, I simply can't, and will not, complain.

-The... Norwegian-