Rollin’ On Jobs

Another week passes by, and another month, and I do all I can to find a stable job in this “new-old” country of mine (“new” for the way things are today, “old” for my memories of past, before I left). Could the train have passed me by? No way! New trains keep on rollin’ into the station all the time! I’ll get on the right one, just in time.

In a marketing workshop I once heard the following allegory: when you're driving across the country, you see only as far as your eyes let you or as far as the head-lights of the car reach. You don’t know what’s beyond the limited vision, but you keep on driving. Most likely there are roads ahead and you know where they lead.

Over the Last few weeks, I've circulated dozens of resumes for a variety of writing day jobs. A few people responded, but it’s a saturated market. Too many local professionals offer the very same services as I do – writing, translating, transcripting; most of them have local education and local portfolio. Many get jobs through teachers and friends. As someone new in the market, what’s the best way to break in without an end of a thread? Making new threads.

                                                                                                    

As a freelance who starts from scratch in a new country, your first employer or first clients could be a professional breakthrough. They may go by their gut feeling and hire you without local experience, but that’s all you need on your resume. I made a few good professional contacts and kept in good terms with them. But it’s not enough. Creating a solid circle of clients can be a long process, especially in a small market like Israel. Does everyone go through the same process?

I had coffee with a journalist friend last week. He told me I’m doing great just by making ends meet for now. He gave me the example of a highly skilled professional he knows, who came back to Israel after years of a great career in Germany. It took the guy 18 months to find his first job here. I've spoken with budding professionals in my field, and most of them told me they got their first job through teachers and networking circles they made at school here.

I listen carefully to what people tell me and to my varied thoughts. One day we see things in a certain way, the other day we see them completely differently. The road goes on for miles and we can only see so far. Keeping on rollin’ toward the unknown makes us stronger. Does the train I’m on head toward any specific destination? I don’t know. Perhaps I’m already there.

I am truly grateful for going through this re-integration phase. Some may call it challenging, I call it life. I don’t feel challenged, but infused with persistence. The real challenge is to let go of the thought that what we go through now is who we are in general. Remembering how limited is our view is liberating. Just keep eyes on the road and look as far as you can see, and be grateful that it’s a road you chose.

Back on the Saddle

Hi all!

Six months have passed since I last posted in this blog. I took a look at the pageviews this week and found out there’s been a constant increase in traffic. So why not keeping up the updates? Any comment or communication from the readers is welcome.

Background in a nutshell: My name is Moshe Parnes. I’m a writer. Mother tongue – Hebrew; acquired tongue – English. I grew up in Israel, left in 2006 to the wonderful West Coast of North America. In December 2012 I returned to Israel from Vancouver BC. Previous articles go through highlights of the first few months of landing. Shifts and turns have been taking place since, and this post is to fill you in on main ones.

My re-Integration.

I held on to the North American positivity as long as I could. However, the harshness of the Middle East cannot slip the eye forever. Did you hear that I said North American positivity? If only people knew how good their reality is, they would never complain again. It’s always easy look deeper into the culture we grew up in and critique it. New cultures can seem like a safe haven. The truth is that anywhere we go we’re facing the same challenges. Reaching our actual goals is a matter of time, practice and persistency, not the land or the culture we live in.

Stability is a key word, especially as a freelance. Persistency becomes the result, as the amount of money we make turns into the byproduct. I choose to believe that life takes care of our basic needs. The rest is up to us. We don’t need much but we may want a lot.

The cultural definition for peace in the Middle East is not what we’re used to in North America. Now, I don’t mean peace between people or countries, I mean peace of mind. Most people in North America have no idea how good the daily problems are compared to other places in the world. Anywhere you go there are problems, social plagues, emptiness; but the path of worriless happiness is easier to take in some places than in others. At the same time, happiness can be defined differently in each culture, so it’s an individual point of view with many perspectives.

On the street, smoking cigarettes is a common norm in Israel. If you’re not a smoker and you want to breathe clean air, you're the one to step aside. By now I've got used to it, but it took a few months. Driving is a concert of honking without a reason. There’s always someone in a rush. There are always people who want to make others as uncomfortable as they are. Voices on the street are loud and the tones may sound aggressive. It is what it is and it doesn’t mean people are angry; it’s simply the way they speak. Culture.

“That’s life” and “Nothing to do” are common phrases. I personally can’t get how any culture uses these phrases as mottos. Conversations often revolve around rightness and complaining; an opposite of the North American smiling culture, which too many people in the world tag as phony, but I see as pleasant and beautiful. Tourists may find these cultural differences amusing, but when you live them on a daily basis your whole life with no option to break free, you slowly become a part of it. If you’re lucky, you keep yourself from becoming it.

Career: I gave myself two months to start working after I moved back. In 7 weeks I got my first project as a screenwriter in a sociopolitical documentary that will be screened at the end of next month. Updates will be posted. A couple of months later, I got my first big TV project that kept me going for a while. Obviously, I took several other projects at the same time as well. So working like a maniac, 7 A.M. till late at night, cultivating some sleep and extensive yoga practice into it all, I miraculously made ends meet. Yet now, almost 10 months in, I’m still on survival mode even though people tell me all the time that I’m doing great. I am grateful either way.

Accommodation: some people are awesome. Please credit the Middle East with having a big wide heart. The way I’ve been accommodating though the past 6 months is being a home-care provider for pets, whose owners are abroad or are too busy to take care of them. I mostly work from home so it’s an ideal arrangement. The pets’ owners and I have no previous acquaintance, but they trust me with their home and with their best friends, and I’m happy to prove them right. This circle of trust has been a spark of hope in my life during some dark months of confusion and job hunt.

Health: Back in Vancouver I became addicted to yoga and healthy living. I saw how it changed my mind, body and soul, and I still see it every day that passes. I used to volunteer in one of Vancouver’s most prestigious studios, Yyoga. It’s been hard to meet the same standards in Israel and during the first 6 months I’ve been practicing alone on a daily basis. Finally, on July I found a new yoga studio in Tel Aviv, Prana Yoga College, which supports my practice - yoga as meditation in movement, and not as a workout. Each day I go to class. It’s a reason for me to get out of the house and meet people, which is a very important.

Conclusions: It takes time to settle down in a new country, even if it’s the country you grew up in. Patience, persistency, positivity and securing your inner-peace, keeps you on a good path. Let life do the rest. Be easy on yourself, even with your so called “failures”. If you can’t find the positive in a situation, you simply long for some drama or melancholy, which is okay, just don’t attach yourself to it as a belief. There’s no wrong in letting go for a little while when things become overwhelming. Usually, we can still send off a few resumes a day, even when we let go.

Always continue doing things to achieve your goals and always remember to filter out with activities that aren’t connected to the race for achievements. Those airing activities will eventually bring the energy that you need to move on and reaching your goals. There is a bigger picture. Time is not something you can always dictate, but you can use it on your side.

Independence 2013

Running on fumes, I’m on a bus on the way to Tiberius. A couple of weeks ago I moved to a small apartment in a kibbutz by the Sea of Galilee. Tonight is Israel’s Independence Day 2013 and the sunset is stunning. I mean, stunning. I wish the holidays in this country were national and not religious so busses would run all year long. It’s been nearly seven years since I’ve joined in these celebrations.

All that’s occupying my thoughts tonight is gaining one more working-day this week. Shouldn’t I be celebrating right now? Nice meeting ya’, I’m a wandering emigrant on the galaxy’s free-ways. Exhausted, today was the one day this week that I helped a friend of mine do some hard-core gardening in Tel Aviv; a privilege. Had I stayed to crash instead of taking the bus up north, my entire week’s work-momentum would’ve gone bust. Got a lot of writing to catch up on before the weekend.

In Israel, happiness is mixed with pain; celebration with mourning. Last week was the Holocaust Memorial Day. Last night and today was the Memorial Day for War and Terror Victims. At 9p tonight on the dot, grief turns to ecstasy as Independence Day begins. I saw vendors setting up food-stands in the streets today and realized that Vancouver’s Canucks took over that piece of memory. These days, while people weep the lost and celebrate the living, all I can think of is work and Mad Men.

During Israel’s memorial days there’s a loud horn playing for a minute or two; once in the evening and once again the morning. An entire people stand for a moment of silence to pay respect to the lost. Radio stations play nothing but sad songs and local TV channels broadcast bravery stories that frame the collective melancholy. The people mourn those who have died so we can live here today. Spending a chunk of years on the other half of the planet, has made me wonder. Will commemorating the lost this way ever break the pattern of parents losing their children? Some people would call me a traitor just for this thought.  

If it was me who had died for this land, an eighteen year old boy with an M-16 toy or an unfortunate passerby in a terror-bombed street… if I were the parent of this murdered person… how would I wish to commemorate the lost? Each one of those 23,085 unfortunate souls who have died over this land throughout the past 65 years has a story. Would I be sitting in this bus right now if it wasn’t for them?

The bus is passing by the McDonald’s restaurant where I had my last McDonald’s meal, on January 1^st, 2009. Tonight and tomorrow Israelis are going to BBQ under every tree and in every park, but I won’t be a part of it. Individual independence verses collective independence. What can I do to have found independence back in North America? I stopped eating meat, I lowered the volume of my voice and I stopped living in fear that the person next to me will take over my place unless I hit him first. A Mediterranean pickle.

Night has fallen. Lights of cities and villages are flashing in the distance alongside the country roads outside my bus window. Some Jewish, some Muslim, some Christian and maybe even somewhere out there, a village that is shared by all three. I know Israeli Muslims who feel most grateful for living under a Jewish majority rather than in an Arab country. I know a few who don’t stand up while the memorial horn plays, to protest on an illegitimate occupation. Each person has a story. The night’s lights are surreal. A moment with God no one can fight over. Fireworks are starting to show above some of the villages; let the celebrations begin.

I made it. I’m in the kibbutz now, having dinner, watching Mad Men and suddenly it hits me… I forgot how fatigued I was only a few hours ago. The kibbutz smells like a dairy-farm tonight and people are going berserk underneath my window in the name of patriotism. By midnight it’s becoming quieter. I’m excited for tomorrow, and could really use a foot massage.

Early in the morning, two pigeons on my windowsill are waking me up. The cock is warmly courting, almost attacking. The hen is warmly surrendering, but isn’t giving up. Once she successfully rejects him and he moves to a branch nearby to coo some more, she’s left puzzled, looking at him like, what do you think you’re doing? Get back here! And he does. Dozens of other pigeons are cooing on the windowsills and trees all around.

Last week during Holocaust Day, a friend of mine posted a facebook status I’d like to share: “Wouldn’t it be just fun if instead of a sad memorial day for the Holocaust we’d have a joint happy day with Germany? We could perpetuate the positive change that exists now, and not the horrific catastrophe that once was, alongside all the hate and frustration that comes with it…”

Give Peace A Chance

If I’d spell out tales about the hippie festival I participated in over Passover’s weekend it would get tacky. I’m not gonna go romantic about plowed fields washed with fluorescent moon-glow, or describe hundreds of people dancing and sharing stories all night and all day long. It was a freak-show time machine from an era acid was holy water and holy water was wild music, and I Love it. I needed to put aside thoughts of job-hunt and social crudeness, and went all out 150% high on soberness.

Did I find peace in the Northern Negev? No, I didn’t. But neither did I come back into a different time-zone. The ordinary world switched to the summer clock during the days I spent without electricity or running water. There was a hose in the field some 20 mins walk near the festival area, for people to shower together in the open air. Free water, and free Love. This festival was not for everyone, but those it was for could do about anything as long as they didn’t hurt anyone. Giving and Loving and Sharing; sounds venerably naïve, eh? An inch more and I’ll get to the chase.

Following every meal in the Rainbow Gathering, a bunch of wild musicians got up to hop among guests, sing and play the same song over and over again. The chorus went like this: “The more that I give, the more I got to give. It’s the way that I live, it’s what I’m living for.” Dancers and kids joined the musicians with a magic-hat and whoever could, donated some shekels. In a matter of minutes more guests joined the hat-party and celebrations went on for hours every time.

At the end of a three month job-hunt in Tel Aviv (gratefully, during which I did have a gig or two), there was nothing I wished for more than to disappear for a while in an open wilderness. To use the spring’s healing power and Passover’s freedom vibe as leverage. It took me three days to crave the city again; not because I couldn’t handle nature’s quietness, but because wind and fire wouldn’t pay my student loans. Or by local Gypsies: I’m tied by Babylon’s chains.

Some 10 years ago when I rambled Israel with nothing but a Tuba on my back, a sleeping bag and some spaghetti, the Rainbow was a place where old people told me what to do while I was freer than any of them. Today, I’m a part of The Machine, and all the old people are gone. I like those sweet Rainbow rules that keep people from hurting each other. The focus of those who participate today is not strict hippie rules, but caring for and respecting others. In the city, I’ve been missing it a lot lately.

And the theme of this blog – integration in Israel. My good friend from Vancouver used to insist on proofreading my writing every time I had pieces to submit. That’s the way I believe the world should work, he said whenever I wanted to praise him for his unconditional generosity. In Israel I have at least 5 close friends who could proofread my work, but if I ask them for a 20 mins session they stop taking my calls for a week. I can’t blame them; everything seems to be so busy here. It’s a feeling you can only know when you live in a place.

Whenever it comes across that I could use a helping hand here, I see people’s eyes narrow and shrink just a bit into their cavities, and they become defensive. Is it really that hard to give? It doesn’t matter I don’t want anything from them. It doesn’t matter that if they’d lend a hand it would bring them joy and cost nothing. It doesn’t matter that the best way to elevate your own ship is by raising the tide so all ships raise together. In the Rainbow it didn’t matter.

Back when I lived in Los Angeles, things were way different than Vancouver, but also different than Israel too of course. Both in L.A and in Israel I learnt very fast that most people couldn’t care less about you unless it serves their own interests. The difference was that in L.A the first answer was always that it is possible. In Israel the first reaction is usually that it’s not and that it’s hard; difficult is a key word here. What’s wrong with sending people off with a smile on their face?

During my four day long weekend in the desert, giving and sharing was a privilege and a joy. It was the whole point and mindset of this gathering. It could be money for the magic-hat, music to spread with joy, open-hearted stories to share and listen to, or humility, and willingness to help others picking up firewood or working in the kitchen. Honestly, when we face unconditional giving, our hearts open up like care-bears and we start pooping unicorns out of our bellies. It is possible, even if it seems difficult to imagine.

It’s giving that makes the world go round. When I was dropped back off in Tel Aviv, I couldn’t stop smiling. The Rainbow filled me up with pain and hope, which in the city came across as openness and joy. As the song goes, the more that I give the more I got to give. Rainbow is people at their best, said the guy who gave me a ride back from the desert. The Rainbow is volition not a result, I retorted. It’s a losers’ game, he added. We never really win without losing too.

Spring Celebrations

Festival: A day or a period of celebration. ~ Google dictionary

The first words uncle Google uses to define Festival really hit the nail on the head. Then he starts talking about religious connotations, organized shows, annual events, etc. Let out your free nature and be merry and fulfilled. Israel celebrates one of her major holidays this week - Passover has always been a time of festivity. Since we cannot drive too far beyond our six hour north-south and two hour east-west borders, everything happens relatively nearby.

Most folks get a week or two off during Passover, pretty much like Christmas, except it happens in the spring. It’s been traditionally celebrated since the Exodus to mark freedom, spring time, inner and outer cleansing and the winning of a minority over a dictatorship that hates them for being successful. It’s said that only a small part of the Israelites actually left Egypt when Moses called the game. Is it really that scary to break free?

Celebrate creation, the seasons, life and nature, evolution, new beginnings. Celebrate change and be festive. You will find festivals all over the country this holiday, but some of them will never come up on your first search. My friend and I took the wrong turn on our way to the beach in Tel Aviv Friday morning. There were two open Goldstar bottles separating my crotch and his butt on the back of his one-foot-in-the-grave 150cc scooter. Suddenly I recognized a gypsy friend we both haven't seen for many years and we stopped to say hi.

The friend told us about a small festival that takes place in a godforsaken bank of the Jordan River up north. I knew I was going to do something special over the weekend so I had a toothbrush with me, but I didn’t know what this special thing would be and how I'd get there. But something inside was screaming to get out. An hour later we ran into a beautiful German traveler, a gypsy transforming into a modern woman, who was looking for a way to get to the very same festival. My friend and his scooter stayed in Tel Aviv; she and I headed up north - two hours by car or three hours by bus.  

At sunset we reached a large space in a natural eucalyptus grove with a peaceful river at its feet. A huge central fire with 150 people singing, dancing, playing music; celebrating the spring and the International Day of Equality. The city would define their outfits as rugs rather than garments. Kids ran wildly and played all day and all night. An underground festival. Gosh. Would my city persona that knows nothing but job-hunt these days be of any obstacle when it comes to hard-core hippies on the river-side?

The unplugged music didn’t stop for one moment all night long. Guitars, percussion, string instruments flutes and singing. Lots and lots of singing. Gypsy style atmosphere with a soft Israeli vibe, country folks and new-agers of all kinds and shapes. People hug each other everywhere and smile at you silly; lovingly. Strangers who choose to dress and laugh and dance like animals and to become a tribe different than the norm. Joint meals, no charge. Each person gives according to his or her own ability.

I didn’t have a blanket nor a sweater, and although the music kept the hearts warm, night air turned cold. I fell asleep next to a beautiful girl I didn’t know who smelled amazing, and we kept each other warm. Just like me, almost all guests ran personal morning yoga sets whenever they woke up, and no one took it strangely. Soft sun squinted behind cold spring clouds as I stretched spirit and body with deep pranayama, and light drops of rain caressed my face and skin. Coffee and tea pots endlessly circled the fire that never died, and no one cared for the time.

Alternative workshops you don’t hear about in the city were happening during the day. I took part in a couples-yoga class with a pixie. Beautiful volunteers walked around the compound with cut fruit on silver plates. I didn’t feel like eating the whole day. I’ve been very depressed lately because of real-life situations; all I needed was to be light for just a little bit longer. Fruit was perfect. More than perfect. There’s a whole world of systemized life behind each pair of eyes, but no one wants to know anything about it. They want to know the real person behind those eyes, and to share deepest feelings and thoughts.

Can you put the system aside and stare straight in the eyes of yourself and others? To open up and to Love does not always feel comfortable. But it does. The person inside doesn’t always stand on the same line with the person outside. Did your city persona take over? Who do you want to be and who you practically are? Who do you truly turn yourself into? Phony me, need to have life crashed at the rocks (see previous articles) to make room and bring up oblivion, fundamental self-observation.

Who’s got time to challenge themselves? Most of us have a life we’re confident of. Gratefully, we’ve got goals, ideals, possessions (usually), directions, limiting roots. We thought alot about life decisions and it’s hard to let go even when we celebrate. Reality junkies. It’s good, it protects, it intrigues, it builds personal and social values and most of us try to make those values good. It keeps our teeth healthy and our immediate environment more comfortable and safe. It is stressful therefor holidays, and a change of environment is important.

Three people helped me cross the river at night on an improvised raft dry and safe. I woke up the day after in a Kibbutz near the river, the Pixies played on the stereo and the birds sang outside the window. Life is not perfect. Life is sometimes hard. Heavy. But who are we to mess with the bigger plan? Passover is a time everyone takes a vacation in Israel. No one will look at my resume anyhow. I’m gonna festive the hell out of this holiday, in places uncle Google didn’t even hear about.

St Patrick. TLV. 2013

It’s a funny coincidence that the 1^st day I joined Bikrahm yoga’s free week membership, was the day the West got hammered, hard. The class helped me in many ways. It’s been a long time since I was doing yoga with a “minyan” (more than 10 people); and nonetheless, in 38°c. Good sweat, fine teachers, very nice people. Namaste.

You’d think that pubs and restaurants in Inter-super-f@#$g-national Tel Aviv would be teeming with life on a night like this. At least I would. Think again. I walked along Eben Gevirol Street and not one place was decorated green. Oops, it’s a country of religious and Zionist nature. Not many people celebrate international holidays, where the whole point is getting silly and having fun.

So I passed by falafel shops, burekas places, 20 different hummus or meat restaurants, and some exclusive ones with blue lights an’ all, but no green. I remembered this place called HaShoftim, or in free English translation, The Judges, that always had a Guiness sign on the front and carried this Irish-Israeli atmosphere; a weird combination when it’s genuine. A few more blocks and I’m there…

Three tipsy looking dudes crossed the street and walked ahead of me. Their excitement levels rose. One of them had a green belt tied over his shirt. HaShoftim appeared and a blasting celebrative vibe reverberated through the air. Green hats? Coats? Green BEER…? A crowd of mostly Mediterranean fella’s who don’t stare at you from behind a mask of criticism? My heart softened just a little, but it was a significant improvement next to the dark rock it felt like just a few seconds before.

The place was packed and not with pickup vibes. It was something in between a city pub and a Yeshuv. Not many sparky dresses and the folks didn’t look each other in the eyes like they’re competing over something. “The wise man does not compete; therefore, no one in the world can compete with him.” ~ Tao Te Ching. Chi Ching - Lechaim - To Life - Cheers!

I wasn’t worried about a sitting spot. I felt like they all knew me and I knew them all. There was one empty seat on the bar, between a drunk, heavy middle-aged men and a girl with straight hair who was talking on her phone. The stool had a coat. Is anyone sitting here? I asked the heavy guy in English. What? He answered in Hebrew, and I sat.

What’s your story, I asked the young woman, as the bartender served me a pint of Guiness with a clover leaf in its foam. The girl and I couldn’t stop talking for hours. I didn’t feel like hitting on her even though she was cute. I just wanned to talk; to open up to someone, and she had a pretty lot to say too. She moved to the city from a Moshav and we had much in common, and we drank and drank…

Two days after. I’m on a bus, taking my regular journey. The integration in my new-old country is twisted and curled. I gave myself 2 months to find a job, I made it in 7.5 weeks, but in the end it didn’t pan out. Now I’m dangling again, in between the sky and the earth, with no home and no idea about the future. Ain’t that just a bit like everybody else? Or mostly just the last part.

Gonna go wherever the wind blows, meet more new strangers and shape things up. With a distinct feeling of melancholy, I breathe the waters of the Israeli aquarium and the steams of the Bikrahm room. Even though you can’t always get what you want, if you try sometimes, if you really look for what you desire, you may find you get what you need.

Ooh, yeah.

Israeli Country Ride

You should have seen the view from the one-lane road convoluting down to the Sea of Galilee this weekend. It is the time of year everything is green in Israel, particularly, the north. Blooming season is nearly gone, flora is rich and happy, trees dawdle worriless in the sun, nearly free of their yearly stamen loads. Most months of the year this land is yellow and brown; greyish green at best. Now it is screaming vitality.

I joined my family on a trip to visit granny, who lives in the same Kibbutz on the banks of the Sea of Galilee for the past 75 years. Today, in her mid-90s, she doesn’t recognize left from right, but when I come over she’s filled with life and sometimes even knows what she’s saying. It feels good to mean so much to someone.

The Sea of Galilee is 215 meters below sea level (~700 feet). Two hour drive south you reach the Dead Sea which is minus 400 meters, and the lowest spot on the planet, but that’s a whole different story. Just as a point of reference, Death Valley, the lowest place in North America, is minus 85 meters (282 feet).

The Mediterranean Lowlands were left behind and the Jezreel Valley warmly took us in. A wave of strong natural scent filled the air, as hills rose from the flat lands dressed with thick greens. The roadsides got covered with red and yellow flowers. Olive lines, eucalyptus colonies and wild almond orchards freely lounged as far as eyes could see, with a purple cousin-tree intruding ever so often to add more character to the marvel called creation. Two months before, the land was dark and the earth was soaked and wet. Now it breathes, ready for a new cycle.

It felt more and more country with every mile heading up north, as white haze thickened the air. It smelled like summer but it’s actually only mid-March. In 10 more days comes Passover, the Holiday of the spring. I wonder how the real summer of 2013 will smell like in my new-old country, after I was away for so long.

Give me a kiss to build a dream on, Luis’ trumpet semi blasted on the semi high notes, as the Sea of Galilee embraced my nature just like I did hers. Counting Crows held on to the Kibbutz entrance gate and the electronic card slid in smoothly. I know it sounds silly, but I could really hold someone’s hand and stop the world for a moment or two, seeing that beautiful sea unveiling herself in between the mountains. 

They still use a joint Dining Hall in this Kibbutz. People pay for food of course, but old timers remember how it used to be. No money was used in the early days of the Kibbutz; everyone did his or her part and shared it with the others. At night, they did what all pioneers used to do: partied recklessly and guarded from thieves and pissed off neighbors.

A few decades have passed, maybe a century, and we can’t fully know what was done back then and how. A status quo was formed, which most of us take for granted while others feel they’ve been stepped over. At some point we should start admitting iniquities and supporting those we’ve hurt. Meanwhile in the Dining Hall, I sat next to Mrs. Potters, who poured stories about wild dances in the barn back in the days. I looked in the eyes of religious-less faith, a 90 year old woman with a prostatic leg and a smile that never disappear.

Later on at night, my sister and I went to the local pub, where you don’t have to be the son of a preacher-man to reach friendly locals and laugh about anything. After a few glasses of… everything, we went down to feed the cows. Couldn’t get more country than that! Or could it…

After making sure all cows are happy, soft R&B 90s music suddenly reached our ears. Watta ya’ know ‘bout that. We walked round an ancient barn till we reached an unlocked door. A half dozen tipsy valley folks sat in a dim red pub that used to store grain silo in previous century(s). It may have been a time-loop, because there, they actually accepted only Kibbutz money. It’s a good thing I know my grandma’s account digits since I was 4, buying popsicles every day in the summer.

Soon as the locals caught on our vibes, R&B was replaces by ACDC, Dead Kennedys, Thin Lizzy and even some country music, which is rare in Israel as a queer tomcat in heat. You could say I found more whiskey in the Jar, and here is for that: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TehFZ38kt6o  

At that point, it actually crossed my mind to go back to the cows and try riding some. Even at my worst behavior I feel bad to do something so inconsiderable, but I believe they wouldn’t throw me into Folsom Prison for such a prank.

The headache that hit me the morning after was worth the silly adventure. Half hour yoga, a sandwich and I were back on track. A cowboy hat and boots ain’t mandatory in the Israeli country lands. As urban city-boy as I may be, I’d still crank up the music and hop on that 4 wheel for another ride, any time, any day of the week.

The United States of Christmas

I don’t remember who was nominated for the Oscars of 2007, but I do remember a huge golden statue. I don’t remember the celebs and their fancy clothing, but I remember parking just a few blocks away, with a sunshine smile between my ears. Then, Sponge Bob and Darth Vader walked down the street to meet Captain Jack, and they all had a cigarette. My girlfriend was so happy to take George Clooney’s photo on the red carpet. An XL security guy with a Made in America mustache asked how on earth we got in without a pass. We said we’re from Israel. His smile became laughter, and he ordered us to leave. Thousands of ecstatic fans from all over the world kissed stars on the sidewalks. The true meaning of American Idol.

There’s nothing wrong with being a kid, no matter how old you are. As long as you don’t hurt anybody. If you can stay a kid, by all means, be my guest.

The following year we found a cool apartment one block west of the Chinese Theatre and the H&H. It was on the safe part of the street (west), but we paid less than most folks in the Valley. It was a catch. I was a “we” and we didn’t need anything else. She and I, in the great wide open. “Check out those chicks!” a friend said as we drove down Hollywood Blvd, just another sunny day. “I wanna sink my teeth into those thighs and AGHRRR!” “I don’t really see ‘em,” I answered. He looked at me as if he wasn’t sure he heard me right. I certified my comment by adding, “I have the best of the best waiting for me at home.” Now, that was Love.

I remember one night, a family with uncles and aunts an’ all. I was helping a friend sell vacuum cleaners door to door. Yes, the Jewish immigrant, same as 2000 years ago. When you gotta make money you’ll go all out and make it, and you’ll never beg. I sold an average of one or two machines a week; and earned a commission that was higher than the average American wage. And just like the average American, I spent it all on a dream. It was Burbank just before Christmas and everything was adorned.

If you look at the US from outer space one month before Christmas you see a net of magical lanterns. The family wanted the vacuum, it really was a good vacuum, but they bargained down to the last penny. It’s a misconception that Americans spend money recklessly. They know how to get what they want and in the way that they want it. This family, was no exception. After a couple hours, their negotiating made my commission disappear, but they were finally ready to buy. Then the uncles said they want one too. This later brought me a monthly bonus and a “golden” pin next day in the office.

I don’t remember the struggling, the uncertainty, the fights. The mean strangers and weird jobs we had to put up with, the cheap food we lived on. I do, however, remember outings we sometimes could afford; nights of a dazzling Hollywood breeze. For the past two weeks, I made a marathon of the 2013 Oscar films. I won’t say I’m objective. On the contrary, I’m not. I stand for my experience and for the elixirs that I’ve earned.

The single moment that struck a chord in my heart in one of the Oscar winning movies, was the moment that contained the song, Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas by Frank Sinatra. If the actors were a little less incredibly good looking, I would probably buy into the film a bit more, but then no one would watch it. I mean, for sure, every time a person leaves the mental house back to his folks’ attic he’s sexy and wild. And obviously every time something like this happens, there’s an angelic damsel in distress who chases him down the path of Love. I’ve seen it a million times in the real world. Not.

But do you know what I did see? I saw families flooding up malls smiling and contempt. I saw young parents with small strollers and huge tattoos. I saw MILF’s and kids with white hair, who would put any person in his or her place for saying anything stupid. I saw people who wish for nothing but happiness and freedom, and every year on November 30^th break some savings and buy dreams because it’s fun. TV feeds us commercials 24/7. What’s wrong with treating your family generously once a year when everything costs less than one week’s beer and diapers? It’s good to let go of the stress by spending savings in a responsible way. I remember a nation of people who mostly retire in their 60s to start the best years of their lives by renovating hot rods and fishing and watching TV.

Here’s a good, simple song about not judging what’s different - Mike Younger with If By Chance We Meet Again: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9LJkZPlddRY

What I’m saying is, I wish more people would be a little more childish and a little less judging. I miss the United States of Christmas. I miss it more than words can tell. I’m not envious, but I’m sick of reminiscing. I wish it was a bit easier. Even when life in the new-old country starts to get on track, emigration and integration are layers upon layers of adaption and acclimation. You think you’re done with one step, and ten more come up. No one understands the loneliness. I feel that if I’m not the same as the locals in the country I live in, I’m not as wanted.

They all seem so sure of themselves, no matter where you are. I keep on reminding myself to move forward and to be grateful, and people believe and look up to me because I’m not a part of one defined system. Yet something inside longs for what used to be, and not what’s now. Consciously, I chose my place long ago and I was kicked between the eyes, twice. Sometimes, our worst enemies are memory and free choice. Then, they become our strength.

Long Live The Difference

In the beginning there was peace and quiet. Then came G-d and created the world and it all turned into one big pile of mess. “It’s only my heart that was broken” said the Dire Straits. What does one hold on to when results don't show, and the city turns into a tower of cards built on social programing. Joblessness takes a high toll and sadness easily becomes a fake shield. Once again you’re left hanging, empty and defenseless. Right.

Here’s a pickle: my sole sanctuary is - well, lucky me - my folks’ house. That’s too much to bear for a 30 year old who left home when he was 18. It reminds me that my strengths are also my weaknesses, and lately I’ve got to realize a personal case of Verbal Diarrhea. Usually it’s a wonderful thing. It makes me into a leader and an opinionating person. But now, on the one hand I have verbal diarrhea, and on the other hand verbal constipation, since s#$%t doesn’t go by the latest plan. Great.  

In the beginning there was a homeland. The only country you know. I’ve always wished for peace of mind in this country. Just quiet. Politics is too much for me to bother about and People are people and they Love each other. At least the sane ones, who are the majority. In the beginning I wished to be somewhere else or something else, away from all that noise. Now I wish the opposite. Now I wish to integrate and to Love the noise. Social Commitment you may call it. To stand in the eye of the storm, stronger than ever, letting nothing effect you. Easier said than done.

In Canada I could cut myself a slack and keep only one eye on the ball. Since I didn’t grow up in the local culture, I didn’t feel obliged to be “like them”. The integration was different. Even though I grew up in Israel, my ways will always be different than the average Israeli Joesef. Here people care who you are and what your personal choices may be. There, they don’t. Here everyone shares one faith, so it’s believed, but the way it’s reflected is rude if it gives no peace of mind. It makes me feel I should be like “them”, yet something’s holding me back. Was I destined to be an outsider forever?

In Canada I didn’t have family around, or any cultural intrusions for that matter, and it made me bloom. In the mess I found simple order. “They” took me as a cool “stranger”. I could slowly and quietly take my head out of the shell, sniff around and play with the rabbits. Once in a while I even pulled up an act as if I am a rabbit, and not actually a turtle. I was free of pressure and it created faith. I don’t mean religion, I mean faith. I knew things will be alright, and every time I ran out of solutions, a new solution came.

In the beginning there was peace and quiet. Now there’s a mess. Once I get a job here, I wonder how the switch will feel like.

Approval Highway

When life stays on track, swift and smooth, we often put the obvious aside. This blog is about the integration in a new-old country so it sometimes explores the obvious, from a different perspective. If this is your first visit I encourage you to shift into reverse and read an article from a month or two back. You’ll see an interesting arc during a critical turning point in a person’s life.

Approval is a blessing we often take for granted. Oblivious to our flock nature, we feel lucky to be individuals. We’re all lucky one way or another, but social support makes us feel a heck of a lot luckier and gives expression to the individual in each one of us. When approval remains unseen, patience is the name of the game. Patience; don’t burn yourself out. And your mind is restless and you feel like you’ve just had it; again. Patience.

The more you’re being pushed over to the curb in the job-market highway, the more you lose grasp of gratitude and freedom. Sad but true. You can cruise a 160mph, positive as a witch on the highway to hell, but until you’re approved to pull off on the next exit, you’re a loose screw with one goal in mind and one goal alone: to dock in a new office and to be the awesomest worker ever. And other aspects in life feel the engine heating up.

During this two month ghost ride down the road to success, I’ve become more lonely than I’ve ever been. Approval goes a long way. Her ugly sister, disapproval, sinks deep and tries to play with my mind. Am I doing things right? Do the routines I choose really keep me on my game? What more can I do to bring results faster? Engine coughs and I find myself running on empty with no gas station in sight, given to the mercy of others.

Results do come, but do they matter? Until I dock down in that awaited parking spot, I keep on racing. I put out more writing material than ever, send emails, improve strategies. I think that I’m beginning to see the light, but only the results will say if it’s not just another temporary high. Like the nice woman in the Ministry of Absorption Office asked me this week when she saw me smiling: “Good news?” and I said: “Good people and good meetings. Good news will be when I stop seeing you.”