“How are you, baby?” he asked in English with a languishing drawl that reminded me English was not his first language, despite the utter lack of a Spanish accent.
“How am I?” I laughed. “Dad! I’m in Israel!”
He gasped. Was he picturing me being blown to bits by mass transit? Probably. “Que?! What! What are you crazy?”
I rolled my eyes. And as I normally did, I assured him in a soothing tone that I wasn’t. I told him that I was in Israel to study Orthodox Judaism at a school for converts. He showed some uncharacteristic restraint by not telling me that that was crazy, too.
In the Old City.
The next morning, I had called my boyfriend to figure out our plans for the day. He was staying at a yeshiva on the other side of town. He was going to be my tour guide while I was in Israel. He had visited many times, even spending a year long stretch after high school.
“I can’t see you until late this afternoon,” he said in a matter of fact voice.
I was startled.
“But I don’t have any food for breakfast!” I whined slightly hysterically, a picture of myself starving and dying from thirst flashed before my eyes.
“Well, you’re just going to have to go out and buy yourself something with the money I gave you last night,” he responded in a huff.
My jaw dropped. I didn’t know anything about Israel. I didn’t know the name of the street where I was staying. I didn’t know how to get around. I had done absolutely no research, assuming that my boyfriend would be my walking, talking guidebook.
And that’s how I had ended up, chesting heaving, standing in front of the ugly, limestone building where I was staying. All the buildings on the block looked exactly the same, short, wide and composed entirely of limestone bricks.
“Okay, you can do this,” I said loudly. But I didn’t believe it. I was the kind of girl who could get lost using a map and often did.
I looked left and right. An art gallery. A Judaica store. And right in front of me, traffic on an asphalt road that was at a standstill.
But past the traffic, there was hope. A street lined with cafes, little bistro tables littering the pavement.
Waiting at the crosswalk, I looked up at the clear skies above. I could feel the sweat bead on my scalp, under the swirling cloud of my curly afro as the sun beat down mercilessly overhead. The dry heat was a blessed change from the humidity of a New York summer.
Once across, I paced in front of the restaurants apprehensively. All signs on the store windows were in a language I couldn’t read. And the restaurants looked fancier, reminding me of the expensive cafes at every other corner of Midtown Manhattan East.
Familiarity drew me to the café with a large deli counter that took up most of the room. A few natives milled around inside. I quickly searched the walls for a certificate that would prove the café kosher. But everywhere I was overwhelmed by Hebrew.
The tall, dark-haired tanned attendant leaning against the glass behind the counter mumbled something unintelligible in my direction. I blinked and shook my head.
“English?” I asked with a frown, straining upwards to look at him over the tall counter. His eyes strayed down to the modest long-sleeved blouse and long skirt that announced my religious affiliation: Orthodox Jew. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Why didn’t I speak Hebrew? With my tan skin and dark features, I certainly looked the part of an Israeli native.
“Ah, American,” he laughed, enunciating the words in a gruff Hebrew accent. He rifled through papers on the counter and rescued an English menu. “Here.”
I smiled gratefully. My stomach grumbled as I paged through the menu. I bit my lip. There wasn’t any pork on the menu so maybe it was kosher. I mean, I was in Israel, right?
With a shrug, I ordered a wrap that included a litany of ingredients I couldn’t identify. Desperation was my middle name. The savage beast that was my stomach was a rough rumble and tumble of acidity. I rubbed it soothingly.
When he announced the price in Hebrew, I presented him with a fistful of Israeli money. He laughed again, repeating the price in English. I paid him quickly, rushing out with the white bag he had handed me.
Back on the pavement, I took a deep breath and peeked inside. It smelled…foreign but not offensive. I was hopeful. I pulled the wrap out with one hand, offered a little before-the-meal prayer and opened my mouth to take a bite. My phone started vibrating in my fannypack.
I sighed. Stuffing the wrap back in the bag, I pulled out the phone.
“Yes?” I said with sharp annoyance. Only my boyfriend had the number.
“You know that not every restaurant in Israel is kosher, right?” he said.
I gulped.
“Did you check for kosher certification?” he asked.
“Everything was in Hebrew!” I whined.
“Hmm,” he offered back. “Well, maybe it’s kosher. I mean you’re not Jewish yet so it’s not really a big deal.”
I gasped. I hadn’t had a piece of unkosher food for months!
“No, honey, I mean….”
“I know what you meant.” With a click of a button I hung up and paced down the block.
At the trash can, I sighed and threw the little white bag in.
“G-d, I’m so hungry,” I whispered aloud, pausing in front of another restaurant. And just then, a man in a black suit, white shirt and tall black hat sauntered into the restaurant in front of me. My eyes widened. Jew! I squealed in my head. I had just figured out my way around my limited Hebrew.
At some tourist site in Northern Israel.
Memoirs of a Jewminicana 