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-

Reader beware, context is important.

It’s that time of year again, when Jews worldwide will soon sit down and eat cardboard flavoured matza, bitter herbs and of course, lots of rice but only if your forefathers were clever enough to figure out how to separate the wheat and rice grains in the market. Or of course gefilta fish if your forefathers were clever enough to figure out the worst possible way to eat a fish.

But this post is not about the spirit of Pesach that fills us over seven glorious bread free days.

On Wednesday our Overseas Program office ran a blood drive for students. A good deal of these students are not Jewish so the timing of this makes it just that little bit awkward given the fact that we are just a week or so away from Pesach.

Did I hear anyone say blood libel?

-the cynic-

Wearing My Grandma's Party Dress

Reading the two previous posts makes me truly appreciate my civil status. When you're in a relationship and never have to think about the art of dating, you tend to forget the downsides of being single. So thank you guys for making me see my relationship in a new light. It's been refreshing!

As interesting as this “Sex&the City”- way of blogging might be, I think it is time for a new topic. While other people exert themselves figuring out the secrets of dating, I have been working my fingers to the bone trying to put together a decent piece of work for last semester's term paper. Why is it that when I have some four months to write a paper, I never get started for real until the deadline is so close I can literally smell it? Is it at all possible for me to get a paper done without its due date breathing down my neck?

As a language major it hurts me to admit that writing academic papers isn't one of my strong sides. Yes I do enjoy writing, and yes they do teach academic writing at the igloo university of Oslo, still I must say I do not feel quite confident about the whole thing. What is considered common knowledge? When is footnoting necessary? Is it possible to over-footnote a paper? What is worse, over-footnoting or under-footnoting? Is footnoting even a word? If not, can I take credit for it and call it my own? Or will I be accused of plagiarism? All these questions are keeping me from freely composing a single sentence. And then, of course, there is the language barrier.

As you know by now, I am scared witless at the mere thought of having to express myself in English writing. As weird as this may sound, coming from a language major and all; foreign languages make me feel downright awkward. I loathe situations where I come across expressions like “a knockoff” and, confusing it with “knockout”, take it to mean something positive. It is amazing how this keeps happening to me still, after 17 years of learning English. I can't even get the spoken jargon right, so just imagine my encounter with academic English.

When writing academic English, I get the same feeling I used to get when I was 5 and got dressed up wearing my grandma's party dress. It kinda makes me feel grown up, it's sort of exciting, still something about it just doesn't fit.

In my despair I emailed my professor and asked him: how do I know when something is considered common knowledge? He emailed me back and said: good question, and as ever with good questions, what is the answer?

- The... Norwegian -

You only hide, because you know I'll find you...

I do sympathise with the gossiper’s ill fated adventures on the much maligned Israeli dating scene. While I do hold Israeli citizenship, I apparently must’ve missed that memo of Israeli behaviour.

That shouldn’t detach from the fact that buying flowers and asking a girl out doesn’t quite cut it anymore, for girls there is that ever elusive chase for a guy that will be creative when declaring his (sometimes over) admiration for you.

Even serenading her with a song you wrote on your guitar (something I’m sure Davide will do soon) is no sure bet that she won’t be put off. The ‘dating scene’ is heavily stacked in the female’s favour much to the dismay of us males.

It is perhaps because of these high standards that have been set in our generation that only those types that are creepy (and not in the Johnny

Depp kind of way) will approach the ladies with their fine pick up lines that mostly include some combination of the words ‘cute’ ‘number’ ‘coffee’ ‘no’ and ‘pressure’... I’m sure thanks to Anchorman, that list has been extended to include ‘I wanna be on you.’

I would hazard to guess that if the situation was reversed and it was the girl saying these things, the guy would want to have that moment framed to show all his guy friends what a champion he is by getting a girl’s number just by lazily sitting drinking coffee.

It is these high standards that have surreptitiously cast all the good intentioned guys only wishing to make that lasting connection with someone they deem worthy. Where before the creeps would be filtered out by these ‘good guys’, now they are the only ones that play the field.

Meeting a boy through friends in dangerous territory, you run the fine line between becoming friends which we all know is the bringer of death to any chances such a boy has in ever wanting something more in all but the rarest occasions.

So how can we negotiate these slippery slopes? Will flowers help now?

The answer to the latter is: yes, provided you are able to answer the former.

As someone who’s name conveniently eludes me once said to me, for men the key is confidence and not becoming too good friends so as to not blur the boundaries. Sound advice, but hard to implement.

I think what this person meant is that we should release our past burdens which anchor us to the shore when trying to set sail to another unknown destination. While we can draw from it, all too easily can we get bogged down in the one you never said anything to because you were too scared, you deemed yourself unworthy or they went overseas with no knowledge of your feelings.

All of these are immaterial and whatever the case may be, I believe that if we carried all our baggage with us, we would never make it to that unknown destination – we would just be stuck at port watching all the other ships take to the sea and disappear off into the horizon.

-the cynic-

On Psuedo-Dating:The Art of Dating Without Knowing it

Some say wisdom advances with age, yet I have discovered the opposite is true when it comes to dating. When we were young it was simple. A boy buys you flowers. He asks you out, holds your hand, and voila! You're dating. Unfortunately, at 25, I have found the dating scene to be overwhelming, confusing, and sometimes just outright disconcerting.

We hang out in groups, go out in groups. Saturday nights are no longer reserved for dating, but for friends upon friends upon friends. Within these massive groups of friends there are bound to be a few cases of sexual tension, but where do they go from there? Because dating has become such a casual sport, I find myself having trouble differentiating between a close guy friend and a real, live date. The two are so strikingly similar. What makes them different? The right glance? A brush of his hand on your shoulder? Him fronting the bill?

Lately, I've been finding myself in just those predicaments. I'll meet a boy through friends and we'll hit it off in a very natural way. We'll talk, we'll laugh... and a few drinks later maybe even flirt. But isn't that what I do with my guy friends anyway? So when it finally comes time for dinner or drinks, when its just the two of us... I'll stare at him and suddenly my mind drifts, and I begin to wonder: Is this a date?

Then there is the most dreaded of all situations: When you realize all-too-late that it is in fact a date! When your casual dinner plans for the evening takes the unfortunate turn of becoming a date, and you feel helplessly incapable of rectifying the bind you're in. You're half-way through dinner and suddenly a chill breeze of uncomfortablility envelops your body and you become stiff, a little panicked and just downright awkward. The pleasant conversation you were enjoying holds second place to the scattered thoughts racing through your head. Should I tell him I'm not interested? Wait, am I interested? Maybe... nono. I'm definitely not! Okay, so maybe if I act cold and distant it will turn into a friend date. Yes, that's what I'll do!

The rest of the night is a blur of anxiety, starring at the clock and hopelessly waiting to dodge the good-night kiss, run home, collapse on your couch, and sit in a daze of bewilderment, wondering how and when you missed the signs of this being a date. If this has happened to you, you're not alone. But worth mentioning is that I recently spoke to one of my guy friends, who admitted to me even he has trouble decoding his evenings out with girls, not knowing if they think its a date! And, for that, I blame all the boys who make it so impossible to infer what the hell it is you want. 

So, as painful as this is to admit, I'm a little grateful to all the Israeli men I've met who are outlandishly straightforward when it comes to dating. I have yet to meet a Tel Avivian boy who hasn't asked me out in an easy-to-follow three step process. 1) Stare at you intensely from across the room for about half an hour. 2) Declare he thinks you are cute and you must go out for coffee. 3) Get your number and call you within the next hour or so to make sure you know how excited he is about your date. While a tad creepy and a bit smothering, their honesty is aggravatingly refreshing. So, to all those Israeli men who I laugh at mercilessly, I have to tip my hat off to you for having neither the patience nor the tact to disguise your feelings.

I've successfully resisted the Israeli charm for the past five months, but perhaps opening that Pandora's Box will solve my problems. Oh, to consciously go on a date. It sounds wonderful. But then again, what's the fun in that? Where is the mystery and excitement I desperately crave when I first meet a boy I like. I don't think any amount of Israeli bluntness can satisfy that hunger. So, here's to hoping one of my psuedo-dates unfolds into something real. 

Happy hunting to me and all those who empathize with me. 

-the gossip-

Igloos and Polar Bears

Now that it has become evident which one of us is the cynic, I guess it is time for me to prostrate my norwegian-ness all over this site. I agreed to take part in this blog solely in order to prove to my good Moroccan/Canadian friend that I have in me the ability to express myself in English, however I have to admit that this whole blogging-in-English business has proved to be quite a nerve wrecking experience so far. What if the English version of Mie-on-the-web turns out to be such a flop that people will surf away from the site after reading no more than the headline of my post? What if my posts will be the only ones with no comments? What if my language skills prove to be of such second-rate standards that even my English will be labeled Snorkendorken from now on? Nevertheless, as the saying goes in Norwegian: nobody has ever captured a polar bear without leaving his igloo. Okay that is not really a Norwegian saying, but I assume my point is taken. I am hereby stepping out of my igloo.

As the single representative from the Kingdom of Norway in Tel Aviv University's international graduate program, I feel obligated to educate my fellow classmates (and the readers of this blog) on life in Norway as we know it. I am sure that deep inside all you non-Norwegians know that we do not live in igloos or have polar bears roaming around in our neighborhoods, still this is a question I think most Norwegians hear when they travel abroad.* To your guaranteed disappointment I will also inform you that not all Norwegians are tall, blond, blue-eyed and beautiful, though most of us are, of course. To you people who think Norway is the capital of Sweden, i have nothing to say.

Although we claim to be living our lives like people of any other average country, there are certain things we do have to struggle with which I have learned one can escape only by moving to Israel. First there is the crisp, refreshing air that fills the house on any summer day and makes the air condition redundant. Then there is the abundance of parking lots which makes having a car easy and enjoyable, and then there is the non-chlorine-tasting tap water. All of the above are things I haven't had to deal with in Israel so far, and you can all imagine my jubilation. I will admit, though, that what I really do not miss, is to be met by this every morning:

There are no limits to what we Norwegians have to put up with. After reading my draft for this post, my Israeli boyfriend of nearly 3 years turned to me with a puzzled look on his face and said: you don't have polar bears in Norway?

Israeli media (not the IDF) guilty of shooting first and asking questions later

Maybe certain members of the Israeli media establishment are trying to get back at the IDF for not letting them cover the recent Operation: Cast Lead in Gaza. Or maybe they are angry at how the Gilad Schalit saga has now surpassed its 1000th day.

Whatever the hidden reason may be, it does not negate the fact that by releasing ‘witness’ accounts in a special Haaretz ‘expose’ they displayed gross journalistic incompetence usually reserved for the likes of tabloid newspapers and Israel bashing professionals.

I say ‘witness’ and ‘expose’ because you have to sift through the rhetoric and emotive language to understand that this was part of a group therapy session for front line soldiers who took part in Cast Lead. Furthermore, this ‘expose’ presupposes that the IDF are trying to hide information or mislead the public with regards to the tactics used during Cast Lead and is also a sign of its tabloid nature. Israeli journalists have a close working relationship with the IDF, Foreign Ministry and Prime Minister’s Office – I guess they believed this story was worthy of sidelining such a relationship.

Haaretz did succeed in getting their story out to the world audience, headlines run along these lines:

‘Soldiers’ Accounts of Gaza Killings Raise Furor in Israel’
‘Israeli military to probe Gaza campaign allegations’
‘Israeli soldiers admit deliberately killing unarmed civilians in Gaza’

These headlines are complete with photos that are nauseatingly out of context and just make you want to sigh in despair.

But we must also ask ourselves why it took over a month for these to go public? According to the Haaretz report, the soldiers met on the 13th of February. The Haaretz report ironically did not wish to publish the names of the soldiers making these claims to protect them from public backlash, though they did not see a need to protect the other 98% of the IDF that also have a well earned reputation. They will not be spared the public backlash that will ensue in the coming few days – the vast majority of them will not even be present when this occurs on university campuses, editorials, blogs and human rights websites where they will again be unable to respond (not that anyone will listen).

These were stories after all, the soldiers did not actually carry out the events described in their debrief but that is not the point: There were tens of thousands of IDF soldiers in Gaza during the operation. That means tens of thousands of stories each with their own unique perspective on the conflict. Tens of thousands of incidents, near misses, confusions, lucky escapes and military operations.

Finally, without footage and IDF documents all that we can rely on now are these stories which shape and redefine our reality of the Gaza conflict – humans are after all storytellers. Good stories sell newspapers and make the headlines but I doubt that will be any comfort to the soldiers who fought in Cast Lead and to those who will say that once again the media has missed the boat on the morality of Israel’s conflict with Hamas - unfortunately for us it was a misguided member of the Israeli media but the world media did not (and will not) hesitate to follow suit.

The Joy of Joycing

I moved to the petite city of Tel Abiiib (Tel Aviv in Arabic) almost six months ago, and can say with a substantial amount of confidence that one of my favorite aspects of big-city life in this oh-so small city is joycing*. I bought myself a blue metalic beach cruiser that serves as not only a mode of transportation, but a therapy session. When I'm stressed from school and need to get some air, I joyce. I pedal my way from anxiety to pseudo-relaxation (the stress never really subsides until I finish my work, and no amount of joycing can alleviate that!). For the most part, my life consists of school, drinks with friends, and joycing. I love joycing more than I can begin to write in a short blog post, and I especially love my beach cruiser, though some of my Northern European friends beg to differ. 

One Finnish friend swears it looks like I'm pedaling a motorcycle when I joyce down my neighborhood street, Ben Yehuda. Joyce (the person) is a little more subtle with her critic, promising that it looks "cool" in a special kind of way. Then, of course, there is my most-trusted confidant and fellow blogger, Mie, who took one glance at my bike and exclaimed, "Wow! This is exactly the opposite of what I want in a bike! I want the super-thin, pretty one, you know?"

Owning a bike can be dangerous in Tel Aviv, because while the city is relatively safe to live in, the bicycle-thief industry is booming. Leaving your bike locked on a crowded street for over half an hour basically suggests you want someone to steal it. But owning a bike in Tel Aviv is especially risky for me because I'm apparently the worst joycer that ever joyced. Just this week I took three big spills. This is how a typical day has been playing out for me: Get up. Begin to joyce to school. Fall in some sort of embarrassing fashion. Eventually get to campus with a few minor scrapes. Limp my way through class. Joyce home. 

So you might ask: Why continue joycing? It is because you are hoping to one day be as tan (if not tanner!) than Joyce? Is it because you're too cheap to pay for real therapy? The answer is I just want to joyce. I choose to joyce! So, I guess, in conclusion, when you love something as much I do joycing, you should just go for it. Everything has a downside. There is no escape from that. But you love what you love, and chances are everything worth loving comes with a few scrapes and bruises. 

*Joycing (The one who joyces): To Joyce is the art of tanning and biking, named after my good Dutch friend Joyce, who somehow managed to get tanner as winter set in Tel Aviv. While Joycing typically applies to biking and tanning, you can Joyce while doing almost anything. For example, I joyced on the grass this morning, implies you tanned and lay on the grass, etc....

Hello, I speak English.

When co-writing (if that is a word) the previous post, the two native English speakers told me that there is no such word as gossiper in the English language. It is called a gossip, they said, and as a simple Norwegian who is learning new words in English every day, who am I to argue?

I could however not take their word for it (after all they both have serious bilingual/trilingual-issues), so I went home and secretly checked the Oxford dictionary.

Here is what i found:



Did I hear someone say snorkendorken?

Musings of distant traveller

This blog combines our vast experience in blogging Middle East culture and visiting coffee shops - some of which have roaches roaming freely through its premises, i have cynically termed these 'free range cockroaches'...

United by our love of Lost (though the Norwegian is a season behind much to our dismay) we embark on this blogging adventure.

The Norwegian may find blogging difficult so apologies in advance if the language comes out like snorkendorken - but she's a trooper who just took a personal day off life and has yet to come back.

There's a gossip in all of us - for her, gossip gets half way around the world before the truth gets its shoes on...

There's also a cynic in all of us - some more than others, so we (read: the cynic) will try to provide guides and tips for those wishing to gain an insight into Israeli society at its best and worst...

Watch this space.