Only in Israel: the Runner's Installment

Last Thursday, I participated in the Beit Shean Half Marathon. This wasn't the official name of the race, but it's what everyone referred to it as, because the largest town along the course is Beit Shean. All I will remember of this (supposedly) lovely village are: 1-the only two hills of the entire course and 2-the post-race feeding frenzy at their one and only proper restaurant.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. This was my second race in Israel - the first being a 10K in Ashdod - and I found myself quite amused with several differences between US running races and those here, as well with many "only in Israel" moments. The running culture here in Israel isn't quite as "mainstream" as it is back in the US, especially in NYC. This is fun, in a lot of ways, because it brings a pretty intense energy. It also means that a 10% showing by women is huge. You'd think that this would better my chances of placing, but remember there are tons of Ethiopian immigrants here. And turns out, they're fast...

The fastest way to Beit Shean from Jerusalem is through the West Bank. So, with four of us in the car, we took off before 7 for the 1.5 hour drive. One of the passengers had lobbied for an earlier departing time, saying "there are over 1500 runners! We have to be there early!" for the 9:30 starting gun. After dozens of 5ks in NYC that pulled at least 4000 people, this comment made me giggle. The road from Jerusalem starts dropping towards the Dead Sea, before we turn north. The terrain is desert-desert-desert with a few agricultural settlements - most notably Jericho - and suddenly, it's green. This change of terrain coincides almost precisely with the border crossing, giving the differences between the Palestinian and Israeli landscapes even a more drastic appearance.

With four runners, all doing their best to hydrate, the obvious happens: nature calls. Which brings me to Israeli Experience #1: who needs a gas station when a ditch will do? Every time I've driven outside of a center of a city in this country, I have seen a car pulled over on the side of the road, with the driver doing his business in front of god and everyone. Usually this happens when the sign for the nearest gas station is well within view. We at least had the excuse that there were no gas stations for our four-man pit stop. It's a little trickier for yours truly, but mid-squat I started laughing at our sight: a car running on the side of the road, three men turned with their backs to the road and to each other, and some lady squatting, mooning the West Bank.

#2: the girl at the border-crossing knew all about the race and wished us good luck.

The race started and finished at a park near a spring-fed creek. The place was a balagan in every sense of the word. We did a creative left turn to enter an annexed parking lot. Which brings me to Israeli Experience #3: find the closest parking spot even if you stand in a line to get there. We were out of the car and on our way past the rows of cars looking for a spot 10m closer before others had even turned into the parking lot.

Israeli Experience #4 is uniquely running-related: the bib pick-up. Maybe it's because the latest races I've done are marathons and much bigger, but there was no ID check, no formal process. First, find your name on the sheet which will have your number next to it. This was not sent out before hand, so people were fighting trying to find their name. Then, go to the table according to your number, tell them what it is, get a b'hatslecha and on your way.

#5: the pre-race. Everyone knows everyone. My boyfriend ran into 3 people he knows, though didn't know they were running. The entire crowd was separated by about three hugs. Really, awesome.

#6: the start. There is a big yellow line on the road. People lined up 10 meters in front of it. The race started 10 minutes late because that was how long it took the guy on the megaphone to tell everyone: "haverei. The race will not start until everyone is in place. Move to the yellow line." Only the front row of people would attempt to move back, then have to stop. Rinse. Repeat.

#7: the start, part 2. There is no "line up according to pace." It is a big free-for-all. Israelis are good at free-for-alls. I love needing my elbows to pass the 7-min/km dudes.

#8: there was a road kill victim in the middle of the road near the start. "Eh, it's just a cat, they're everywhere, ain baiya."

#9: the one and only rule I was aware of was that bikes or escorts of any kind were strictly forbidden along the course. Did this prevent them? Of course not. But, true to Israeli fashion, when someone would accept contraband refreshment from their bike-riding spouse, they would take a swing and immediately offer the bottle to the runners in their vicinity.

#10: the groups of military units running together. At least they didn't have their guns with them.

#11: The guy sitting in the middle of the road in his running car, smoking a cigarette out his window, as we were forced to detour around him less than 500m from the finish line. Yoffi. At least I think he has a few good dents in his hood...

#12: The finish. I've never had so many people - strangers - approach me after a race, seeing how I did, wanting to compare notes. Thankfully, running with a group has taught me enough running-related Hebrew that I could manage to keep up!

#13: The Sachne! The spring-fed creek is a great temperature all year round, so everyone jumps in, in their running clothes, at the end of the race. We were 20m away from the Israeli marathon champion, who looked... normal.

#14: Beit Shean has one restaurant. It's your typical Israeli bbq restaurant: they pile the tables full of salads, pickles, chumus and laffe so that you eat till you're stuffed and then they make you order meat. Our group made reservations, so of course when we entered the restaurant, it was full. Restaurants in small towns do not understand the concept of reservation when it means turning away groups of 10. Starving, giving up hope, wouldn't you know it: the door opens, and the manager is lugging inside a huge plastic table with chairs from the outside. A little Windex and a cheap paper tablecloth, and we're elbow-deep in chumus and Goldstar. They might not understand reservations, but they understand the word achi.

Oh, and I ran pretty well too: 1:37.44, 8th woman in the <35 age group!

You see what I'm up against?

On Facebook, I'm a member of the "Anglos in Israel" group. They so nicely emailed the group with an opportunity to participate with JCorps in volunteer activities. Curious, I mosied on over to their FB page. Does anyone see anything wrong with this disclaimer?

"We are non-religious, non-denominational, and 100% free. We are open to all unmarried Jews aged 18-30."

To which denomination within the Jewish religion are they referring? Jews for Jesus??

Would you like some water with your soap?

I used to make fun of my Israeli boyfriend when he would wash the dishes in my Manhattan apartment. He would use about half the bottle of liquid Dawn, lather every item up with suds and put them all over the limited counter space and stovetop, and only THEN turn on the water to rinse everything. It was fun to watch - there really was soap everywhere, and after he wiped up the mess, my counters and stove were usually nice and clean. I had never seen anyone use such a skewed ratio of soap:water before. And what was with the need to soap everything and then rinse? Do Israeli siblings not fight over the wash/rinse/dry duties in the dish washing assembly lines?

I just found myself washing dishes like an Israeli. At least I'm in Israel, where the countertops are made of tile and are flush with the sink, so you just need to push the soap back into the sink when you're done. And I get it now! It's to save water! If you don't soap underneath the running flow of water a la Americans, you use less. Which means you are saving the Kinneret! What a good Israeli! Or, because you want to use the water for other necessary things, like watering the brown lawn on the morning of a 40*C day. Brilliant!

"Hey! Don't rinse yet! I haven't used up all the soap!"

The 38-minute pilgrimage

This past weekend was Rosh Hashana. It wasn't my first big Jewish holiday in Israel - I was here for Pesach and had the Seder dinner at my boyfriend's dad's house outside of Tel Aviv. I again found myself at the same spot at the table for 20, only this time my boyfriend was in the States and it was just me, his dad, and the entirety of his wife's family. This is how Jewish events get so big: invite everyone you know, and just hope there are enough people there to dilute the potential awkward encounters. Ex-husbands and new vegetarian wives? Sure, after all his grandkids will be there, we can't not invite him. Your daughter's husband's divorced parents want to show up - together? The more the merrier!

It was in this scenario I found myself on the eve of Rosh Hashana. Thankfully, my boyfriend's dad sat me next to him and a bottle of wine, so hakol beseder. It was tiring, it was weird, but the food was good (except the stuffed peppers made without meat for the aforementioned veggie, but really, how can you expect the rice to stay moist without a little fat coming from a little meat?), I had a nice bonding experience with my boyfriend's dad, and I got to leave the balagan at a reasonable hour - thanks to a slightly mentally ill brother, I couldn't sleep there lest he go on one of his midnight naked tours of the house. But not to worry - my boyfriend's mom let me sleep at her place, which was vacant because she was spending the holiday with her daughter. So wonderful, a 5-minute drive and I was in bed, and could spend the morning as I wished (which happened to be a long run along the sea) and then rejoin the family in the afternoon. Thankfully, the crowd had dispersed and I spent a lovely afternoon and evening with my boyfriend's dad, his wife, and his wife's youngest son. A friend of hers joined us for dinner, and along with the crazy brother, we were a much more manageable party of 6.

Now, I know myself and my limits of groups-of-people time. Accordingly, I had vacated myself from the apartment, knowing I'd probably want to return home after dinner. The thought of driving back to my own house to wake up in my own bed for a lazy morning before heading to work for a few hours was much more appealing than spending the night away from home, and no matter how early I'd drive back, it would still seem like I'd be in a rush to get home. No, thanks.

I did not announce this fact. I was fully prepared to leave and have everyone assume I was going back to my boyfriend's mom's apartment and leaving first thing in the morning. Because I knew what would happen. The problem is, and now you will know my one weakness, is that I can't lie to a direct question. So, when over dessert my boyfriend's dad asked me what time I was leaving to go back to Jerusalem, I had to tell him: tonight.

Let disaster ensue. I might as well have announced my intention to start out on foot for Mecca without shoes. While everyone's pretty much gotten used to our departing Shabbat dinners and going "all the way" home, I think they were surprised they couldn't blame it on my boyfriend and that I was of the same mold. I was told I was crazy more times in a 5-minute period than I have in my entire life. I tried to explain my feelings of sleeping in my own bed, the fact that nothing was happening the next day - in fact there was a luncheon to which I was not invited - I even threw in the work card even though there was really no reason as I didn't have to go since it was a holiday. I think the only thing that saved me was the fact that they saw I wasn't changing my mind. And the fact that there was cake to send with me for sustenance on my long journey. They tried to give me the entire refrigerator before they realized it probably wouldn't fit in the car. They drilled me as to when I had finished my last glass of wine, how many I had had, if I was going to fall asleep, if they needed to call me on my way so I'd have someone to talk to to stay awake. The sherpa had the night off for the holiday, so they couldn't send him with me. I was on my own.

It took me exactly 38 minutes door-to-door. And that was only because I was unlucky with a string of red lights. Best 38 minutes I ever spent.

Must-haves for your new life in Israel.

I had an idea for a blog post while running, realized I hadn't yet started my moving-to-Israel blog, and so here we are. I hope to have many stories and perspectives to share, but to start things off: what every newcomer needs to adjust to life in Israel. We're not talking a good English map and sunscreen here, folks (which, I would suggest buying in the States before you come because the former is impossible to find and the latter will involve taking out a second mortgage and breaking the news to your kids that instead of college, they will be forced to take jobs as security guards at the Cotel - where they're not worried about guns, but about pigs' feet). These are the intangibles - the things that keep you from going completely crazy.

1. A phenomenal Ulpan teacher and a great Kitah Aleph. This will probably be your first "social" encounter in the country. If you have time to do the intensive all-morning-4-days-a-week, great, do it! I sometimes wish I would have delayed working to do this. I took Kitah Aleph twice per week - I had a great teacher and a great class, but this apparently is the schedule most desired by retired couples. I have a lot of surrogate American, Canadian, and Russian grandparents now, but it wasn't exactly a good place to make friends.

2. Learn the days of the week in Hebrew, first thing. This makes adjusting to the Friday/Saturday weekend much easier. It's much better to have the first day of the week be called Yom Rishon (which, coincidentally, translates to "first day") than Sunday. Unfortunately, Manic Monday loses all meaning here, but so be it.

3. Good brakes and a good horn. People here do. not. know. how. to. drive. And yet, they do.

The "ל" roughly translates as "look the f*ck out, another Israeli is learning how to be a bad driver. If you're stuck behind me, you'll be going approximately half the posted speed limit, until you try to pass me, in which case I'll cut you off while my blinker is signaling to turn the other way."
At least they warn you...?

4. A convenient Russian grocery store. Even though everything is in Russian, you can usually find what you won't be able to find in other stores: namely, pork products.

5. The ability to be O.K. with feeling like a complete moron at least once per day. Usually this has something to do with a language barrier.

6. A sense of humor. If you can't laugh at yourself in this place, you'll be lost.

To be continued...

Sof sof

Sof sof. Finally, I'm getting this blog started and giving my thoughts - serious and frivolous - a place to see the light of day. Stay tuned!