Let’s Play a Game

Israelis are very expressive people. Whatever they do, it is done with immense passion and a whole lot of hand gestures.

For the last few years, I’ve started playing a game: I people watch and guess if they are arguing or merely having a conversation. Now this probably sounds ridiculous cause any idiot can spot the difference between the two, but you’d be surprised.

I’ve seen conversations about the weather with hand gesticulations as if we were entering WWIII.

I have witnessed a woman ask the bus driver what the cost of a ticket is and the conversation somehow ends up in 3 old ladies arguing about why she’s still single.


Non-verbal communication is equally, if not more important, than verbal communication. When it comes to a country where nothing is off limits and most things are verbally expressed (for better or for worse), the non-verbal communication follows suit. A conversation can be riddled with wide, open armed gestures followed by a playful slap on the arm followed by a “yo” wrist shake followed by a noogie followed by a kiss on the cheek and then a shake of the hands. Maybe even throw in a hug and an “I don’t believe you” wrist flop for good measure.

So next time you’re waiting for the bus or looking to kill some time, I suggest trying this game for yourself. And no cheating – you can’t be within hearing distance!




I fired myself

Hebrew is a really smart language. It was re-invented after having died out which is hella impressive if you ask me (and I know you did). It follows seven different verb patterns, all with their own purpose and grammar rules. Some are passive, some are active, and some are reflexive.

The reflexive pattern is my favorite: It is simplistic, it makes sense but it also sounds ridiculous when translated directly to English. For example, in English you say “I got dressed” but in Hebrew it’s התלבשתי, or literally: “I dressed myself.” Imagine a grown man saying “I dressed myself in jeans this morning.” Hilarious! (Although it’s good to know that he’s not still depending on his mom for that). Also, take the word התקלחתי – means “I took a shower” but literally means “I showered myself.”

One word that has been pretty hilarious to me lately is the word התפטרתי, meaning “I fired myself”. A realistic translation would write it as “I quit” or “I resigned” but I love the idea of telling people that you fired yourself. I’ve been focusing on this word a lot lately because I quit my job a few weeks ago. That’s right. I fired myself…now if only I could offer myself severance pay – that would be bomb.

As much as I love my company and co-workers (/friends!), it is time to move on. Being the planner that I am, it was very unlike me to “fire myself” without having a solid plan of action for the next step. But yalla I live in the start up nation! I’ll land on my feet – and I’ll enjoy the fall in the meantime.

Ashkenazi curses and cures

Being an Ashkenazi Jew pretty much guarantees that I have lost the genetic lottery. Heart Disease? Sure. Diabetes? Yes. Anxiety? Obviously. Cancer? Unfortunately so. High blood pressure? You bet. Pretty much everything runs in my family (sorry to my future kids) which is really great when you throw in some gastro issues as a bonus.

For some reason, it seems that a large percentage of other white people (of Eastern European origin) in this country seem to experience some form of stomach issue. Ranging from gluten intolerance to lactose intolerance to IBS to general sensitivity, it’s amazing that we allow ourselves to be fed so much at a Shabbat dinner. I don’t know happened, genetically, all those generations ago that got us to this point but here we are – living with daily stomach disruptions.

When I first moved to Israel, even before I made aliyah, I remember dealing with these issues. At first I was told “you’re just adjusting to Israel,” then I was told “you’re just stressed out because you made aliyah,” then I was told “you’re anxious because you moved to Tel Aviv,” then I was told “you may have a gluten intolerance. Oh, wait, maybe not” and then I stopped listening to people.

Unfortunately, a non-diagnosis is the best it’s gonna get and as much as I like my doctor, she is always booked up months in advance. So. In between harassing her secretary into getting me an earlier appointment and complaining to my mom, I do what any self-respecting Ashkenazi would do: make some Jewish penicillin. The cure-all, matzah ball soup is truly a miracle. Granted, as a vegetarian, I don’t make it with chicken bones which really do enhance the flavor, but those little dumplings of deliciousness find a way to “warm the cockles of my heart,” as my grandpa used to say. And while I’m at it, let the record state that my mom makes the best matzah ball soup. Yes, even better than your mom makes it – deal with it.


The 70 year old with elbows of an 18 year-old

I can be pretty scrappy if need be. I mean, hey, just cause I stopped growing at the age of 11 and am just shy of reaching the 5 foot mark doesn’t mean much. I can hold my own when it comes down to it.

9 times out of 10, holding my own is a necessity if I am in any semblance of a line. Waiting to pay at the grocery store, getting on the bus, even getting on and off the elevator can turn into an argument and the key is to be prepared.

One thing that took me a long time to get accustomed to in Israel is that old people are experts at sharpening their elbows. Age doesn’t slow them down – in fact, it adds to their momentum. It is more prudent for them to beat you the bus and oh, there’s a sale on olives? you better move it, son.

The bus is my biggest obstacle these days. Summer’s here and it’s hot. My goal is to get on the bus first, claim an air conditioned seat and get lost on Instagram in peace before starting my day.


Here’s my reality: meet the ferocious eye contact of the old man using a walker, offer him to assist him onto the bus, receive a smile accompanied by an elbow to the face, end up getting on the bus after everyone else, be forced to stand up the whole ride since the seats have all been claimed by this point (see what I mean about being prepared here?).

So, then comes the question: when does being scrappy benefit over being nice? My policy maintains that when it comes to the bus, there is wiggle room. I prefer to help out the old man, even though his elbows are surprisingly strong for his age.  However, in the grocery store line there is no compromise. You gotta stake your claim and refuse to budge. You give an inch and everyone will be trampling all over you.

And let’s be real here, the best tool at your disposal is a very heavy sigh, an audible “נו” and then the argument begins. But at least it’s free of elbows!


An amazing thing about living Israel is the fact that instead of a 12 hour (minimum) flight to Europe, I can jump on a plane and be in some magical, historical European city in a matter of 5 hours or less. Just a few months ago, I took a long weekend and flew to Prague.

The slight bummer of living in Israel is that a very large majority of my vacation days are spent returning to the city in which I grew up, instead of in Europe. Don’t get me wrong – I love going home. Nothing beats going home home and seeing my mom’s “Welcome Home” sign (that even though she makes a sign every time I come home, she still maintains that it is a surprise). Getting daily hugs from my parents, having a huge kitchen to bake in, seeing good friends,and the TexMex food are just some of the amazing things I love when I go home. That list can go on and on.

Kira in Israel and Kira in America feel like two very different and distinctive personalities (don’t worry, I’m not schizophrenic). As time goes on, they have slowly started to merge and now it takes less time to get oriented when I return to the US. But this means that as the different versions of myself merge, it’s harder to separate the desires of each one. Home is now an even more confusing concept, as it is both where I live and where my family resides…and also an idea for the future. This is both comforting and stressful at once because both places are home, while ultimately I still have no idea where “home” really is. But the good news is that I have time to figure things out. In the meantime maybe I can work out who Kira in Europe is 😉

It’s not black and white

When I came to Israel as a teenager, I was welcomed with open arms. I was given a tour of the country, met lots of like-minded people and was sent out to explore a brand new, beautiful culture.

A few years later, I came back to live in Israel for 10 months, to volunteer here, and I was again in a good situation: my flight was paid for by the government, I received a stipend and I was given lots of free time to go out and enjoy myself in this magical land.

Upon making aliyah, I signed a few forms, had a Rabbi certify that I am Jewish and bam – citizenship. I got another free flight, an “absorption basket” (money), discounts on health insurance and much more. I received endless feedback letting me know that presence was not only requested, but it was deemed investment worthy. This country was more than happy to take me in and offer me the best that it has to offer. All of this, because I am Jewish.

Unfortunately, not all citizens (Jewish or not) experience this same amazing process. The Ethiopian population in Israel is faced with adversity, ignorance and hate for no logical reason. Last night, this group of people protested and fought for their right to equality. It was so sad for me, as a struggle-free citizen (socially, at least) to realize that my experience is unique. It is not safe to assume that each person is appreciated for what they have to offer – we are still living in a world of discrimination and petty judgements.

I hope that yesterday was a wake up call for this country to value each and every one of its citizens, whether they be black, white, Jewish, Christian, Muslim, disabled, tall, short, American, Arab, British, or even Israeli-born.

I did it!

There is a mall in the center of Tel Aviv that could easily be called a life sized maze. It has tunnels, half-levels, ramps, bridges and at least 6 different entrances.

Casually referred to as “The Center,” Dizengoff Center spans over a very busy street and is known as the mall that was designed by someone who was likely stoned out of their mind.

Everyone seems to adapt their own personal technique for tackling the navigation of Dizengoff Center – I always enter through the same set of doors, follow the same route and do my best to manage from there.

Last week, I went to meet a friend there (already a risk – how would we EVER find each other if we didn’t enter together??). My usual point of entry is one of the farther ones and on this particular day, it was rainy and freezing cold so I decided to take my chances and go in through the closest entry way. I was also texting, and (like a careless teenager) wasn’t really paying attention to where I was walking.

Then something amazing happened (after I finally put my phone away) – I looked up and realized that I had (semi)blindly and totally unmindfully arrived at the exact location that I needed to get to.

I know it’s not much, but it is a huge victory for me to be able to brag that I not only maneuvered my way through Dizengoff Center (which is an achievement on it’s own), but that I did so while not even being attentive.

It’s the little things that count – and cracking the maze that is Dizengoff Center was a big moment for me. As weird as it sounds, that moment made me realize that hey, I’m not just some American trying to get by in Israel (as my blog boasts), but that I am an American with Israeli citizenship and that I AM getting by in Israel.