Not exactly picking oranges on a kibbutz but…

Although this seems to be getting repetitive, I would like to stress that it is difficult to update this blog on a daily, let alone weekly basis! It’s not as though I am not filling up my time enough to write novels of information about my travels and adventures here abroad. It’s just hard to choose what people will not just read (yes mom, I know you will read and kvell about whatever I write) but actually find interesting and culturally revealing. So, after picking and choosing, here goes nothing…

This past weekend, 3 friends and I traveled up north to a Kibbutz (communities spread out all around Israel, where families live and work in agriculture, in a factory, in an office, or anywhere for that matter) called Kibbutz Yiftach. One of my friend’s friends from home recently made Aliyah and is joining the army. He lives on this kibbutz and invited us to stay there for Shabbat. After our 3-hour bus ride and 20-minute hitch hiked ride up the mountain (sorry parents, it’s the only way up), we arrived at our destination, just 1 kilometer from the border of Lebanon. To give a little perspective, the same man who showed us where there was an extra room for us to stay the night, was the same man who lead the Shabbat dinner and Kabbalat Shabbat, and who also poured us tube shots all night at the “mesiba” (party), which by the way, who knew kibbutznik’s knew how to party as hard as they do? As we sat down for Kabbalat Shabbat, my friends and I couldn’t help but recognize that we could hear the muezzin calling for prayer just across the border. I wonder if they knew we were praying as well.

The boy who we were visiting (Corey) joined a program in the US that transitions Americans into the Israeli army. So, Corey and 20 other self-selected Americans live together on this Kibbutz for 4 months before enlisting into the IDF. My 3 friends and I were quickly welcomed into this American “family”, since everyone was our age, give or take about 2 years. In this small group of kids, I met a boy who went to Tufts and we had about a million mutual friends, and 2 girls who went to high school with my camp friends. While it was so nice making these connections with my new friends on Kibbutz Yiftach, its hard not to feel some pangs of guilt about the 2-4 year journey they are about to embark on, as compared to the life I will be living for the next 2-4 years. On Saturday night, as I sat on the bus going home after Shabbat, driving past the West Bank and back to home sweet home in Tel Aviv, I kept thinking about the American girls, some even younger than I am, and how they made this life changing decision to pick up and leave the USA and come here to protect Israel; to join the army in the most turbulent country in the world.

With this kind of Jewish geography being played on a daily basis and my extended family in Israel welcoming me here as if I’m their own daughter I don’t exactly feel far from home…

Fun fact: the Hebrew language does not have a word for “skiing” or a verb for the word “rain”. I can’t imagine why. Perhaps because this country is pushing about 9,000 degrees each day with 0% change of rain for the next hundred years. To have these outrageous words in the Hebrew dictionary would be too much of a tease.

Not-So-Dirty Dancing on our First Havana Night

After enviously hearing about the experiences of my friends, the fourth girl is finally ready to share news from the fourth continent. Although I constantly pestered Judy, Chuzi and Katie to update their posts, I now realize what a daunting task this actually is. I've only been in Cuba for a week, but already it feels like a month. We've all been plucked from our routines and environments and dropped into a world that's equal parts foreign and mesmerizing. I feel like I'm three- where doing everything means doing it for the first time, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Setting off for Havana my expectations were...pretty much nonexistent. Cuba is a country shrouded in mystery for us Americans, and even though I have Cuban family, I had no idea what to expect. The country is so close- a mere four-hour flight- but it couldn't seem father away. Will I hear American music? Are Cubans really uber patriotic? Are the cars really all old? Well, it' pretty much yeses across the board. Vintage-hipster-dream cars cover the streets, Chuzi is right and Gaga is universal, and every Cuban we've encountered has readily professed their love of their people and country even while acknowledging the problems that do exist.

Our first night out was a revealing introduction- Cuba has a culture that hits you square in the face. Our group of 10 students was eager to get into the thick of it (pura candela, as locals say), so we decided to check out the famous Malecón- an enormous concrete boardwalk that runs along Havana's coast and is conveniently located minutes from our residence. Before we could see it, we could hear it. Reggaton blasting. And then a mob of people dancing. We were at a sight we soon learned was called "El Maine"- a monument dedicated to the sunken American ship of the Spanish American War. It's a phenomenon I've discovered is common in Cuba- a seamless blending of history and youth culture, a marriage of politics, music and dance in the most organic way possible. A marble structure you would expect to be photographed or admired from afar was literally covered with dancing bodies, people atop every possible platform and step. Our group of hip-swerving-challenged Americans couldn't have felt more visible and more out of place. But as the digitized (guitar? harp? piano?) intro of "Telephone" came on we found ourselves become a bit less self-conscious. And, to our delight, people sought us out to talk to us. Immediately we were asked what country we were from, how long we were staying, etc. An answer of "los estados unidos" didn't solicit any strong opinionated reactions, but rather "¿que estado?" and before we knew it were listening to Linkin Park on a man's mp3 player (mazel tov to them for finding an international following), and learning of the best places to eat ropa vieja.

Despite the surreally magical first night, it's obviously going to be a struggle. The Cuban accent is truly unlike anything we've heard in Spanish class and my salsa moves need some serious improvement. There are also complex political and social divides at play here. Instead of billboards advertising Coca-Cola or cell phones there are images of Che and messages of "Viva la Revolución." Classes at the University of Havana- where we will be total immersion students for the semester- haven't yet started, and it will be interesting to learn how America is portrayed and what about a "Philosophy of Cuba" class feels like biased propaganda. But I keep reminding myself it's just the first week, and I have a full semester to answer all my questions. So for now I'm content to take a back seat and observe, enjoy the end of mango season, and pray the DJ at tonight's club plays "Empire State of Mind."

The Study Abroad Comfort Zone

I have discovered I’m a terrible blogger. With so many new and exciting things happening this past month, I am completely overwhelmed about what to write about and what is important to share with my friends and family. But yesterday as I sat on my couch writing detailed and hilarious (if I do say so myself) accounts of the different beach trips I’ve gone on, my first attempts at surfing, bungee jumping, crashing an ATV, whale-watching, hiking, my first professional soccer game (and my obnoxious over-use of a vuvuzuela), the Cape Town hipster club scene, the different museums/gardens/antique markets my friends and I go to when we skip school on Thursdays, and everything else that perplexes me and amazes me about this diverse city, our cleaning lady, Lorna struck up a fascinating conversation.

Now, first of all I’m sure you are thinking – a group of 20 year old American study abroad students have cleaning ladies? But truthfully our program does it more for the community than for us. They employ three women from a nearby township to come and clean twice a week to put jobs and money back into the community. My peers and I at first were a little taken aback by this privilege and a little uncomfortable that there were people working for us. But also if you know me at all, and my love for Phyllis, you understand that I obviously struck up quite a relationship with these women.

Lorna, who specifically cleans my house, at 26, is by far younger than the other two, and loves to talk about life in America. Today, she was showing me pictures of her beautiful baby daughter and her boyfriend – who she told me was not such a nice guy. It was so hard for me to put aside my Western bias and not just tell her to get out of a bad relationship, to not put up with a man that hurts her or doesn’t support her career. “Listen Judy, I’m not that much older than you, but at some point you tell yourself – I’m young, I’m beautiful, I don’t need to care so much about this guy. I’m my own women, I make my own money. And that’s a gift. And in the end, it will all work out.” She continued telling me about her life before Cape Town, when she lived up north working on a farm from 6 AM to 6 PM with only thirty minutes break. And even now, Lorna is the only one of her eight siblings to be working, and supports and cares for all of them. Yet she told me all this with a smile, happy and proud of herself for what she has accomplished. As we continued talking she told me that I must be “brave” for going so far away from home, from leaving my comfort zone and going on a “big adventure.” I could not fathom how she could look at me and see me as the brave one.

Sometimes it’s easy for me to get caught up in the American life here, only hanging out with my American peers, going to clubs or cafes where the study abroad students hang out. Although a critical part of the experience is the adventure sports, the beautiful tourist attractions, and experiencing the university/night-life, I also did come abroad to learn a different culture, to have these conversations with a woman I would never have known otherwise.

Only In Tel Aviv

Shalom from the land of milk and honey. I arrived in Tel Aviv just 3 weeks ago and already I feel at home. While I have been in Israel so many times before, it always shocks me that such a tiny country holds such an amazing diversity in culture. The country blends Zionists, ultra-orthodox black hatters, secular Israeli Jews, modern orthodox Jews, Ethiopians, Russians, Moroccans, and the list goes on. Tel Aviv is such a modern and high-tech city in a lot of ways, unique in form and culture; there is a lot more to this place than Judaism and religion. Only in Tel Aviv do days turn into nights, and nights into days. Only in Tel Aviv did my evening start with watching Ultra Orthodox, Hassidic Jews dancing the night away on the boardwalk in front of the beach, wearing the religious garments like Tzitzit and the whole nine yards, all within a 5-minute walk from countless clubs that stay open ‘til the wee hours of the morning. Only in Tel Aviv would I befriend a soldier, and share a cab with him on Sunday on his way to the train station to get back to his base in Haifa…in full uniform, holding a massive gun, in other words, the ultimate escort. It always bewilders me that every average Joe that I meet here is either in the army, will join the army, or has already finished service.

There is nothing like Tel Aviv in the summer: going out every night, meeting Jews from all over the world from different backgrounds and upbringings, going to Ulpan (my intensive 5-hour Hebrew class) every morning, going to the beach every afternoon; I am truly living the dream. I am so lucky to be having this wonderful experience, having already made friends that I can imagine will last a lifetime. And with all the hussle and bussle that comes with the excitement and non-stop buzz of city life, Friday night arrives, and everything (besides the few clubs and select restaurants in the center of the city, of course) completely shuts down. Supermarkets, buses, the Shuk, shops, malls, and restaurants all close for 24 hours to observe Shabbat. The beauty that lies in the silence and calm of Ramat Aviv (10 minutes outside the city where I am living for the semester) on a Saturday morning could make any American, especially this one, question the crazy pace of US culture.

Ya aprendí mucho, pero...

Hola Chicos! I've officially been in Argentina for 2 weeks now. I just returned from spending a few days at the beautiful Iguazu Falls with my family and I'm happy to be back in the city. Classes start on Monday!

3 Things I’ve learned about Buenos Aires:

1. There is an abundance of little novelties I enjoy but don't need, and a scarcity of daily necessities I've always taken for granted. Cookies come with every item on the menu. There are stores that exclusively sell small lamps. Toilet paper, however, is a luxury.

2. There are no Spanish words equivalent to random, awkward, sketchy, obnoxious, or “make love.” Or so we were told during orientation. We were also taught that a one-night stand is called “touch and go” (said in English).

3. Gaga is universal. She is currently on the cover of the Argentinean publication of Cosmopolitan. I’ve seen her music videos played in cafes, and heard “Alejandro” on the radio. One night, I bonded with an Argentine girl who I thought spoke no English, until she insisted that I belt a round of “Paparazzi” with her-- which i obviously agreed to.

3 Things that every Argentinean understands, and I really need to learn:

1. How to find the bus stop. There are hundreds of bus lines in the city ranging from #1 to #749. Once I’ve established exactly which one I need to take, it is practically impossible to spot the tiny sign that designates where my bus stops because they are spaced out along the street in no particular order.

2. Why every person isn’t obese. Argentines survive on a diet of bread, red meat, cheese, wine, and coffee. Meals occur 4 times daily and the last one is after 10:00 at night. The cardio machines in the gym are programmed to shut off after only 20 minutes. And no, the portions aren’t smaller—they’re usually much, much larger.

3. Where every stray dog goes to get a jacket. Because they all have them. It’s freezing down here and I’m desperate for extra layers!