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December 25, 2008 - A cold and overcast Thursday morning in Tel Aviv, I gathered my things and prepared for a day trip to Jerusalem. I was in Israel for two weeks, mostly visiting coastal towns I never had the opportunity to experience before – Tel Aviv, Akko, Ashdod, Ashkelon, Eilat. But where should a Jew living in the Diaspora be on Christmas day?
Jerusalem, of course.
I ignored my host’s advice and wore my black rain jacket and not my purple wool winter jacket. After all, I’m from New York, it’s not that cold. I doddled off to Dizengoff, waited for the #5 bus, paid my NIS 5.30 and spaced out until we reached the techana mercazit – central bus station. Just my luck, once I made it through security and up to the Egged floor, a bus to Yerushalayim was loading. I paid, and sat in an empty seat. The kid next to me stared at me for a good 45 seconds until an older kid came and told me I was in his seat. At least I think that’s what he said – my Hebrew is below par. He then proceeded to yell at the younger kid and chastise him for not telling me I was in a taken seat. This part was not so hard to understand.
I made my way to the back of the bus, where my true seat was found.
We arrived at the techana mercazit in Jerusalem and again waded through security. My first planned stop was Emek Refaim. And I had no idea how to get there. I’d just ask someone. It was about 50 degrees and raining in Jerusalem.
After grabbing coffee at Aroma, a bad habit I picked up early in my trip, I spotted a group of American yeshiva kids, most likely on their year before college. I figured this was a safe bet for directions. When I asked which bus to “Emek,” I got several different suggestions. In my impatience, I nodded, thanked them, and headed for the cabs outside the bus station.
Cab #1 – Techana Mercazit to Emek Refaim, Red-headed Israeli Cab Driver
“Ani nosa’at l’emek refaim. Cama zeh?”
I asked him how much it would be to Emek Refaim. He muttered something, shrugged his shoulders and hit the meter in the cab.
Whoa. Ba’moneh, it is.
I was shocked that one of my first attempts to negotiate a cab fare in Israel was a non-dramatic monologue by the driver himself that I didn’t even understand. The week before this, I visited in Jerusalem and was told by some friends that I should always ask for the meter after asking the “flat” fare. It was a fun game to be played. First pretend that you are not willing to take their first offer, counter it with the option that will earn them less money. If they’re honest and do not take the route that is slow and will drive up the meter, they will negotiate.
Uneventfully, we arrived at Emek Refaim and I got off and paid the meter amount.
Cab #2 – Emek Refaim to the Israel Museum, Israeli Cab Driver from Iraq
Standing under an umbrella shielding myself from rain drops and a few rays of sun (go figure the two at the same time), I hailed a cab.“Cama zeh l’muzeon yisrael?”
“esrim”
I took it.
Man I suck at negotiating. I had no idea how far I was going and 20 sounded ok as I quickly calculated it was only $5. Once the typical cab conversation ensued and I butchered the Hebrew language, I got a piece of his life story. In English. “Ah, you’re from New York. Two of my children live in America. I tried to visit them but the Americans wouldn’t let me in because I am Iraqi.
Even though I am Jewish, they would not let me have a tourist visa because it says on my passport that I was born in Iraq.”
Wow. I couldn’t believe this. The man went on to tell me how he has been in Israel for 58 years, and of course is an Israeli citizen. He’s been to Spain – no problem there. But America, nope.
We arrived at our destination, I paid my 20 shek and off I went.
Cab #3 – Israel Museum to Machaneh Yehudah, Arab Cab Driver #1
It was about 3:40 PM or 15:40, if you wish, by the time I finished up at the museum. It was definitely below 40 degrees and still raining. It was a biting cold and stark difference from the Eilat temperatures I had left the day before. I walked a bit under the umbrella and spotted the row of cabs.
Within 20 feet, a cabbie hopped out of another cab filled with cabbies and greeted me warmly.
He asked me where I was going, in English, as the word tourist was naively “stamped” in red on my forehead. I knew I was in for it.
“L’machaneh yehudah.”
I really wanted to prove I could negotiate and wanted them to take me seriously. “Cama zeh?” I asked.
He told me 60 shekels, of course answering my Hebrew with English. OK, absurd. Here we go! Let’s negotiate!
“Ba’moneh, b’vakashah.”
“This is the price! It is raining!”
Oh, f-bomb, I thought. I wasn’t yet in the cab and thought about grabbing another, but it was flipping cold and honestly his other cabbie friends wouldn’t give me a better fare. I shut my mouth and off we went. I knew once we were at my destination, I could try to bring it down. The typical conversation ensued – I am from New York, visiting friends. I was super ticked off and was giving him nasty responses to his questions:
“Bad weather today. Is it like this in New York?”
“This is nothing! It’s snowing in New York.”
He shut up. He asked me where in the market I wanted. I told him as close to the entrance as he could get. I played dumb and asked again how much the fare was.
60.
“That’s ridiculous! I’m not paying you 60 shekels.”
“That is the price I gave you.”
“I just went almost the same distance from Emek Refaim before and it was 20.”
Knowing now that he wasn’t negotiating, I unclasped my wallet and began to pull out a 100 shekel bill to cover the amount.
“I hope you feel better about yourself knowing you are cheating tourists. I asked for the meter.” I asserted.
“If I went on the meter as you asked, I would have gone through traffic and it still would have cost you 60 shekels. The life is hard for me. This is the price.”
I was taken aback. The life is hard? What? This has nothing to do with me. “Yes,” I answered.
“The life may be hard, but that doesn’t justify you cheating a tourist. I hope this stays on your conscience!”
I gave him the 100 shekels and he nobly said,
“Here. I give you 50 back.”
I slammed the door.
Cab #4 – Unknown torn-up J’lem Street to Techana Mercazit, Arab Cab Driver #2
No more rain, but it was damn cold. And damn windy. The sun had set hours ago and my purse was full of persimmons, dates, rugelach and other random purchases from Machaneh Yehudah. Buses were passing me, but I lacked the energy to try to find out which one would take me to the bus station where I would wait for Talya to take the bus together back to Tel Aviv.
I hailed a cab. I asked the price and he gave me a number. I didn’t like it and lacking the desire to argue, I asked for the meter. Miraculously, it was granted to me.
All of this transpired in Hebrew somehow. The same cab conversation I had had the entire day – from New York, on vacation, visiting friends, staying in Tel Aviv. I was having de ja vu and just wanted to be done with the cabs already. He started naming the buildings we passed – the Knesset and other governmental buildings. I asked why the Knesset was lit up in blue. What is for Hanukkah? He said no and gave another reason and blabbered on in Hebrew. I have no idea what he said.
By this point, he realized I spoke English and the conversation continued in English.
“Why are you only here for two weeks? You are young. You should be learning here for a year.”
“No, no. I have a job I have to get back to unfortunately.”
“But you are young. How old are you?”My favorite question! A game I like to play, this time.
“How old do you think I am?” I chuckled, knowing he would be off-base.
“Eh… 17, 18.”
“Hahahahahahaha. No, older.”
He guessed 20. And then I informed him that I am 24.
“But you have a baby face! This is a good thing for when you get older.”
We arrived at the bus station and I paid what was on the meter and thanked him for ending my day of cabs on a high note.
Later on I met Talya and we got on the bus back to Tel Aviv, followed by the #5 sheirut to Dizengoff. I was never more happy to be on public transportation.
Monday, December 22, 2008 – Straddling my luggage on the left side of an airport shuttle bus that would take me from Terminal 3 to Terminal 1 at Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion Airport, my cell phone rings obnoxiously.“Who is calling me at this ungodly hour?” I exclaim.
“It’s 9-something. It’s not so early.” Talya reassures.
It was about 9:30. Early for me to be receiving a call on vacation.
I picked up the phone and didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
A female voice said something in Hebrew.“What?” I said.
She said something else in Hebrew. I sort of understood but smirked and realized she had the wrong number.
I lied, “Ani lo m’daberet ivrit.” (I don’t speak Hebrew)
“Ma ha’meespar telefone?” (What is the phone number?) the caller asked.
Was she kidding? She called me! Shouldn’t she know the number?
I responded, “Ani lo yoda’at ha’meespar.” (I don’t know the number)
It wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t memorized the number, but SHE called me and SHE had the wrong number. Why should I scramble to find where I had written the number down. After all, I was standing on a moving bus with luggage at my feet. More blabbering in Hebrew ensued. I told her she had the wrong number, at which point, she yelled at me. Uh, OK. I ended the call.
December 23, 2008 - Making my rounds at the breakfast bar at the Americana Hotel in Eilat, I hear the obnoxious sound of my rental cell. I rush to the table where Talya is holding my ringing cell phone.
Thinking again, who is calling me at this ungodly hour?
I see the number and chuckle. I think it’s the woman who called me yesterday morning at the exact same time.
“Hello?” I sarcastically ask.
“I think there has been a mistake.” This time she is speaking in English.
She continues, “what is the number of this phone?”
“I don’t know the number,” I respond, playing dumb.
The back and forth continues similar to the day before. She asked me a lot of questions until I finally told her I couldn’t help her and hung up.
Why is it her business that I have a rental cell phone? It’s not my fault that the person who had the number before me didn’t tell her not to call this number. The best part is that she made it seem like it was my fault that SHE had the wrong number.
When I was packing my carry-on bag to prepare for my upcoming trip to Israel, I took my siddur (prayer book) off the shelf. When I opened it and flipped through the pages, I found a small piece of hotel stationery from the hotel where I stayed in Weimar, Germany when I was on Germany Close Up earlier this year in July. I laughed a little in disbelief that this paper would still be tucked into the front cover. I vaguely remember consciously not throwing it out in the haste of throwing out all the train and museum tickets, receipts and other papers I had accumulated while on the two-week trip. Consciously or not, perhaps it had stayed in there because I never cleaned out my siddur and, well, never used it since.
On that piece of paper, I had written page numbers and the names of the prayers I had pre-selected to say at the Memorial site at the Buchenwald Concentration camp.
I had always wanted to put a note in the cracks at the Kotel (Western Wall) in Jerusalem the previous times that I’ve been there, but never knew quite what to say. I think prayers should be genuine and not forced, so I never wrote anything on those previous trips. When I saw the small piece of paper, I knew that this belonged in the Kotel and that I should add a prayer on my own. So I set out to do just that.
Fast-forward a week into my trip. I had arrived the previous Sunday and it took me an entire week to make it to Jerusalem, which seemed a little wrong. I knew that my trip to Jerusalem would have to include a visit to Yad Vashem. I had several stops that day and it made more sense to go to Yad Vashem before the Old City logistically. Plus I wanted to be at the Old City to see the Hanukkiah lit for Hanukkah, which would start at sundown that night.
While looking at the first panel in the main exhibition, I was surprised to not see writing in German, just Hebrew and English. After all the exhibits this summer in Germany, the German had become engrained in me. I laughed inside a bit and moved on. Laughing outside would be a bit insensitive.
The visit was powerful. It is such a well-done museum, showing a brief history of anti-Semitism and the rise of the Nazis and then a comprehensive account of the ghettos, deportations, the camps, resistance and more. I must admit that once I got to the section on Auschwitz, I was supersatured and couldn’t do much anymore. So, I quickly finished and moved on to another exhibit. Prior to coming to Yad Vashem on this visit, I thought that I could handle the exhibit and wouldn’t have a problem. I surprised myself and became winded by the material.
Once I finished the rest, scaling through the gardens and making it through the memorial to the 1.5 million children who were murdered, which almost brought me to tears, I made my way back to the entrance to return my audio guide.
I had given my old Rutgers ID as a “deposit” for the audio guide. When my ID was returned to me, I had trouble putting it back into its usual slot in my wallet. I noticed there was some paper or something in the way after several tries.
I reached my pointer finger and thumb in and pulled out a small perforated ticket stub, which was one part of a baggage check ticket from the Swissotel in Berlin.
Baffled and realizing this wasn’t the only thing stuck still in the slot, I reached my fingers in again and pulled out a small ripped piece of paper folded in half with a bunch of numbers written.
“What!?!” I gasped aloud, realizing the identification of both pieces of paper and their origins.
I was baffled and amused at the same time.
We stayed at Swissotel in Berlin for a week, went to Weimar, some three hours away for three days, and then returned to Swissotel in Berlin for the end of the trip. I, along with others in my groups, left a bag “checked” at Swissotel when we were in Weimar. When I retrieved my bag upon return to Berlin, I think I just took it without giving back the tag. And the other piece of paper was the number I was supposed to dial to use my calling card from the hotel. But I had trouble with it and was never able to get it to work (I later found out once I came back to New York that the card was never activated at the store where I bought it).
My head was racing. How could these papers have stayed in my wallet all this time without my knowledge? I had surely cleaned them out since returning from Germany. Other regularly used cards, including my Starbucks card also occupy this slot in my wallet. Why did I suddenly find these papers when I was standing inside the entrance to Yad Vashem? Why this moment?
Later that afternoon I made it to the Old City just as the first candle for Hanukkah was being lit at the Kotel. I made my way down the steps and took a deep breath.
I wrote different prayers on all three papers, said a few prayers from the evening service from my siddur, and put the papers into the wall.
Ask me why I live in Astoria.
Go on, ask.
OK, since you've asked.
It's cheap. It's cheap, it's convenient, it's safe, it's easy to get to, and well, it's cheap. Did I mention it's cheap?
When I spent my childhood and most of my teen and college years daydreaming about someday living in THE city, I never imagined I would live in Queens. My career choice, the outrageous cost of this city and my personal desire to put money into my savings account landed me in Astoria. And nearly two years later I'm still here.
I'd be lying if I told you economics is not what has kept me here, but still, there is something magical about this neighborhood. And something even more magical about the diversity of this borough. The most diverse county in America.
Last Saturday I left my apartment with 2 tasks set out to be accomplished: eat lunch and go to Rite Aid. It was a warm afternoon and the sun was shining, so I diverted part of my plan for the park. I grabbed a bagel and sat in the concrete-filled park around the corner from my apartment, "Athens Square."
Half of the park is filled with basketball courts and the other half is an homage to Greece, in the eyes of an ignorant outsider, like myself. The center of this half is built with a mini ampitheater with Parthenon-like pillars outlining the curve. A statue of Socrates stands next to the Parthenon pillars. Astoria is known as a Greek neighborhood, but it's ever-changing.
As I lose myself in a daydream and a fluffy bagel, I hear, "Excuse me, Miss, what time is it?"
"3:05"
A question from a group of Hispanic boys playing soccer in the center of the ampitheater. They call out plays in Spanish and narrowly miss hitting the other children running around the ampitheater.
Another conversation begins on the bench next to me. An outrageously loud conversation. A man speaks in Arabic on his ear piece.
The neighborhood Greek men convene at a chess table behind me. Mid-game there is some argument. Or perhaps a passionate discussion.
I finish my bagel, take a deep breath and wonder. Where else in the world could I hear Spanish, Arabic and Greek being spoken simultaneously? Would this happen in Manhattan? Regardless it does happen in THE city, just maybe not in the location of my original daydream.
"Are you Italian?" a random 40-something on the subway blurts in my direction.
"Oh, geez, not again." I think. I'm about as stereotypically Jewish as it gets, but I get the Italian question a lot. What is it about me? My dark features? My pasty white skin? My high cheek bones? Other features...?
Is this an appropriate question to ask?
When is it appropriate to ask a total stranger his or her nationality? You wouldn't ask your random Jose on the subway if he prayed with a rosary or if he fasted during daylight for a month or if he avoided animal products, right? You wouldn't flat-out say, are you a Buddhist? The crazy proselytizers handing out Jesus flyers aside, religion, ethnicity, nationality are all very private and personal matters in this country, no?
I'm not saying I get offended when someone asks me if I am Italian. I take it as a compliment. I love Italian culture, art, jewelry, food, and the people, but, honestly?
To the contrary, I usually engage in conversation and offer where my grandparents and great-grandparents came from: Poland, Austria, Lithuania, Russia, Romania. Pale of Settlement Eastern Europe. Places I am the least bit proud of and feel no connection to whatsoever. "Are you Jewish?" I do get after a little conversation. "Yes." They've found me out. I'm a little uncomfortable but a little relieved a piece of my Jew-iness has found the light.
Where's the line? Can we be Americans and denude ourselves of origins and identity? Do we want no marking features but want them at the same time?
Half asleep, I clutch my overstuffed purse, full of breakfast, lunch, book, ipod and heels as I climb up the subway steps already 20 minutes late for work. As I reach the top of the grueling climb up the subway steps, I can't help but see a purple advertisement smushed onto the concrete walkway. I see the word "Crohn's" on this ad.
Huh?
Did I really see "Crohn's?"
A metro swipe and and another flight later, I reach the platform. I see more purple ads flattened and trampled into the concrete of the platform. "Crohn's control"
I pick a dirty ad off the ground. It's an insert. An insert from the Metro or the AM, a free paper available every weekday morning. The insert is an ad for Humira, a biologic treatment approved for Multiple Sclerosis and Crohn's Disease, and perhaps others. I've only heard of it because since experiening my first sigificant flare-up with Crohn's Disease in 2004, I've become obsessed with learning everything there is to know about the Disease. I read about Humira when the FDA approved it last year.
The ad boasts that Humira would allow the user to go out to dinner again. The ad boasted control. Ask your doctor, it said. It said all the right things. As someone who lives each meal and every moment in between with this disease, this ad spoke to me. It knew its audience.
But, I wondered.
How many people who read "Metro" or "AM" have any connection to Crohn's Disease? 1.4 million Americans have been diagnosed with Crohn's Disease and/or Ulcerative Colitis, with about half suffering from Crohn's, so how many of those 700,000 ride a New York subway or walk the New York city streets? Is this ad duplicated elsewhere? How many are candidates for Humira? How many suffer from this moderate to severe Crohn's Disease that this ad suggests?
Every 8 weeks I receive a similar biologic treatment to Humira. Remicade. Remicade has changed my life forever. Remicade makes it so I can wake up each morning, go to work, eat real food, go to the bathroom, hang out with my friends, and bottom line: live my life.
Remicade allows me to be healthy enough to eat dinner at a restaurant without the anxiety that one menu item over another will decide whether I can leave the house or not. Remicade does everything the Humira ad suggests. Remicade and Humira are similar drugs; Humira is a more advanced biologic treatment, though.
What concerns me is this obsessive advertising. Is it necessary? Is it cost-effective? The ad hits me - these drugs are my lifeline and I would not be a functioning person without them. But at the same time, this lifeline has become my chain.
In order to receive Remicade every 8 weeks, I must have health insurance. Remicade is patented and my Doctor's office bills out over $9,000 in charges to the insurance company. Yes, $9,000.
My insurance company usually only pays out around $3,000, but still. $3,000? Yes, these treatments are ground-breaking and have prevented me from having surgery that would remove part or all of my colon and God-forbid, an infinite number of other serious health complications. $3,000 is indefinitely less than the suffering those experiences would bring.
Although, I still wonder.
Why are they advertising? With this small group of people living with the disease and their circles of family and friends who may hand this ad over to them, they seem to be spending so much money.
And who ultimately pays?
I do. I pay.
And you do, too. Regardless of whether you have Crohn's Disease or know someone who does or have even heard of this taboo disease, you pay. Because you have health insurance. Because you have a job that pays for your health insurance. Or because someone pays for your insurance. Or because you don't have insurance, which in that case, you pay the greatest price.
The advertising costs drive up the price of the drug. And I become a slave to it because I need it just to live my life.
We have a serious problem in this country when necessities become fodder for advertisement the same as candy or a car is advertised.
I've done no academic research on this topic. I'm purely a consumer and observer of how my life choices have become chained to the pharmaceutical, insurance and health care industry. I can only report what I've experienced.
Why can't a Crohn's patient's doctor be the first to tell him or her about Humira? Why does he or she have to hear about it from a glossy full-color insert in the free subway newspaper?
Why is someone getting rich off of my diseased ileum?
Crohn's Disease is an autoimmune disorder, causing inflammation of the digestive tract and other serious complications. To learn more about Crohn's Disease, Remicade or Humira, visit: www.ccfa.org
On my way home from staffing a meeting for work, for an organization that fights anti-Semitism, hatred and bigotry of all kinds, I encountered cab 3V27. A little after 8 PM, I daydreamed out the cab window up Third Avenue, tired after a long day that had me up earlier than usual to vote in the Presidential Primary. It was taking longer than usual. I remarked to the cabbie,
"There's a lot of traffic tonight. I wonder why that is." He replied, "It's Super Tuesday! A lot of excitement.
"As we went over the 59th Street Bridge, the cab driver told me he and his wife voted this morning for Hillary Clinton. I told him I voted for Barack Obama. To that, the cabbie replied that it was already decided.
Apparently, tonight Hillary Clinton would win the nomination and Barack would be her Vice President. According to an "elected official friend" of his, the Presidential race was, too, already decided. From the "supreme" powers of the FBI, CIA and others, John McCain would surely be the next President of the United States. It was already decided. As we looped around the exit of the 59th Street Bridge and made a right onto 21st Street in Long Island City, the cabbie explained to me why Hillary would win the nomination. You see, Barack would, as president, get involved in Pakistan and other areas. Hillary would get involved in the "Middle East."I asked why Hillary would get involved in the Middle East.
According to the cabbie, Hillary would be like her husband's Presidency, who had good relations with leaders in the Middle East. I knew at this moment that there was something that the cab driver wanted to say, but needed a light tug.
I asked, "Like with Israel?"
He responded that Hillary would win because the Jews control "the monetary." His english was not good. His grammar was terrible. He kept saying that the Jews control "the monetary." I had tugged, alright...
A small pit formed in my stomach and I grew nervous. We were driving north on 21st Street in Long Island City. I knew this conversation could get interesting. I kept my cool.
I chuckled slightly and said, "but, how could a group of people so small in number control the world?"
"No, no. Not the world. They control the monetary."
"You really think that?"
"You see, God put them here to do that. Even in the Quran it states that. In Egypt, the Pharaohs found Moses." By this part, I was starting to freak out a little bit. I had flashes of anti-Semitic verbiage flashing in my head. I was contemplating what to do. Should I get out of the cab? Should I listen? Where is this going?
I listened. In my confusion, I got part of the story.
To paraphrase, the Pharaohs had Moses. Moses was not one of them. God sent the angel Gabriel down with a diamond. Apparently this was a hot diamond that could burn. They wanted to test Moses. Gabriel was about to put Moses' hand on the diamond, but at the last moment, God stopped Gabriel. God stopped Gabriel because he sent Moses down to be the one to start the Jews, who would set forth the people who controlled "the monetary."At this point, I had shakedly steered him towards my street. He was parked in front of Trade Fair, where comforted by the supermarket across from my apartment, I felt I could open my mouth and say something and stop asking questions.
"First of all, the Jews don't control the money or the world. That's ridiculous. The Jews weren't sent here by God to do that. You're twisting it. The Bible says the Jews are the chosen people and were sent here to be a light unto the nations. To be a moral voice."To this, the cabbie inserted, "My boss is Jewish. Gindi. He owns Century 21. He even says the Jews control the monetary."
"Well, I'M JEWISH."
"I know..."
"What, you know? I'm Jewish and we don't control the world." (As if my I-told-you-so assertion would sway him.)
He apologized. I'm not sure if it was for our conversation or because I gave him a terrible tip.
That was essentially the end of our conversation. I paid, forgot to get a receipt and left the cab shaking.
This man was crazy. He was all about the conspiracy theory. But I can't just walk away from my $14.20 cab ride home from the offices of the Anti-Defamation League, where I work, thinking that this was an isolated incident. Millions, if not billions, of people around the world believe as a matter of fact that Jews control money, the media and the world. And some of them even live in the same city as me and drive me home from a long day of "fighting anti-Semitism."
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