A Movie Guide to Hitch Hiking

Like the flip of a coin, or the cool side of the pillow, many things in life are about opposites. In the example of hitchhiking, you can either have an amazing hitch, or a possibly very dangerous situation. I had never hitchhiked in my life and in two days I managed to catch six rides. Of those six rides, the last two were perfect examples of when hitchhiking goes extremely right, and when it can go scarily wrong.

I usually think of life in terms of how it would look in a movie. In the case of this specific hitch, I think an apt description would be a male-buddy-road trip comedy. With myself cast as the tempting lady hitcher, the three boys who picked me up fit their parts perfectly. Nir, the driver, is the strong, silent type. He’s the muscle of the group, coming to the rescue when his friends undoubtedly found themselves in a sticky situation. Matan, he’s the smooth talker, jester of the group. He’s the one that would put the three friends in the aforementioned “sticky situation”. The third buddy, who makes the group complete, is Moshe. Quiet, reserved, he’s usually the butt of Matan’s jokes and the usual recipient of Nir’s protection. The three boys have a friendship that could only have grown out of knowing each other since diapers. The personalities all differ, but they compliment and support each other in the way that is only seen in true and lasting friendship.

Enter the lady hitcher, with her bags still on, her shorts short and her arm extended. The boys pull over and she suggestively leans her head in the window. “Hi!” She says in her upbeat American accent. “Where are you going?”

“Tel Aviv,” Nir responds automatically and monotone.

“Wherever you need to go,” Matan counters with a sly smile. Moshe sits in the back with a sheepish grin on his face.

The girl throws her bag in the trunk and hops in for wild hijinks, bubbling sexual tension, and good times that can only be had by young kids who have little worries and their lives stretched out before them.

That was the good hitch. As the boys and I near closer to Tel Aviv, I say goodbye to them at a bus stop where I can continue on to Jerusalem.  From here the movie completely changes genres. The setting is a busy highway intersection with desolate wasteland on either side. The bus stop is lonely. About six people wait for one bus, and then I am left all alone. The afternoon heat is searing, the only shade is the shadow cast behind the bus shelter. I take my two suitcases and sit behind the shelter and wait for my bus to come. I think about maybe sticking out my hand but the intersection is so busy, it seems more of a hassle to weed out the good rides. I wait 5 minutes before the urge to pee is too much too bare. I walk a few feet down and crouch behind one of only a few bushes for cover but am sure most people can see me. I go back to my bags and wait another 15 minutes and very few buses pass. A car pulls up and the window rolls down. I’m sitting on my bags so I have to get up to see if he is trying to ask me for directions. “Jerusalem?” He asks me.

“Yea…” I answer cautiously.

“Jerusalem!” He says more emphatically.

“No, that’s ok, I’ll wait for the bus.”

“Come, I go to Jerusalem.”

People always say you have to go with what your gut tells you. If you have a bad feeling, stick with it. I think something is wrong with my gut because I collected my bags and got in the car. The man, lets call him Bill, because between his broken English and my non-existent Hebrew, I couldn’t catch his name. Bill looked to be orthodox. He had on a white shirt, black pants, large kippa, unruly black beard and side curls. His skin was dark and his face was pockmarked and wrinkled. He showed me his ID to prove his age of 31, but he was an old looking 31 year old. As soon as I got in the car, all signs pointed to NO. The car was clearly not Bill’s. In fact it looked like it belonged to a woman. I could tell this by the blue and white lei wrapped around the gear stick. The car was shitty, broken down and beat up but with a brand new stereo. Like cars that belong to most young kids, they care about how loud their bass is in comparison to how well their car runs. Bill liked bass but he loved trans music. It was this music that he turned louder when I agreed to come in the car. The music was being fed from a USB stick that flashed red light in time with the beat that gave the car a weird club atmosphere. I immediately felt self-conscious about my bare arms and legs and pulled my backpack up to create a flimsy barrier between me and the now spastic dancing Bill. He wagged his finger to the beat and shook his leg uncontrollably; to him this was a good time. To me, I had just let all my friends and family down with the decision to get in this car. At one point I had the opportunity to get out, I even had Bill pull over, but he asked me not to be scared of him. I felt bad. Some people are just weird.

Out of all of this I didn’t feel that he would cause me any harm or want to hurt me. I just felt that he was a really creepy man. I felt a little sorry for him; his love of Torah seemed in extreme contrast for his love of trans music. He appeared to be pulled in two different directions. The desire to serve god and become a Rabbi, and his desire to flirt with pretty little white girls and get down and dirty with club music. I figured by riding in the car I was helping him experience a little of the life that he can’t really grab hold of. For my part I was getting a free ride to Jerusalem. As ominous as the situation started out, the ending was a little comical and anticlimactic. Bill declared his love for me and made me take his number. He then dropped me off at a random bus station on the outskirts of Jerusalem. I had no idea where I was or where I should go. Bill then peeled away in the car, adjusting his kippa and blasting that trans with not even a second look in my direction.

Day 1, Istanbul

I watched the carousel go round and round at the Ataturk International Airport in Istanbul. It was 5:40 am and I wasn't sure if it was a good sign that I hadn't seen my bags from my flight from New York. When I booked my flight to Israel, I gave myself a 12 hour layover in Istanbul so I could go out and see the city, a place I had always been dying to go to. However, a common theme I find in my life is my lack of planning and propensity to hoping things work out. So, here I was hoping that my large suitcase from New York would be put on my flight 12 hours later to Tel Aviv. "Off to Istanbul!" I thought to myself. I took out my iphone to pick up the wireless internet I was almost sure they'd have available for free in the airport. A friend of New York had put me in touch with a Turkish girl who I was hoping would show me around for the day. The two of us had not really made a plan on when to meet or what to do, so again, I was just having faith it would all work out. I was sure all I had to do was email her when I arrived in Turkey and I would be whisked away to an "Istanbul behind-the-scenes," locals only tour. My pictures would differ from every other person I knew that traveled to this tourist-trap of a destination. It would be a great start to my new adventure, everyone on facebook would be super envious. But first I needed internet.

I'm not picking up any wifi on my phone so I look for the food court area. The first thing I run into is a Starbucks. Of course. Why wouldn't there be a Starbucks here? At least I'm sure they'll have internet, and they did. But only for people with Turkish sim cards. That's ok, minor hiccup, its still only 6 am, no point in bothering the nice girl who has agreed to show me around for the day.

I head to passport control and it's a mob scene. I figure this is my first test of practicing my Israeli nerve. Lines are not meant to be queued up on, only pushed through. I do my best shoving and pushing from one end of "I don't know where" to the other of "Where the hell am I" before I finally ask which line I should queue on. 

When I get to passport control the guard looks at me, bored of course, and says "You don't have a Visa, you can't come through." 

My stomach drops, thoughts of 12 hours in Ataturk airport looking through a glass window at civilization, mosques and fresh air outside frighten me for a moment. But then I find out you can buy a visa at a counter in the back for $20, so I go join another queue. The rest of the day goes nice and orderly. On the metro to the city center, and Italian girl sits next to me and we start talking. She's finishing up traveling two weeks through China and has also given herself a layover in Istanbul to see the city. We decided to walk around together before she has to leave for her flight around noon. We see the mosques, we get some coffee, we go to the spice market. We talk about American movies and TV, about traveling in China and about traveling in general. We take some pictures and have some laughs. We give big hugs when its time for her to leave and promise to become friends on Facebook. She'll always have a place in New York and I have a place to stay in Italy. I've misplaced her name in my journal.

After walking around by myself a bit, getting a little lost in the winding neighborhoods before backtracking, I get in touch with Aycen, the friend of my friend in New York. We agree to meet around 7 pm for dinner and a night tour of the city. At this moment I feel its a perfect time to indulge myself in the one thing I've wanted since my first and only day in Turkey four years ago, a Turkish Bath, or Hamam.

At this point especially a Hamam was the perfect idea. I had woken up at 5:30 am the previous morning (New York time), barely slept on my flight to Turkey, and had spent about a day and a half in the same clothes and only recently brushed my teeth. 

I go to the bath and enter a very large, rotund, marble room that is apparently 500 years old. I sit there thinking I really should be more impressed but the exhaustion has dulled my senses for appreciating beauty and history. I sweat out all my impurities alone at first, and then am joined by two other Turkish women using the bath. I notice they sit by the sinks and take bowls to pour water over themselves. This looks like an excellent idea and I head over to do the same. Next came the part that I paid for, to be washed. A nice turkish woman comes in and gets to bathe me like I've never been bathed before. 

Seriously, I felt like I was transported back to being a baby, being washed by my mother with all the tenderness, care and love that can only come through when the dirt is washed away and you are made to feel like new. Which is weird I felt this way because I'm pretty sure my mom would just throw us in the shower as we cried that we were missing watching "The Simpsons" or "90210" (Yes, I was young enough to be forced to shower by my mom when Beverly Hills was the hot new thing). But in this bath, I was scrubbed from head to pinky toe. All the dead skin scrubbed off and rinsed with bowls of alternating cold and warm water. My hair was shampooed my scalp was massaged, she even seemed to get a bit frisky but I was so numb with the pleasure of cleanliness everything was wonderful. She finished, I dried and dressed and walked back out into the afternoon sun.

I still had time to kill before I met up with Aycen so I continued to just walk from place to place. I was aware that it was the month of Ramadan, the muslim holy month, and was actually a bit happy for it. It seemed Istanbul had all the energy it normally maintained, but just with the volume turned down. The reason for this is during Ramadan, all muslims are required to fast from sun up to sun down. They have to refrain from eating, smoking, drinking water, and of course a lot of them joked about refraining from sex. A normal day in Istanbul might consist of non-stop harassment. "Yes, yes! Come here good food! Where you from? You so beautiful!" But because everyone's energy was severely depleted from fasting, the harassment kind of went like this "Hello, you want to eat here? No? ...Ok." But in addition to everyone being very tired and subdued, they also practice more charity. I was taken in and offered tea and water more times than I have in my entire life! Add to that, I was never starved for conversation or stories. The Turks love to talk. Once you got one going he never shut up. I was in the square waiting for Aycen and I ended up talking to these two guys. One of the guys wouldn't stop bullshitting which was fine, but then when Aycen showed up, who they knew I was waiting for, it was like, "Oh wait, one more story! One more parable about life! One more nugget of knowledge!" 

The rest of the night went really well. Meeting up with Aycen was probably the highlight of my day. We had only exchanged a few emails and the only connection we had was our mutual friend. Yet as soon as we met, we had no problem filling in conversation or opening up about our views on life. We went to a wonderful seafood restaurant on the Bosphorous overlooking the city. I was able to see all the beautiful mosques and especially the lights lit up for Ramadan. Afterwards she took me to a main shopping street and I offered to treat her to coffee and dessert. We went to a really nice place, and even though we were in Turkey, I knew exactly what to order, "Tall skinny vanilla latte and a grande cappuccino." Yes, we went to Starbucks! The day had come full circle, and I was ok with it. 

Employed but not getting paid? Still "unemployed"?

There are a list of questions that I should have prepared myself more for when I came to Israel. "Where are you from? What are you doing in Israel? You will make Aaliyah?" Yea, the last one is not always a question.

Where am I from? "New York," I say. "Ah New York! The Big Apple!" They follow up with. Of course then they ask more, is it the only New York that matters (Manhattan) or are you from Upstate? "Well," I start, "I lived in Manhattan for two years, I went to college in the Bronx for four, but I am originally from Long Island." Ah yes, a Jew from Long Island. That's all the Israeli asking me has actually been waiting for, confirmation that I'm like every other American here. I stumble over this answer a lot, but it usually provides good groundwork for conversation. Almost everyone knows New York, has been to New York, or knows someone in New York. It's nice to share a sort of familiarity with someone, an instant association.

Then I have the question that I'm still not really sure how to answer. "What are you doing in Israel?"

I should just say it plainly. I came here to intern in Journalism. It's the "How" and the "Why" that make me start to second guess my decision to come at all.

How did I find this internship?

Well, six months ago I made the journey that most Jewish young adults who aren't connected to their religion make, I participated in Birthright Israel. I had an amazing time, a life changing time. In 10 days, on a bus with 39 other people I didn't know, being run through a country I had never imagined, something bloomed inside of me. Every positive thought about myself had suddenly been validated. I believed that I was meant for something bigger, that I have the power to change and mark my place in the world. It was time to make a change and Birthright Israel was the catalyst for it.

The next step was committing to this change. I want to go back to school one day but I'm not ready. I want adventure, I want to travel, but I also want to gain tangible experience. The thing about being Jewish is there are a plethora of programs that you can pay for (but are also highly subsidized - cha-ching!) and participate in that have all these things. Done. I applied to Career Israel, a five month program that I pay for out of my own pocket, and once I'm "accepted," the program sets me up with a Hebrew language course for one month, an internship in the field of my choice for 4 months, housing in Tel Aviv, a group dynamic with other people in the program, and maybe a little brainwashing of how great Israel is and how one should move here and continue to build the country. It's that last part that always gives me reservations. But the good seems to outweigh the brainwashing. Shortly after returning from my Birthright trip, I put in my final notice at work, bought my flight, moved out of my apartment, packed my bags, and headed to Israel. Since my lease was up on my apartment in New York in August, I gave myself that month to travel in Israel on my own before my program started in September.

That's a pretty long answer and a loaded one at that to explain to someone making casual conversation over a beer. The "Why" Israel is usually a bit easier for me but a little less exciting for them. Most people think I've come back to the motherland with all the idealism of a new Jewish convert. It really was simply for the fact that Israel is host to this program and it seems a pretty interesting place to study and practice journalism.

What I struggle with the most in these explanations though is justifying myself. How can I take six months off of my life to pay to work and pay to live? It seems spoiled and superfluous. Another rich Jew from Long Island who doesn't know about hardship, struggle, fear, or what it means to search for the truth. I've paid for a program to take care of me, I haven't achieved anything on my own or of my own merits. Yet.

The "Yet" is what sustains me. I remind myself that everyone has a path in life and it can't be the same. This is my decision, my path, my journey. This is what I felt I must do for myself and I am in the position to do it. I don't know what will come of it, if I will succeed or fail, but what I do know is that I have to try. That is Why I'm here in Israel.

The thing about New Yorkers is...

We love to complain. What separates the complaints of New Yorkers vs personalities of other cities is our anger and immense frustration we build up towards the people we blame. We HATE the MTA and it's president for cutting service lines, cutting jobs, and then raising fares! We HATE taxi cab drivers that continue to drive even though "we're walkin' he-ah!" We place the blame and believe that there's nothing to be done because there is nothing you can do about stupidity.

After the Christmas Blizzard the city was up in arms about Mayer Bloomberg's response. We were angry that our roads weren't plowed, that sidewalks remained covered in snow and that our train lines were disrupted. We hated the Mayer and the head of sanitation and we hated the weather. Weather, you are so stupid, who do you think you are throwing a blizzard on our city?!

But something interesting happened to me on the way to work today. I walk the 30 blocks to work, it takes about 30 minutes. I was in my normal mood of "don't mess with me or get in my way or I will run you over" when I got to a crosswalk where I clearly couldn't jay-walk (traffic had already started moving). A couple of us stood there waiting with a man who was shoveling the sidewalk. He took a break while we waited, we didn't notice, we never really notice anyone do we? Until the shoveler turned around and said "Here, let me clear this way for you," and he shoveled away the slush and grime. Then he smiled. I smiled back. The girl next to me tried to jay-walk but there was still traffic coming. The Shoveler said "Be safe today, you should always cross when the white light appears, ok stay warm, stay dry, have a good day!" It was the oddest thing. I had just received customer service on the street at a crosswalk. It was like New York City became a giant store that was catering to me. Thank you sir for shoveling that sidewalk, and being nice about it.

My Coffee Cup Addiction

Lord help me, I love buying take away coffee. Oh but the guilt! I guess it doesn't really help that of the two religions I can choose from, both of them give high praise for austerity. But I can't help myself, I get a paycheck and I just want to spend, spend, spend. I'm not one for clothes shopping, unless the mood strikes me. I did just splurge, (and I mean SPLURGE) on a pair of Steve Madden boots. The last time I did that was a Michael Kor's trench coat two years ago, so I allow myself. It's the little things that get me down and make me wonder why I really need to buy them.

My biggest vice has to be take-away coffee. I'm a sucker for brewed Hazelnut, but what I love most are the cups. The crisp clean white of a Starbucks grande, the industrial styrofoam of Dunkin' Donuts and not having to lug it around and wash it when you get home. Probably my weirdest obsession, when it comes to take away coffee, are the lids. Most of my coffee buying decisions are made based on what type of lid it comes with. If it's a peel back plastic lid, I find the strength to pass. No matter the count, grade or age of your 100% arabica beans, I won't be enjoying my coffee while I'm cutting my lips on the perforated edge and scalding them simultaneously while not enough air is getting between the inside and outside of the cup to allow for proper flow. But trust me, my knees go weak for a raised mouthpiece, Starbucks, Dunkin', 7-11 and even McDonald's have my number on that one. It's a shame, I have such love for Cafe Bacio, on 70th and 3rd. Not only do they have brewed Hazelnut, their cups are chic, their lids are raised, but the milk, oh the skim milk! It's foamed! This cute little nook of a cafe resides right in the middle of my commute so if I did buy my coffee it would only be in the morning and it would be cold by the time I get to work.

What I've been doing lately is washing my coffee tumbler at home, carrying it to work, then drinking the variably passable brew they have in the staff kitchen. I add a little skim milk, half a splenda, and I can survive the morning. But these past couple of lunches I've found myself wandering into Dunkin' Donuts moving from a medium Hazelnut, to a medium Hazelnut and a donut, to a large Hazelnut and a donut! Even as I'm writing this I can't wait to get back on my lunch break tomorrow and pick up another coffee, and even a donut! This has to stop!

But do I want it to stop? Starbucks said it best, "take comfort in rituals." And it's a ritual all right. I've convinced myself that happiness and serenity (and a caffeine kick) come while holding a paper cup, with a hot liquid, a mouth molded top and handing over $3 for it.

I try to limit my buying, opting for brewing at home, work coffee, or even free gym coffee, but I feel that I've started and I can't stop! It was the same for a while with yogurt parfaits, and I'm scared manicures and pedicures might be next. But for now, it's just happiness in a cup, with a lid, skim and half a splenda.

A random act of kindness...

Dear New York,

Thank you for this one.

I was going on my lunch break with my friend at work. The day hadn't started off too great. I was still upset about my meetings at work, I had probably made a mistake throughout the day. I just felt like I had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. I was telling my friend all about my horrible morning. "It was raining so I went to the subway because I wasn't sure I had enough money on my metrocard for the bus. I get down into the subway and swipe my card and see that I actually did have enough for one ride. Awesome, well I'm down here now so I might as well take it. It's packed, of course. The first train comes by and people rush to get on and there's not enough room so I have to wait for the second one. More people come, there is gross dirty city water everywhere. The second train comes and I'm able to get on it but not without losing some of my dignity and scared that in this process I have somehow managed to cheat on my boyfriend. I get out at the stop but realize the exit I take is two blocks south of where I need to go. I come out of the subway and my umbrella is broken. Now I'm late and wet and am scared to see what's in my inbox."

We get into the Atrium and I tell my friend I'll find us a table while she gets her lunch. Of course its 12:30 so it's packed and there is not a free table. I ask this girl sitting by herself at a table of four if she wouldn't mind if my friend and I sat down too. She say's no problem. I start to get myself sorted when this man comes over, puts his stuff on the table and leans in close to me. I'm thinking he's going to also ask to join us and I'm thinking "No way Jose," but before I can say anything he says, "I noticed you didn't have an umbrella coming in here, I'm trains and planes from this stage on, here you are." Then just walks away. What I'm left with is a pretty industrial style compact umbrella. I'm speechless. I don't even have time to recover from my poor thoughts about this man in time to thank him before he's halfway across the room to the exit. I manage to stammer out a "Thank you!"

Who woulda' thunk. I felt very lucky that day, lucky indeed.

A random act of creepiness...

Dear New York,

This is what you're throwing at me...

It was a Friday, but not like any other Friday. This particular end of the week had left me feeling dejected. Work had gotten the best of me. After being pulled into a meeting with not one, but two of my supervisors, and discussing, what appeared to me as a personal attack on my character, I left work and rushed to pack for a weekend away. I wanted to be happy and excited to be going off on this trip but all I could think about was what other people thought about me. How I could act one way but it be perceived another. How I could be going about my day none the wiser that I could be ruining someone else's. It seems dramatic to think that I actually could be walking around as an oblivious black cloud, taking pleasure in others pain and enjoying causing them more, but that's how I felt when I left that meeting.

So I pack my bag, put on some leggings and switch into my Ugg boots. The weather had just dropped to that specific temperature where you can notice all the young girls in the city sporting similar uniforms. The sweatshirt to keep us warm, the leggings to make us sexy, and the Ugg's to keep us comfy. So I'm rushing to the bus in my particular change of season outfit when this man stops me. "Excuse me, which way is 2nd avenue?" I point in the direction him and assure him he's headed the right way. I smile and plan to keep on walking. But he stops me and looks down at my feet. "Excuse me, uhm, but, what size are your Uggs?" Needless to say this question surprised me. Taken off guard like this I answered the only way I knew how.

"Uhh, I don't know, I guess a 7?"

He seemed mesmerized and perplexed that these Ugg's could be a size 7. I wasn't sure where he was headed with this, maybe he wanted to buy a pair for someone?

"Really?! Wow, I mean...those are some sweet, SWEET Uggs."

Now, in my normal state, this would have been a weird comment. However, given my hyper-sensitive, super aware and extremely insecure state, coupled with the knowledge that Ugg's aren't the most popular fashion statement, I looked him square in the eye, face distorted in disgust and asked him point blank, "Are you making fun of me?" He quickly responded with a "No, no of course not!" But I didn't trust this lost stranger, who, if he did like my Ugg's, was a more discomforting quality than if he didn't. I was shaken for about 30 minutes after the episode. So New York, thank you for thoroughly creeping me out.