The Jewish Journal; May 26, 2005
Click here for original
My only decent pair of glasses broke en route from Los Angeles to Israel, and I took it as a sign -- it was time to for corrective laser surgery, a.k.a. LASIK.
"Make sure on the day of surgery someone comes with you," the Israeli receptionist said to me after I set my appointment.
Great. Who would I call on to come with me? If I lived in Los Angeles, someone in my family would have shepherded me. But I wasn't comfortable asking my family in Israel to escort me.
Since I'd be wearing eye patches after the surgery, I'd at least need someone to pick me up. And since I'd be done at 4 p.m., I asked my friend Tovy to leave work an hour early to pick me up. She said it was no problem.
The surgery day arrived. As I waited on the sofa in the main office, I saw a young woman leave the surgery room with her eyes covered, her boyfriend holding her hand, guiding her.
How nice, I thought. He'll probably make her tea when she gets home and sing her a lullaby.
I don't need anyone, I thought. However, I did need a valium, and lucky for me it was procedure to give patients one before the surgery.
The nurse sat me down outside the surgery room and dropped an anesthetic into my eyes. I saw the blurred image of a teenager across from me.
He had just had his eyes zapped.
"How was it?" I asked.
"Scary," he said.
"Really?" I asked, surprised.
The doctors, technicians and receptionists all made it sound like the surgery was simple, quick and painless.
Then his father took his hand and led him out. That's OK, I thought to myself. I still didn't need anyone to hold my hand.
When it was my turn on the operating table, the doctor pried my eyelids open with a metal tool and then stuck some sort of lens onto my eye.
"You shouldn't see anything now," he said. "That's normal."
A round cylinder latched onto the lens and mechanically cut a flap on my cornea; this created a window for the laser to enter. As the machine cut my cornea, I saw black and white circles, as if it were twisting and turning my eyeball.
He repeated this procedure on the other eye. I dug my fingers into my thighs to channel the pain elsewhere.
"Now, we are moving onto the laser portion of the surgery," the doctor said. "This will be less painful."
"You mean it's not over?" I asked.
"Almost."
I stared above and green and red dots of light seemed to shower my bullied eyes. As the laser sculpted my cornea to perfection, I heard a buzz and felt hot splatters my cheeks.
Done but dazed, I limped to a reclining chair in a post-op waiting area.
"Keep your eyes closed," the nurse said. "Is someone here with you?"
"She's supposed to come," I said.
It was 4:15 p.m. and no sign of Tovy.
Unable to look outside, I looked deep inside: Wouldn't it be nice to have a dedicated boyfriend right now? A real partner? Why have I shut out love for so long? Wouldn't life in Israel be easier if I opened myself up to love -- not just a romantic thrill -- but to a supportive, loving man who will hold my hand in times like these?
Where the hell is Tovy?
Tears started gushing down my face. They were supposed to be a natural side-effect of the surgery, but they seemed exacerbated by my momentary, stinging sensation of loneliness.
"Tears are pouring," I told the nurse.
"Excellent," she said. "Make yourself cry."
This was one of those rare moments when it's good for your physical health to bawl.
Tovy had trouble finding the office. When she finally arrived, she held my hand and comforted me. The tears continued to stream, but they had transformed from tears of loneliness to tears of healing. I had my health, I had good friends and I no longer had four eyes.
Maybe now that my eyes are fixed I'll be able to envision a true and lasting romance. But it will probably take more than 10 minutes with a laser beam to smooth out my heart's irregularities. And yet as I begin to see the world and myself more clearly, I think maybe it'd be nice to have someone hold my hand and, sometimes, wipe my tears.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Enemy Ties
The Jewish Journal; March 24, 2005
Click here for original
I hadn't been to a Tel Aviv bar for a while, and I was craving one. I had recently returned from a vacation to Los Angeles, where there were no worthwhile singles bars. Last call for alcohol in Los Angeles is 2 a.m., and a good Jewish girl like me prefers to pick up and be picked up by Jewish men.
That's why Eliezer, a new bar on Ben Yehuda Street, was a relief for me and also for my friend, Tali, who had just returned from her native Melbourne. Inhaling the smoky air and swaying to the rock music, we reveled in the dozens of masculine men around us.
"Welcome to Israel," we proudly toasted. "Where you know the men in the bars are Jewish."
A beer and two vodka shots later, I let my guard down and scoped the scene, looking for hot prospects. Gradually a group of short, stubby men surrounded us. I sighed. None of them had been on my radar, but, nevertheless, we all danced and laughed and flirted.
Suddenly, a man in a gray shirt and gray tie walked in. I was not particularly attracted to him, but I noticed that his tie was practically strangling him. I gestured to him to take it off. We were in a bar, not a conference room.
Tali and I continued to dance and flirt, and the man in the tie passed us by, stiff-necked. I motioned to him again to take the thing off.
Finally, we headed out to go salsa dancing, and I noticed the man in the tie had taken it off and began waving it like a flag, signaling me over.
"Congratulations," I said. "That's much better."
"Where are you from?" he said in an unidentifiable accent.
"I'm from Israel, but originally from L.A.," I said. "Where are you from?"
"I'm Palestinian."
"Oh," I said. "Palestinian."
No wonder he wore a tie to a bar. Israelis just don't do that.
"Are you Jewish?" he asked.
"I'm very Jewish," I said proudly.
There I was. Face to face with the enemy, in a Tel Aviv bar. I immediately recalled the Stage nightclub bombing in Tel Aviv a week earlier, and I looked for a backpack strapped to his waist, but he was strapless. I was safe, but I couldn't help but provoke confrontation. I wasn't about to be fake or polite or cordial just because he was Palestinian. A Tel Aviv bar, to me, did not provide sanctuary.
"You know, I'm very right wing," I said.
I didn't think he understood what I said or what I meant, or maybe he didn't want a bar brawl, because he ignored my comment and instead asked me where I lived.
I almost made myself more explicit by adding: "If I were a soldier with a gun, and this were a battle line, I would shoot you. By the way, I entertain the idea of transfer."
But I stopped myself. This was a bar, I reasoned. He wasn't the enemy, he was a descendant of Abraham who wanted to break Islamic law and have a drink. I had to respect him for that. So I dropped the politics and told him I lived in Tel Aviv.
"Israeli women are hotter than Palestinian women, aren't they?" I said, trying to find some common ground.
"No, no."
"Why, do you like it when they are covered from head to toe, with those veils?"
"Well, women in Ramallah are not so hot. Yes, Israelians are hot," he said awkwardly.
It seemed like that was the first time he used "hot" in that context.
I told him I had to go, and he presented his tie and said: "For you."
"What?" I said. "I can't take this."
At first, I felt bad. It looked expensive, and don't most Palestinians live in dire poverty?
Then I thought about the implications: I take this tie, and my hands are tied. I'd forever have to remember that one night a Palestinian gave me an expensive tie, and that he was nice to me. I'd have to question all my stereotypes and generalizations, and recognize that there are good, normal, generous Palestinians who just want peace, who just want to be my friend, who just want some fun.
I couldn't take the tie.
But then I looked down at its elegant striped pattern. It would look smashing with a white tank and hip hugging jeans, I thought. He insisted, so I gracefully accepted.
"Thank you," I said, smiling, and blew him a kiss.
As we sauntered out, Tali, a pro-peace activist, said, "You see, they're not all bad. You'll switch sides."
"Hmm," I said. "Maybe."
As long as I felt good and stylish with the tie on, I couldn't resent the fashion benefactor or his people.
I woke up the next morning, both me and the tie hungover in bed, alone.
I glared at it, frightened. Is this the first step toward my own private reconciliation with the Palestinians? If I keep it, is it a personal symbol of possible peace? Or should I just burn the thing?
Eventually, I hung it in my closet as the accessory that will forever go down in my wardrobe as "the tie the Palestinian gave me." It's not an enemy tie I'm ready to make, but it's an enemy tie I'm ready to wear.
A friend told me that wearing a tie is a proven pick-up technique. It worked well for Abbas. Maybe it'll work for me.
I'll wear it next time I go to a bar. And when I do, I'll use it to pick up and tie up a hot Jewish Israeli man, and I'll have a Palestinian to thank for it.
Maybe then we could start talking about reconciliation.
Click here for original
I hadn't been to a Tel Aviv bar for a while, and I was craving one. I had recently returned from a vacation to Los Angeles, where there were no worthwhile singles bars. Last call for alcohol in Los Angeles is 2 a.m., and a good Jewish girl like me prefers to pick up and be picked up by Jewish men.
That's why Eliezer, a new bar on Ben Yehuda Street, was a relief for me and also for my friend, Tali, who had just returned from her native Melbourne. Inhaling the smoky air and swaying to the rock music, we reveled in the dozens of masculine men around us.
"Welcome to Israel," we proudly toasted. "Where you know the men in the bars are Jewish."
A beer and two vodka shots later, I let my guard down and scoped the scene, looking for hot prospects. Gradually a group of short, stubby men surrounded us. I sighed. None of them had been on my radar, but, nevertheless, we all danced and laughed and flirted.
Suddenly, a man in a gray shirt and gray tie walked in. I was not particularly attracted to him, but I noticed that his tie was practically strangling him. I gestured to him to take it off. We were in a bar, not a conference room.
Tali and I continued to dance and flirt, and the man in the tie passed us by, stiff-necked. I motioned to him again to take the thing off.
Finally, we headed out to go salsa dancing, and I noticed the man in the tie had taken it off and began waving it like a flag, signaling me over.
"Congratulations," I said. "That's much better."
"Where are you from?" he said in an unidentifiable accent.
"I'm from Israel, but originally from L.A.," I said. "Where are you from?"
"I'm Palestinian."
"Oh," I said. "Palestinian."
No wonder he wore a tie to a bar. Israelis just don't do that.
"Are you Jewish?" he asked.
"I'm very Jewish," I said proudly.
There I was. Face to face with the enemy, in a Tel Aviv bar. I immediately recalled the Stage nightclub bombing in Tel Aviv a week earlier, and I looked for a backpack strapped to his waist, but he was strapless. I was safe, but I couldn't help but provoke confrontation. I wasn't about to be fake or polite or cordial just because he was Palestinian. A Tel Aviv bar, to me, did not provide sanctuary.
"You know, I'm very right wing," I said.
I didn't think he understood what I said or what I meant, or maybe he didn't want a bar brawl, because he ignored my comment and instead asked me where I lived.
I almost made myself more explicit by adding: "If I were a soldier with a gun, and this were a battle line, I would shoot you. By the way, I entertain the idea of transfer."
But I stopped myself. This was a bar, I reasoned. He wasn't the enemy, he was a descendant of Abraham who wanted to break Islamic law and have a drink. I had to respect him for that. So I dropped the politics and told him I lived in Tel Aviv.
"Israeli women are hotter than Palestinian women, aren't they?" I said, trying to find some common ground.
"No, no."
"Why, do you like it when they are covered from head to toe, with those veils?"
"Well, women in Ramallah are not so hot. Yes, Israelians are hot," he said awkwardly.
It seemed like that was the first time he used "hot" in that context.
I told him I had to go, and he presented his tie and said: "For you."
"What?" I said. "I can't take this."
At first, I felt bad. It looked expensive, and don't most Palestinians live in dire poverty?
Then I thought about the implications: I take this tie, and my hands are tied. I'd forever have to remember that one night a Palestinian gave me an expensive tie, and that he was nice to me. I'd have to question all my stereotypes and generalizations, and recognize that there are good, normal, generous Palestinians who just want peace, who just want to be my friend, who just want some fun.
I couldn't take the tie.
But then I looked down at its elegant striped pattern. It would look smashing with a white tank and hip hugging jeans, I thought. He insisted, so I gracefully accepted.
"Thank you," I said, smiling, and blew him a kiss.
As we sauntered out, Tali, a pro-peace activist, said, "You see, they're not all bad. You'll switch sides."
"Hmm," I said. "Maybe."
As long as I felt good and stylish with the tie on, I couldn't resent the fashion benefactor or his people.
I woke up the next morning, both me and the tie hungover in bed, alone.
I glared at it, frightened. Is this the first step toward my own private reconciliation with the Palestinians? If I keep it, is it a personal symbol of possible peace? Or should I just burn the thing?
Eventually, I hung it in my closet as the accessory that will forever go down in my wardrobe as "the tie the Palestinian gave me." It's not an enemy tie I'm ready to make, but it's an enemy tie I'm ready to wear.
A friend told me that wearing a tie is a proven pick-up technique. It worked well for Abbas. Maybe it'll work for me.
I'll wear it next time I go to a bar. And when I do, I'll use it to pick up and tie up a hot Jewish Israeli man, and I'll have a Palestinian to thank for it.
Maybe then we could start talking about reconciliation.
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