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.