Elle swallows. Her face is actually flushed red. I say, “Alex’s father was a U.S. Ambassador, so she travelled a lot.”
That silences Elle. Actually, it silences the whole group.
So I say, “I, on the other hand, have never been anywhere, except one week in Destin, Florida. Outside of that, this is my first trip out of Georgia.” I don’t know why I said it. Except it was an uncomfortable moment for everyone, and guess I felt like I needed to rescue the situation.
“Really?” John says. “I wouldn’t have guessed. I assumed a Georgia native might be a little more… backward.”
“Oh yeah?” I say. Maybe I’m too sensitive, but Elle and John both … I really want them to shut up. I half-expected this—let’s be honest, sometimes people are idiots. Just a little. But what the hell? In for a penny, in for a pound. “Was it the Klan hood that threw you off, or maybe the lack of shoes?”
John stops in his tracks. “I didn’t mean to say—”
I reply, “You didn’t mean to say… what?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry man. I didn’t mean to be an asshole.”
“Yeah,” Elle says. “Me neither.”
“It’s okay,” I say almost at the exact same time Alex says, “Don’t worry about it.”
“What do you say we stop and grab a drink?” John says. “I feel bad now.”
“We should just get wasted,” Mike from Chicago finally chimes in, his first contribution to the night’s conversation. He’s so gangly I bet it only takes half a beer to get him drunk.
“I’m all for some coffee,” I say, “but I don’t drink. Don’t let me stop you, though.”
They all look at me like I just said that I live on Mars. Then they move on, as if I hadn’t even said it. “I heard there’s no problem getting served here,” John says.
“Getting drunk is probably ill-advised,” Elle says. “I don’t think the program would like it.”
“Whatever.” John shrugs.
“Wait, what’s that?” Alex asks. She’s pointing down the side street. In the distance, the street just comes to an end… the beach, apparently. Off to one side, a lighthouse.
“Jaffa,” Alex says. Unlike modern Tel Aviv, Jaffa has buildings which are hundreds, some of them thousands, of years old. Without anyone saying a word, we all turn toward the side street and the buildings ahead. A hush falls over the group—for a few seconds—but that is broken when John cracks a joke and the girls laugh. I don’t catch the joke, whatever it was, but not knowing the content makes me feel uncomfortable. Like they’re laughing at me.
Realistically, I know they aren’t. It doesn’t make any sense. They don’t know anything about me. But every time I see their expensive sweaters and boots, their phones and gadgets, I know I am different. After all, it hadn’t been that long since I’d been a dropout living on the streets.
We are getting close to the water now. I can smell it, a strange smell, salt and something else I can’t quite pin down. I’d never been to the ocean before my week in Destin last year. This is all unfamiliar territory for me.
Especially the girl who approaches me as we reached the water.
Alex Thompson.
She has her arms crossed over her chest, and I ask her, automatically, “Are you cold? Can I give you my jacket?” I don’t have much of a jacket on me, just a lightweight windbreaker, but it’s better than nothing.
“No, thanks,” she says. “I’m okay.”
“Look at this!” John shouts, gesturing at the surf. He let out a “whoop!” as he runs for the pier that leads far out into the Mediterranean. Mike and Elle and the other girl, who hasn’t been introduced, follow.
Alex sits down on the stone wall and looks out. I drop onto the wall next to her.
She speaks in a steady, inquisitive tone, “I’d pay a million dollars to know what you’ve been thinking about the last few minutes,” she says.
Heck, she probably could. I try not to think about that. “My thoughts the last few minutes haven’t been worth a million dollars. Wait a while, and I’ll let you know when I can make that worth your while.”
She lets out a low laugh. “Two shekels, then.”
“Well, in that case,” I say, after I finish calculating the exchange rate, “I was thinking that I’m not like everyone here. That I don’t belong here.”
“Why not? Because you used to be homeless?”
I nod, once. “That, as much as anything.”
She shrugs. “I think that makes you better qualified than most of us on this trip.”
I grunt, because I have nothing to say to that.
“Tell me your favorite color,” she says.
“Green,” I reply.
“Any particular shade?”
I say, “Let me see your eyes.”
Even though it’s dark, I can still see her skin flush in the street light. See, I can do some things right. I feel a little light-headed as I say the next words: “That color.”
She shakes her head and looks out toward the water. There is an awkward pause. “What about politics? You a Democrat? Republican?”
I shrug. “It’s all bullshit if you’re poor. Both sides want you to vote for them, but poor people are too tired and stressed to learn about politics.”
“You sound like you know something about it.”
I smile grimly. “I generally like the way the Democrats treat people and the way the Republicans treat defense.”
“You think invading Iraq was right?”
I shrug. “Given the information we had at the time, sure.”
“What about… gay people? Do you think they should marry?”
I chuckle. “I could care less if they marry or not. I’m not gay, it don’t mean a hill of beans to me.”
She nods. “What about here? The Israeli-Palestinian conflict.”
“Well, it seems like most of our friends here are committed Zionists.”
Her mouth twists up on one side. “See—you keep saying you don’t belong here, like you aren’t as smart as these people. I bet most of them don’t even know what a Zionist is.”
“It’s a damn shame,” I say, “since most of them will go on to be the kinds of people who decide what our country does. Don’t you think that’s sad?”
She smiles. “I do. Though I know a lot of people involved with our foreign policy. People like my dad. He knows his stuff—he works hard, and he cares about doing the right thing.”
I shrug. “My dad’s probably in jail.”
She slaps me on the shoulder. “So what do you think about this place?”
I shake my head. “Hell, I don’t know. It’s too early. I’ve read a few books—fiction. Leon Uris and Amos Oz. Susan Abulhawa. Just because I was curious what I was getting into.”
“I know about Leon Uris,” she says. “Who are the others?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Amos Oz is Israel’s leading novelist. He’s really good. Abulhawa wrote Mornings in Jenin. It’s brilliant… follows a refugee family through four generations.”
She smiles. “I’d bet you’re the only student on this trip who has read this much.”
I shrug. “Maybe. There’s no point in coming all this way if I’m not ready to learn something. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I’m not gonna waste it. Plus ... I want to be a writer. You don’t get to be good at that without paying attention.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Your reading doesn’t give you any conclusions?”
“Not yet. What about you?”
“Well, my father would say that Israel has a right to defend itself. That it’s a tiny state surrounded by enemies.”
“That’s pretty much what everyone’s been saying since we got here.”
“What do you like to do in your free time, Dylan?”
“Write stories. And the occasional poem. What about you?”
“I play violin some. Not as well as my sister Julia, though. She’s really good. And… I like to think about the future. I read about
interesting things. I want to do interesting things.”
“What sort of things?”
“I’m planning to go to law school. I want to work for the ACLU or Amnesty International. I want to help people who need it.”
Now I smile at her. “What does your father think of that goal? Didn’t you say he was a bigwig with the Republicans?”
“Not really. He’s big with the government, and got himself involved in McCain’s campaign. But really, he doesn’t get into electoral politics that much. Though he is super conservative.”
“It’s good to have a little rebellion,” I say.
“Do you rebel against your parents—I mean, your mom?”
I quickly shake my head. “That’s all over with for me. Mom’s my biggest cheerleader and ally.”
She take a deep, shuddering breath. “I envy you for that.”
“What about you?”
She shrugs. “My mother’s a little crazy, if you want to know the truth. The only thing that makes her tolerable is the meds she takes to keep her anxiety and emotional fuckery under control.”
Emotional fuckery. There’s a term. I want to write that down somewhere. She continues, unaware that I’m admiring her phrasing. “That’s basically it. Dad’s gone all the time—I haven’t seen him in months. Mom’s a basket case. With my older sisters gone, that leaves me to fend for myself and protect the twins.”
I do some math in my head. She’s mentioned two older sisters, and two younger twins. “Didn’t you say you had three younger sisters?”
She nods. “Yes. Andrea—she’s the youngest—lives with our grandmother, in Spain.”
“Really? Why?”
She shakes her head sadly. “That’s the million dollar question. None of us know. I guess Mom and Dad do, but they aren’t telling anybody.”
“Weird,” I say.
“Yeah,” she responds glumly.
Time for a change of subject. “Have you heard any details about your host family?”
She shakes her head. “Just a name. Ariel Jabarin.”
“Same here. Nothing but a name. Dari Peretz.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” she says.
I nod. In the morning, we meet our host families for the first third of the exchange program. I’m not really looking forward to that. See, when I was in between homes, I spent a lot of time couchsurfing. I’d stay with one friend for a few days, then another. I’d crash in a basement, or on a sofa. The one thing I never had during that period was my own place. Even if it’s only for a few weeks, the idea of going back to being a guest all the time is difficult to get my mind around. But I don’t really have any choice.
She says, “Will you let me know how it goes?”
“Of course,” I say. “I don’t know how…” I trail off.
“Facebook, silly.”
“Is that kind of like MySpace?”
She nods, but sort of winces at the same time. “Yes, but not as obnoxious.”
“Oh, perfect. I don’t have an account, on MySpace or Facebook. But I guess I can set one up if I can get to a computer.”
“How about you set one up when we get back to the hostel.”
“Okay….” My voice trails off again. She says it casually. I know there are a couple of computers in the common room. But I’ve never done social networking of any kind.
A cynical thought passes through my head. I wonder if Spot has a MySpace account. I bet she does, and I bet if I had one, I’d know where she is today. More enthusiastically, I say, “Yeah. I’ll set it up tonight.”
“And I get to be your first friend,” she says. The smile on her face shows a row of broad, white teeth. It’s hard for me to pull my eyes away from her.
Hours pass before we decide to head back to the hostel. At one point Elle says, “Well, you two sure are getting along.” But she says little else.
Technically our curfew was ten p.m.—it’s almost that late now. But as we walk back up the street, along the outskirts of the Old City, I see what looks like an ancient stone building. It’s dark, with nothing but holes where the window and doors should be. I stop, trying to see in. Most of the building doesn’t even have a roof.
“Let’s check it out,” I say.
“No way, man,” John says. “Place looks like it would collapse around you.”
Mike shakes his head.
I frown. “Come on, it’s just a building. It looks ancient.”
They look at me like I’m crazy. I shrug. Then Alex says, “I’ll come with you.”
Instantly I feel a rush of emotion. Because after the others refused, I was hoping she would say that. I grin and invite her in.
I step forward, and through the arched opening. It’s dark in here, but I can see light from the moon, and a little from the streetlamp, flooding through a hole in the roof. Alex steps in beside me. I can feel her presence in the dark next to me.
“What are we doing?” she whispers.
“I don’t know… exploring?” I respond in the same whisper. I don’t know why. But I take a slow step forward, and she stays beside me. Beyond the front room, there’s a small hallway. Everything is dusty stone, undoubtedly tan.
“This place is really old,” she whispers.
From the door, John or Mike slowly makes a mournful wolf-howl.
“Asshole,” Alex calls back to them. Then she grabs my hand. I suck in a quick breath. Her hand touching mine has a weight all its own. We keep walking forward.
“Watch your step,” I say. It looks like steps leading down, not far. Then we pass through another archway, and we’re in a courtyard.
The courtyard is lit only by the moon, but it’s lit well enough to tell that it was once a garden. Now, it’s overgrown with vines and bushes, flowers everywhere. The fragrance is overwhelming.
“Oh my God, it’s beautiful,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say. I squeeze her hand, then both of us let our hands drop, like we’d been stung by bees.
We only stay for two or three minutes. From the street, Elle calls, “Alex? You okay?”
“Yes!” Alex responds. “Be right out.”
She sighs after a minute. “I don’t want to leave,” she says. “It’s magical.”
I smile at her, though she probably can’t see that well. Five minutes later, we get back out to the street. John says, “What was in there?”
“Nothing,” Alex says, apparently wanting the same thing I so, to keep the courtyard a secret. “Just dust.”
Our eyes meet, and she gives me a faint smile, and we continue on our way.
Wasn't Jewish Enough (Alex)
The next morning, we gather for breakfast in the main room of the hostel. Coffee, toast, Nutella. I sit with John and Mike, Elle and Dylan, and I find myself laughing and enjoying myself. Dylan does a passable imitation of President Bush, which keeps us all laughing through breakfast.
I don’t mention to Dylan, or anyone else, that I’ve met George Bush and eaten at the White House. I already feel alien enough. And I’m still mentally out of breath from last night and our adventure in the abandoned building. I don’t know how old it was, but it felt ancient, and the courtyard was like something out of a fairy tale.
I grabbed Dylan’s hand automatically. I felt … safe with him, even in a dark and abandoned building. Crazy, I know. But something about his confidence made me feel completely comfortable walking through there, and that made it magical finding that courtyard.
As breakfast is finished, the tour organizers stand up to give more speeches and information. We’ll be breaking apart into three groups—one group headed to Haifa, the other to Jerusalem, and the final one staying here in Tel Aviv. After 8 days, we’ll rotate, so each group spends about a week in each of the three cities.
I feel a momentary panic that I’m to be separated from Dylan. And that scares me. First, because we aren’t anything. We aren’t dating, we aren’t a couple, we aren’t in love, we aren’t anything. Second, because even if we were
any of those things, well, this whole trip comes to an end in just a few weeks. I need to get a serious grip. Plus, I still haven’t gotten around to writing Mike. Mike, whom I’m supposedly dating, even if it has only been a couple of dinners.
After breakfast, we separate into our groups, and I’m relieved to see that Dylan is in my group. It’s time to meet our host families.
A few minutes later, I find myself faced with a couple in their fifties and their teenage son.
Teenage son. He has blonde sculpted hair, muscular upper arms and a five-o-clock shadow.
“I’m Ariel,” he says.
I cough. “I’m Alex.”
He grins. I look at his parents. Would it be wrong of me to ask where their daughter is?
I look back. “It’s nice to meet you, Ariel. Excuse me for a moment.”
I walk directly over to Marie Simpson, one of the chaperone’s from San Francisco. She looks stressed. Why the hell would I get placed with a guy? Did they get our names mixed up? Maybe someone on this end though Alex was a guy’s name, or Ariel a girl’s. I don’t know.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Simpson.”
“Yes, Alex?”
“Um… I’m confused… Ariel… my host student? It’s a guy.”
She frowns. “That can’t be right,” she says. “Are you sure?”
“Um… yeah. I’m sure. It’s pretty unmistakable.”
She closes her eyes and rubs a hand on her forehead. “That sounds like a mixup. You’re supposed to be staying with a girl, of course.”
“That’s what I thought,” I say.
“We don’t have any more host families,” she says.
I lean closer and say, “Maybe there’s a guy in our group who was put with a girl? Maybe we got switched?”
She looks like she isn’t sure what to say. And I’m certainly not sure. She finally settles on, “I’ll check. In the meantime, go with your host family, and we’ll get back with you today.”
I swallow, then glance over my shoulder. Ariel is standing there, practically salivating. I don’t know him yet, but I already want to punch him in the throat. Probably not the ideal start. “Are you sure?” I ask. “This isn’t what I expected.”
Mrs. Simpson puts her hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eyes. “Alex… we’ll take care of it. I promise.”