The Jewish Journal; October 13, 2005
Click here for original
Frankie Muniz, star of the TV show, "Malcolm in the Middle," had little idea what he was making as he glued colored cotton balls and beads onto a metallic container with a slot on top.
Muniz, who isn't Jewish, knew it had something to do with "Living Generously," the theme of a Hurricane Katrina (and Rita) benefit in late September at the refurbished Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. The event, at the newly hip hotel, drew more than 400 people, many of them well-known or up-and-coming industry people: actors, writers, musicians, and comedians.
When it was explained to Muniz (by this reporter) that the metallic container was a tzedakah box, a traditional way for Jews to collect charity, everything clicked.
"My fiancee and I were in New Orleans when the hurricane hit, so we'll do anything we can to get the city back on its feet," he said, as his fiancee, Jamie, sat next to him, gluing away industriously. Each wore the "Live Generously" blue bracelet handed out to guests.
You could say that no major A-listers were present, but some bigger names donated tzedakah boxes that were on display. They were later auctioned off on eBay.
These donated boxes came from the likes of Regis Philbin, Kelly Ripa, Gabe Kaplan, Isaac Mizrahi and recent Emmy Award-winner William Shatner. Even Donald Trump donated a box.
The boxes were on display near a giant metallic tzedakah box, where guests could drop donations.
Live and in person, Jonathan Silverman and Lisa Loeb sat together at the arts and crafts table, recalling their Jewish day school days. Kellie Martin of "Life Goes On" fame sat nearby, also painting and gluing. Scott Weinger, also known as the voice of Disney's Aladdin, showed up later with his girlfriend.
"I don't think I've actually decorated a tzedakah box since I was a kid. It's a little nostalgic -- makes giving fun," said Loeb, facetiously adding: "I think this is a secret excuse for single people to get together."
With hundreds of stylish, good-looking singles -- Jewish and non-Jewish -- socializing by the open bar, she had a point. The fundraiser had the atmosphere of a young Hollywood society meat market and networking affair.
"We're definitely here for the cause and not for the free drinks," stand-up comedian Christina Walkinshaw told The Journal.
The Tuesday night fete was organized by United Jewish Communities (UJC), in cooperation with The Jewish Federation of Los Angeles. UJC, the national umbrella for 155 North American Jewish federations, enlisted the support of Evan Lowenstein of the Orthodox pop duo, Evan and Jaron, to help pull things together.
For the past several months, Lowenstein has gotten Hollywood celebs together for monthly lunches dedicated to a specific charity. At last look, the UJC Disaster Relief Fund had raised about $17 million for hurricane victims.
Loeb performed two songs, including her debut hit, "Stay," and Evan and Jaron played their hit, "Crazy for This Girl," joined by saxophonist Dave Koz.
Other performers included comedian and "Stacked" actor Elon Gold, who was also emcee for the night; Dan Levy of MTV's "The Reality Show"; and Bob Saget. Some off-color jokes would not have passed muster with a Jewish modesty committee.
"Because of the audience, it was okay. I thought I wasn't going to go too 'blue,' and then I hit the stage and that's what it was," Saget told The Journal.
Known for his portrayal of TV dad Danny Tanner on "Full-House," Saget entertained the audience with his satiric diddy "Danny Tanner Was Not Gay."
OK, that was something they never covered in Jewish day school.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Friday, August 5, 2005
Good lounging on Lilienblum
Jerusalem Post, Billboard; August 5, 2005
Recently built upon the ruins of the Ays, Tel Aviv's hottest underground dance bar in its heyday, Lima Lima is nothing like its departed predecessor. It's a sophisticated lounge bar - with an emphasis on the lounging.
Unlike most bars in the Lilienblum bar compound, which cramp crowds by the center bar, Lima Lima is based on custom-made leather sofas, generously sprawled throughout, where groups of friends and couples can lounge, sit, chill, relax - and talk. The decor - olive and brick colored accessories, flowery wallpaper, paintings with subtle sexual references, a medicine cabinet in the bathroom - and the rich liquor menu, create the feeling of some warm, inviting mafia living room in South America or Mexico.
Lima Lima was designed by Tel Aviv design-duo Roy Roth and Yaal Tevet (Roth-Tevet Designs), whose claim to fame is Haoman 17 (Jerusalem and Haifa branches) and other Tel Aviv hot-spots. Specializing in creating leisure experiences, the duo didn't want to create just another loud, hectic pick-up bar, where it's hard to get intimate on more than just the physical level, although there's room for that at Lima Lima as well.
'We sought to create a space where people can take their time with each other,' said Roth. The music, coming from a DJ station centralized against a wall lined with stream rocks, is of the groove that allows for casual lingering and deep conversation.
And like any well-to-do home, there is also an outdoor patio, invested with luscious tropical plants and a water cascade surrounding the pastel-colored patio furniture spread over a wooden planked floor.
But unlike any good home, there is no large kitchen or rich food menu, which proposes a challenge to hard-core lounging. There is only so much one can drink without having someone serve a variety of finger foods or some other home-made munchies that satiate other basic appetites.
No cover. Lilienblum 42, (03) 560-0924. Hours: From 9:30 p.m. Music: Eclectic, electronic, world
Recently built upon the ruins of the Ays, Tel Aviv's hottest underground dance bar in its heyday, Lima Lima is nothing like its departed predecessor. It's a sophisticated lounge bar - with an emphasis on the lounging.
Unlike most bars in the Lilienblum bar compound, which cramp crowds by the center bar, Lima Lima is based on custom-made leather sofas, generously sprawled throughout, where groups of friends and couples can lounge, sit, chill, relax - and talk. The decor - olive and brick colored accessories, flowery wallpaper, paintings with subtle sexual references, a medicine cabinet in the bathroom - and the rich liquor menu, create the feeling of some warm, inviting mafia living room in South America or Mexico.
Lima Lima was designed by Tel Aviv design-duo Roy Roth and Yaal Tevet (Roth-Tevet Designs), whose claim to fame is Haoman 17 (Jerusalem and Haifa branches) and other Tel Aviv hot-spots. Specializing in creating leisure experiences, the duo didn't want to create just another loud, hectic pick-up bar, where it's hard to get intimate on more than just the physical level, although there's room for that at Lima Lima as well.
'We sought to create a space where people can take their time with each other,' said Roth. The music, coming from a DJ station centralized against a wall lined with stream rocks, is of the groove that allows for casual lingering and deep conversation.
And like any well-to-do home, there is also an outdoor patio, invested with luscious tropical plants and a water cascade surrounding the pastel-colored patio furniture spread over a wooden planked floor.
But unlike any good home, there is no large kitchen or rich food menu, which proposes a challenge to hard-core lounging. There is only so much one can drink without having someone serve a variety of finger foods or some other home-made munchies that satiate other basic appetites.
No cover. Lilienblum 42, (03) 560-0924. Hours: From 9:30 p.m. Music: Eclectic, electronic, world
Thursday, August 4, 2005
Tsfat Nourishes the Spiritually Hungry
The Jewish Journal; August 4, 2005
Click here for original article
As I climbed the green Galilean hills of Tsfat to reach the family hosting me for Shabbat, I wondered how it had changed since the last time I was in Israel's mystical city.
I was here to visit with the Lipshutz family. They had moved here 12 years ago and are currently active in building programs and events to call attention to Tsfat's power and beauty, both physical and spiritual. The town's kabbalist past drew Madonna, who made a prayer stop of this prophesized center for the beginning of redemption.
When I first arrived here a decade ago, there was nothing "special" or "spiritual" about the experience, unless eating fish heads dipped in mayonnaise is considered a transcendent ritual.
Back then I was a seminary student, studying in Tsfat's sister city of Jerusalem. My friend, Mya, and I were set up at the home of an elderly modern Orthodox couple for Shabbat, a common practice for seminary girls who quest that "special" and "spiritual" Shabbat experience.
Tsfat is supposed to be a place to commune with God, to experience an awakening, to have prayers answered. My teachers touted it as the home of spiritual seekers and leaders -- from the patriarch Jacob who studied at the yeshiva of Shem and Ever, to the great 16th century kabbalist Rabbi Yitzhak Luria (the Arizal), to contemporary artists drawing inspiration from the historic city.
All we ended up praying for was to get out of the apartment we were staying in, which was as inspirational as a "Golden Girls" rerun.
We snuck out, with Mya wearing torn jeans as a ruse to attract some religious guru seeking to bring us closer to God. We roamed the streets of Tsfat, walking through stone alleyways like two lost dogs hungry for spiritual inspiration -- and a decent meal.
We took solace in ornate gates painted in mystical blue, peeked through the doors of ancient synagogues and read names on the tombstones of women whose lives must have been more simple and spiritual than ours.
It wasn't long before our search finally came to an end. We happened upon a modern Orthodox couple sitting in their balcony who noticed Mya's jeans and invited us in.
Not only did they feed us, but they told us what we wanted to hear. They explained that contrary to what many of our rabbis taught, Judaism demanded that we be good people first, and that religious practice should come at our own pace.
Convinced we'd found the answers we'd come to seek in Tsfat, we returned to our elderly hosts, spiritually and physically sated.
"Tsfat has always been somewhat esoteric," said Talya Lipshutz, head of the new program, Access Tsfat, and my host. "Tourists came to view the historic sites and to buy art, but they never dug deep enough to unlock the spiritual power of the city -- to be healed, informed and uplifted."
Lipshutz is hoping to change that with Access Tsfat, a program open to anyone -- singles, families, Jews and non-Jews -- who seek to draw inspiration from the city. The wife and mother of eight is working with the Nachal Novea Tsfat Fund to revitalize the city as a tourist destination by easing visitors' spiritual and physical search and offering Shabbat hospitality.
Access Tsfat provides a variety of tracks to explore the city and its surrounding area. Weekday half-day tracks offer an in-depth look at the city, with walking tours of historic synagogues, the artist colony and its ancient cemetery; visits to Galilean landmarks; classes in history, Judaism, mysticism and Chasidut, as well as arts and crafts for kids.
An outdoor track called Northern Xtreme will provide visitors with a totally new perspective of Tsfat. Licensed Breslov Chasidic guides lead tourists in rappelling and hiking in the caves, mountains and valleys of the Upper Galilee.
"But probably the most important experience will be Shabbat hospitality. You can't really get a whole feel for Tsfat without being here for Shabbat," Lipshutz said.
Compared with my last visit, this Tsfat experience was handed to me on a silver platter. A great Shabbat meal, handheld walks on the ancient steps and deep discussions about Madonna's spark of holiness.
Had Lipshutz's program been in place 10 years ago, I would have been spared a lot of heartache. But as I read in a book on kabbalah, true spiritual meaning is often achieved through suffering.
So while Access Tsfat is an ideal way to begin a trek through this city, no one should fear exploring its alleyways alone or with a friend. Look beyond the city's blue gates when visiting, and up to the blue sky. For it's there you'll find the hidden treasures of the city -- and of the heart.
Access Tsfat tracks are slated for Aug. 18-22 and coincide with the second annual klezmer festival being held in Tsfat from Aug. 15-22. For more useful information on Tsfat and Access Tsfat, visit www.tsfat.com.
Click here for original article
As I climbed the green Galilean hills of Tsfat to reach the family hosting me for Shabbat, I wondered how it had changed since the last time I was in Israel's mystical city.
I was here to visit with the Lipshutz family. They had moved here 12 years ago and are currently active in building programs and events to call attention to Tsfat's power and beauty, both physical and spiritual. The town's kabbalist past drew Madonna, who made a prayer stop of this prophesized center for the beginning of redemption.
When I first arrived here a decade ago, there was nothing "special" or "spiritual" about the experience, unless eating fish heads dipped in mayonnaise is considered a transcendent ritual.
Back then I was a seminary student, studying in Tsfat's sister city of Jerusalem. My friend, Mya, and I were set up at the home of an elderly modern Orthodox couple for Shabbat, a common practice for seminary girls who quest that "special" and "spiritual" Shabbat experience.
Tsfat is supposed to be a place to commune with God, to experience an awakening, to have prayers answered. My teachers touted it as the home of spiritual seekers and leaders -- from the patriarch Jacob who studied at the yeshiva of Shem and Ever, to the great 16th century kabbalist Rabbi Yitzhak Luria (the Arizal), to contemporary artists drawing inspiration from the historic city.
All we ended up praying for was to get out of the apartment we were staying in, which was as inspirational as a "Golden Girls" rerun.
We snuck out, with Mya wearing torn jeans as a ruse to attract some religious guru seeking to bring us closer to God. We roamed the streets of Tsfat, walking through stone alleyways like two lost dogs hungry for spiritual inspiration -- and a decent meal.
We took solace in ornate gates painted in mystical blue, peeked through the doors of ancient synagogues and read names on the tombstones of women whose lives must have been more simple and spiritual than ours.
It wasn't long before our search finally came to an end. We happened upon a modern Orthodox couple sitting in their balcony who noticed Mya's jeans and invited us in.
Not only did they feed us, but they told us what we wanted to hear. They explained that contrary to what many of our rabbis taught, Judaism demanded that we be good people first, and that religious practice should come at our own pace.
Convinced we'd found the answers we'd come to seek in Tsfat, we returned to our elderly hosts, spiritually and physically sated.
"Tsfat has always been somewhat esoteric," said Talya Lipshutz, head of the new program, Access Tsfat, and my host. "Tourists came to view the historic sites and to buy art, but they never dug deep enough to unlock the spiritual power of the city -- to be healed, informed and uplifted."
Lipshutz is hoping to change that with Access Tsfat, a program open to anyone -- singles, families, Jews and non-Jews -- who seek to draw inspiration from the city. The wife and mother of eight is working with the Nachal Novea Tsfat Fund to revitalize the city as a tourist destination by easing visitors' spiritual and physical search and offering Shabbat hospitality.
Access Tsfat provides a variety of tracks to explore the city and its surrounding area. Weekday half-day tracks offer an in-depth look at the city, with walking tours of historic synagogues, the artist colony and its ancient cemetery; visits to Galilean landmarks; classes in history, Judaism, mysticism and Chasidut, as well as arts and crafts for kids.
An outdoor track called Northern Xtreme will provide visitors with a totally new perspective of Tsfat. Licensed Breslov Chasidic guides lead tourists in rappelling and hiking in the caves, mountains and valleys of the Upper Galilee.
"But probably the most important experience will be Shabbat hospitality. You can't really get a whole feel for Tsfat without being here for Shabbat," Lipshutz said.
Compared with my last visit, this Tsfat experience was handed to me on a silver platter. A great Shabbat meal, handheld walks on the ancient steps and deep discussions about Madonna's spark of holiness.
Had Lipshutz's program been in place 10 years ago, I would have been spared a lot of heartache. But as I read in a book on kabbalah, true spiritual meaning is often achieved through suffering.
So while Access Tsfat is an ideal way to begin a trek through this city, no one should fear exploring its alleyways alone or with a friend. Look beyond the city's blue gates when visiting, and up to the blue sky. For it's there you'll find the hidden treasures of the city -- and of the heart.
Access Tsfat tracks are slated for Aug. 18-22 and coincide with the second annual klezmer festival being held in Tsfat from Aug. 15-22. For more useful information on Tsfat and Access Tsfat, visit www.tsfat.com.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Laser Heart Surgery
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.
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, 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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