All Entries in the "My story" Category
It was 20 years ago today…
…that I stepped off the boat at Haifa port and started my long and painful Israel experience. Only kidding! But time ain’t half flown – it seems like yesterday that I was just getting to grips with the language (all the important words) and just how hot the luscious ladies of Israel were (and still are).
Israel has changed along the way, and I’ve changed too. I’m not sure if all those changes we’ve both gone through are for the better, but that’s life, innit.
Anyway, to celebrate, I’ve written up another episode (part 13) of my story of just how and why I ended up in Israel (see the post below this one). And perhaps more interestingly, why I stayed. Enjoy it!
And I’m off to have a beer to celebrate! Here’s to the next 20!
How I ended up in the Holy Land. And stayed…Part 13
Continuing on with my tale of woe and joy of how I ended up in Israel…tales of a non-Jewish potential Kibbutz volunteer who falls in love with Tel Aviv, dodges Scud missiles, lives and works illegally for years on end, gets besotted by one Israeli girl despite the best attempts of a legendary Jewish mother, but ends up marrying and divorcing another… and then marrying yet another to join suburbia and the hi-tech revolution, while becoming the seemingly respectable owner of an English school.
In case you missed them; Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 and 12.
Part 13: Getting my own apartment in Tel Aviv
So, after the non-stop action with young Lilach and her mafia-infested family throughout the summer of ’94, it was time for me to get my feet back into tourist-land central. Oh yes, back to the world of dorm beds in Gordon Hostel, a world of smelly feet poking out from blankets, bottles of cheap vodka littered around the room, and hangovers eased by malawach (a cheap and cheerful Yemenite dish, served by a couple of restaurants near the hostel) the following morning.
But you know what, it was getting a bit depressing. I was no longer fresh off the boat, this was my fourth year in Israel, and it just felt like I was kinda wasting time. Don’t get me wrong, I was enjoying myself, having a few beers, meeting up with the lovely Lilach now and again (far from her home of course), and not working too hard. But it wasn’t quite enough. And I found it harder and harder explaining myself to those tourists who had just arrived as to why I had stayed so long.
I also found myself connecting up with Peter and his missus quite often, who were trying hard to make a go of things and were renting an apartment in Ramat Gan, just outside Tel Aviv. I’d often come round with cookies, much to his missus’ delight. That be the Englishman in me, innit. She’d often try and line me up with one of her friends, but the only one I was vaguely interested in (and anyway, I was still seeing Lilach) was Gila, but she was way mixed up. Beautiful, sexy, but very mixed up…and you just know she’s going to feature in this story some more!
But then one day, my shining knight walked in to the hostel. Lewis, a Scottish guy I had previously befriended at the hostel had long moved out of the hostel scene. He had turned up this fine, sunny morning to check if anyone fancied becoming his flat-mate in the apartment he was renting in Florentin, one of Tel Aviv’s southerly neighborhoods. Did he have to ask me twice? Of course he bloody didn’t!
Just so you know, Florentin had just started getting a trendy reputation, thanks to a gentrification program by Tel Aviv city hall. It hadn’t reached its peak, which was mainly inspired by the hit TV series of the late 90s, imaginatively titled, yes you guessed it, Florentin. But it was just starting out on the road to cool. A bit like me really.
Within a couple of days I had signed a contract with the landlord, packed up my few belongings and headed over to Florentin. My room quickly became a shrine to simple living, with one Reservoir Dogs poster, my mountain bike, a few clothes and a CD player, that was it. The apartment overall was actually pretty huge, with balconies galore, and big, spacious rooms. In fact, the place was so huge there was an additional spare room, which me and Lewis decided to rent out.
I think we both hoped a beautiful, sexy, Scandinavian goddess would take up residence in the spare room, but that just wasn’t going to happen. After interviewing a couple of potential flat-mates we finally settled on the amazing Kiwi, Jane, who was probably the nicest tourist girl I ever met in Israel. OK, she wasn’t the least bit Scandinavian, but she was a chef at a local Italian restaurant (lots of yummy pasta for us boys), and boy did she know how to drink!
So there we were, through most of ’95, the Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys of Florentin. We’d shop together in Carmel market, drink beer on the kitchen balcony, tell stories about what we’d gone through as foreigners in a strange land, and most certainly bitch about the opposite sex. Good times. One night in particular I remember me and Jane polishing off a crate of beer, getting on our bikes and pelting full speed down the bus lanes in Allenby Street. We were singing and shouting all the way, God knows how me made it home!
As for the women in my life, well, it was basically down to Lilach and Maya. Yep, the same Maya that had eased my broken heart in Eilat a couple of summers earlier. Lilach and me were never going to be serious, what with her having to escape the clutches of her raving looney father every time she wanted to see me and I think she realised that. She was still supremely sweet, and I remember her buying me a Nirvana unplugged CD, which she hated, but desperately tried to like for my benefit! But taking her home, and making sure no-one saw us together in the car got too much for both of us.
So I was kind of footloose and fancy free, hence Maya. Maya had been in touch through a couple of letters after our night together in Eilat, and she came round a few times to boogie naked in the house (I think there’s proof somewhere in my collection of pics, but don’t tell anyone) when nobody else was about. I never really understood her, because if I tried to turn things up a notch she’d back away. And then she’d get hurt if I pulled back. Typical Israeli woman then…
Work-wise I had the VW Beetle which I used to deliver newspapers and magazines with. The gardening had long come to an end, and I had since found some well-paid delivery jobs. Of course, when I realised how much money on petrol I was spending, the Beetle was soon traded in for a scooter.
So all was kind of hunky dory. But deep down, real deep down, I hungered for more.
Why? Well, I saw my mate Peter, with full rights to do whatever he pleased in Israel and it pissed me off. I had no visa, no rights, no medical insurance, nada. Looking back now it seems like three lifetimes ago, but then I was hardly worried about what “might happen”. What was really getting to me was the itty-bitty jobs that I was pulling in, the 5-10 shekels an hour gigs that were no longer fulfilling even the inner tourist in me. And this was a feeling that stretched back months, even before renting out my own place in Tel Aviv…
So one evening, I sat with Peter at a bar across the road from my flat. It was actually a bar/launderette and Peter had come round to give his socks a rinsing. I spilled my guts to Peter as he sat and supped on his beer. When I was done, he smiled and told me there was only one way I was going to fix it.
And with that we conjured up an evil, cunning plan. A plan so cunning you’re going to have to wait til the next episode…
Next up: Who to choose?
How I ended up in the Holy Land. And stayed…Part 12
Continuing on with my tale of woe and joy of how I ended up in Israel…tales of a non-Jewish potential Kibbutz volunteer who falls in love with Tel Aviv, dodges Scud missiles, lives and works illegally for years on end, gets besotted by one Israeli girl despite the best attempts of a legendary Jewish mother, but ends up marrying and divorcing another… and then marrying yet another to join suburbia and the hi-tech revolution, while becoming the seemingly respectable owner of an English school.
In case you missed them; Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 and 11.
Part 12: Mixing it with the Israeli underworld
So the summer of ’94 was also a classic, not quite as fun as the previous summer, but still filled with some magic moments. I had my new girl Lilach making life pleasant and, er, challenging (as you ladies often make our lives!), while of course, the big deal for most guys during those early summer weeks was…the World Cup.
Oh yes, England might not have been innit to winnit, but with the world’s best footballers on show, I wasn’t going to miss out. Had it really been four years since I watched that classic game between England and Cameroon in a pub filled to the rafters with drunken English fans? Wow, I guess it had…
Of course, football to a young 18 year old Israeli girl didn’t really swing it. You can’t blame her, just look at the mess that is Israeli football – how would she ever know that there was something so much better out there? To cut a long story short, she was upset that I spent a lot of time watching games in a bar full of drunken yobs when I could have been spending quality time with her as she frolicked in the waves at Tel Aviv beach in her skimpy bikini. And now I’m thinking about it…damn, she was right!
So she would often end up crying to her Mum. And her Dad. Which was perhaps a little hysterical, but there you go, Israeli women can get like that. Often, actually.
And there he was one day, Lilach’s Dad, talking to me about the football and feinting interest. I knew he was checking me out, rather than showing a genuine interest in the footie, and he left me in no doubt that I should be looking out for his little princess, rather than drinking beer in pubs. And God forbid I should take her to one of these hell-holes, where they drink copious amounts of amber nectar and the women cackle hysterically at one another…
I should point out that at this point I was just getting familiar with the familia. It wasn’t my first introduction to Israeli families and especially overbearing parents, but these were a special set of folks. Even my bosses at the gardening firm I worked for warned me to steer clear because Lilach’s family, who lived in the same town I was working, were known for trouble. Everybody I’d met had been a cocky little punk or small-time crook. Even her big brother. He’d also been working with me in the gardening business for a week or so, but had been fired for taking too many ciggie breaks. I don’t recall him ever actually lifting a finger and working…
But you know what, despite all the “noise” around her, I really liked Lilach. A lot. Some of you might ask why didn’t I write “love” instead of “like”. Well, that was the thing. After coming out of this big relationship with Ofira, I wasn’t sure if I really loved her. However, her family were convinced I did, and she was too, and before long, out of God knows where, there was talk of us getting married. Married?! Oh yes.
And what did I do? Run for my life? Buy a ticket back to England? Get back with Ofira? Oh no, none of those. I actually got caught up in all the talk and like a spastic puppy, just nodded in agreement…
Until one day I called my old mate Peter (who was somewhere up north, milking cows on a moshav). He blew his top at me when I told him I was thinking of getting married to Lilach, and after a few choice words, I’d been woken from my slumber. Peter had pointed out I was on the rebound from Ofira and there was no way I should marry Lilach. He was kinda right. And despite my intentions of staying in Israel, marriage wasn’t really an option, not yet anyway.
But that call changed things for me and Lilach. However much we enjoyed each other, and we really did connect well, she was only 18. And I’d only just come out of a relationship that had taken its toll for quite a while. However much I thought I was over Ofira, there was still my heart to convince…
Because of our apparently impending marriage, Lilach’s parents let me sleep over at their place and took alarmingly well to the role of parents-in-law. It wasn’t long before we even bought a car together, a great little red VW Beetle, which meant we were cabbying about every weekend. But the talk of marriage between myself and Lilach cooled off a little and that was a good thing, as we spent time together and did the things that young couples should be doing [ censored ]…
But despite our close relationship, there was still this culture barrier keeping us apart. Not at our level, as we clicked well together and I’d become an honorary Israeli after nearly 4 years in the Holy Land. But Lilach’s Dad was a hard-core disciplinarian, and would smack any of his kids around if he thought they deserved it. And despite his letting me sleep over, there was strictly no funny business allowed. Not even a hint of it.
Which kind of brought things to a head one hot, summer night. Lilach was taking a shower and asked me to bring her a towel. I brought in a towel, joked about something which made her giggle and let her get on with it. Nothing else happened and it had maybe taken 3 or 4 seconds. But as I walked out of the shower I was confronted by her brother, who squared up to me and told me he had seen everything and was going to tell his Dad. I told him he hadn’t seen anything, but Lilach was already out of the shower and a screaming match ensued, some of which I didn’t understand (my Hebrew was still far from perfect).
As her brother started to get physically abusive, I told him to get the hell away from her. After more screaming, he raced off. But Lilach had got the jitters and screamed that we had to get out of here. It seemed that her brother was off to get his Dad and Uncle and they were going to “deal” with me. His Uncle was the one I was worried about: apparently the local mullet-haired crime boss had some legendary crime episodes clinging to his reputation.
Not liking the sound of all this, I took Lilach’s hand and we made a sharpish exit from the house, got in our VW Beetle and drove off. I knew that her staying out all night would make things worse, but she wasn’t leaving me and didn’t care about the atom bomb that was about to detonate…
As I drove off, I had these visions of headlines in the Jerusalem Post about this young lad from the UK who had got caught up in some underworld funny business and hadn’t been seen for a month…but Lilach, bless her, wasn’t about to give up on me. And as we curled up in the back of the car (ha! easier said than done), parked in a side street on the other side of town, I couldn’t help thinking that yes, maybe I really did love this girl.
As dawn broke, I came to and realised that I couldn’t drag her down with me. I told her that I was taking her home, and despite her protests and argument that we should run away, I think she also knew she had to go home. I dropped her off round the corner fro her house and watched her walk into the building entrance. I drove off, back into Tel Aviv and off to kip at the Gordon Hostel once again.
I called her later at home and her voice shook as she told me that her father had screamed blue murder at her and forbidden her from seeing me. He’d also told her that a couple of people would be looking for me in Tel Aviv and would love to shake my hand (and head) rather vigorously. She was pretty sure he wasn’t joking so told me to leave the hostel, as he knew that I was staying at one of Tel Aviv’s hostels. He also knew I wasn’t legit in Israel (my visa had run out some months back), so…
I checked out five minutes later.
That night I spent curled up on the back seat of my Beetle once again. I don’t remember getting any sleep, but I do remember thinking that I was heading back to England. And hopefully not in a coffin.
It was a couple of nights in the car later when I realised I did actually love this girl and wanted to see her. I called her house but nobody answered. So I made my way over to her place and waited across the street. As I stepped out of my car, who should come along, but her brother. He raced upstairs and within seconds her Dad was outside, bawling in my face and scaring the bejesus out of me. Just as I was sure I was going to feel a cold, hard blade piercing my stomach, Lilach suddenly appeared and screaming at her Dad to stop, took the attention away from me for a second. Her arrival seemed to change the atmosphere a little, and soon enough he was gone, out of my face and heading back to his house. He had told Lilach to say goodbye to me for the last time and he expected her home in two minutes tops.
Phewww.
Feeling like I’d been let out of jail, hell, even feeling lucky to be alive, we hugged and I told her I’d call her later. We both knew that despite all of the threats and mess that we’d made over the last couple of days, we’d be seeing each other again, and real soon. It might not have been with the blessing of her father, and I’d probably never be setting foot in her house again, but this little episode had brought out something that had bonded us beyond all of that.
At least, that’s what we thought…
Next up: I get my own pad in Tel Aviv!
How I ended up in the Holy Land. And stayed…Part 11
Continuing on with my tale of woe and joy of how I ended up in Israel…tales of a non-Jewish potential Kibbutz volunteer who falls in love with Tel Aviv, dodges Scud missiles, lives and works illegally for years on end, gets besotted by one Israeli girl despite the best attempts of a legendary Jewish mother, but ends up marrying and divorcing another… and then marrying yet another to join suburbia and the hi-tech revolution, while becoming the seemingly respectable owner of an English school.
In case you missed them; Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10.
Part 11: Out of the frying pan…!
So there we were, me and Ofira, in our own place at last as 1993 drew to a close. Things were at last looking like they were moving in the right direction, a direction we both wanted. This time there was no sofa to kip on, no angry father to watch out for, and no interfering mother to stick her oar in. Well, not from close quarters…
And we had fun, for a while. Although we were both working, and often I wouldn’t even see Ofira for a couple of nights as she slept over at her job (she was a counselor at a hostel for abused kids), we would usually be together at weekends and get to enjoy some of Tel Aviv’s delights, especially around the Central Bus Station area (and yes, it was a dive then and it’s got even worse since).
We had some really enjoyable times together, just doing the simple things in life; shopping together on Friday mornings at the local grocery store, cooking up some spicy pasta while grabbing chilled beers from our manky old fridge, and hosting friends who were always popping round to visit and even kip over for the night. It was home, and yes, it was our home sweet home.
But yes, those magical days were actually few and far between. Looking back, it’s easy to see that it seemed like such a blissful period, a moment of isolation, of freedom for both of us. But, truthfully, we were probably both aware that living together at this time in our lives wasn’t going to work.
Deep down I knew things weren’t right. But I hid behind the hazy shade of beer fumes which had started to make their way back into my life on a regular basis, thanks to some old beer-drinking pals who were still around in Tel Aviv. And as Ofira often didn’t make it back home for 2 or 3 nights a week, and even weekends started to disappear into a work-filled black hole, my license to roam and be merry was given plenty of exercise…
So, as spring crept towards summer, our relationship was again on the rocks. Some likened my hankering for summer fun to the Led Zeppelin classic, but it wasn’t something that I was purposefully looking for. Despite loving her like crazy, I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy, and I felt that our relationship had headed into a one-way street, in so much that I, rightly or wrongly, was doing all the work, which wasn’t doing it for me.
The complexities of living together had simply worn us down. This time, there was no mother to blame (at least as far as I know), no other guilty party to get angry with. The simple truth was that we had probably grown apart, there was no real connection like there had been in the early Scud-laden days. Just one of those things, I guess.
And so I fell into the arms of Lilach.
Cue: Just when I thought I was out…
Aaah, sweet Lilach.
First of all, I should point out that up until this point I hadn’t cheated on Ofira. My pursuit of “fun” usually meant the ultimate goal of another pint and that’s usually as far as it went. Of course, girls passed through these beery occasions, but there wasn’t anything more than a friendly chat or innocent flirt.
But sometimes, fate throws the dice and there’s absolutely nothing you can do…
I met Lilach while gardening – yes, I was still toiling away most days in the suburbs, earning a crust while perfecting the art of hedge-trimming. I had been working on this big project outside a high school and it had been fun. I’d gotten used to being the novelty act, the English lad, but some of the female students at this high school took it to extremes. I’m no Brad Pitt, but getting called Brandon and getting wolf-whistled was new to me. I totally blame my freshly grown sideburns.
One day, a particularly forward girl came up to me and started chatting in English. Her name was Racheli, her English was crap, but in between the mispronunciations and bad grammar, I understood she had a sister who fancied me.
“My seester very bootiful. She like you much much.” Or something very similar.
And after another couple of mornings of this terrible English and me guessing just what the feck she was trying to say, I finally got to meet her sister, Lilach. And I wasn’t disappointed, Lilach was very cute.
So cute that any lingering feelings I had for Ofira were soon wiped away. Perhaps officially we hadn’t “broken up”, but when your girlfriend doesn’t come home for a week and you haven’t spoken civilly to each other for even longer (and God knows how long it had been since the last real conversation), there’s not really a lot to work with…we both knew it was curtains. Perhaps Lilach’s arrival on the scene was perfect timing on her behalf, perhaps she was the clincher for me to finally confirm in my mind that it was over with Ofira, but whatever the reasons, I was going on a date with Lilach, even if the date was just a meetup at the beach after I’d finished work.
She might have been 18 (and still in high school) to my 25, but Lilach wasn’t shy. She was a great, no-thrills girl; she knew what she wanted and she knew how to get what she wanted. Which meant I turned into something like a rabbit frozen in car headlights…
And you know what’s it like, the beginning of something new…all new, fresh and exciting. Lilach made me come alive again, something I hadn’t felt for a long time (OK, not since the previous summer!), and there was just such a buzz between us I think we both taken aback at the intensity of what was happening.
I even brought her back to the place I still officially shared with Ofira. At this point we were long dead but still sharing the rent. I never knew if Ofira was about, but knew her work schedule so knew I wouldn’t be having an “uncomfortable” moment. The next door neighbor however, wasn’t aware that we weren’t really living together and on her next stopover he let her know all about Lilach. Especially the moment the old buggar had peeked through the window and spotted Lilach in her, er, birthday suit. B’stard.
Anyway, the moment had come, and me and Ofira split up. Ofira was upset that it was over, but in my mind I had moved on weeks ago. In truth, I think she felt the same, but was upset that I was with someone new. We both loved each other, but the love had turned lukewarm. That raging fire that had burned brightly at the start of our relationship was now barely enough to shrivel a marshmallow.
So Lilach and me were together, as the summer crept ever closer. And before long, after meeting some of her family at a big Friday night gathering, I knew our relationship was in for a helluva ride. Sopranos Central you could have called it, with enough small-time crooks to keep the Miami underworld happy. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her Granny pull out a Magnum (and not the chocolate coated kind) if I had said something about the bony chicken and undercooked potatoes…
But to hear more underworld interaction you’ll have to wait for the next episode…oh yes!
Next up: Things come to a head with a real-life crime family!
How I ended up in the Holy Land. And stayed…Part 10
Continuing on with my tale of woe and joy of how I ended up in Israel…tales of a non-Jewish potential Kibbutz volunteer who falls in love with Tel Aviv, dodges Scud missiles, lives and works illegally for years on end, gets besotted by one Israeli girl despite the best attempts of a legendary Jewish mother, but ends up marrying and divorcing another… and then marrying yet another to join suburbia and the hi-tech revolution, while becoming the seemingly respectable owner of an English school.
In case you missed them; Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9.
Part 10: The return of Ofira!
So the summer of 1993 had been quite a winner. I’d met a ton of people, had a good few beers, got in some quality beach time, and was free as a bird. At least I thought I was…
A few lovely ladies had passed through my summer…the lovely Vanessa, the exotic Helen and the ever gorgeous Talia (an Israeli girl) to name but a few. But there was nothing serious about any of these brief encounters; they all soon moved on to other countries or understood that it was all about the moment and not a lot more.
Nothing like the connection I’d had with Ofira over the previous 2 or 3 years. I hadn’t seen her in weeks and she’d almost been eradicated from my heart, when one afternoon Peter sat down with me and put me straight.
Like a hammer blow, his news about what Ofira’s mother had been up to hit me hard. It seemed her mother had been in contact with Peter’s Israeli wife almost every week. In fact, every time Peter and I had gone out for an innocent beer (over many, many weeks) Ofira’s mother had been on the blower, planting the seeds of distrust and jealousy in to his wife’s mind. Our casual beery afternoons had apparently become sordid little adventures of lust, and we were obviously on the prowl for as many women as we could get our hands on.
Oh dear. A very clear example of the cultural differences between Brits and Israelis.
We may well have chatted with women here and flirted with waitresses there, but there wasn’t anything more than that. But no, we were were the epitome of evil in Ofira’s mother’s eyes and her hate that she had kept mostly well-hidden from me was obviously bubbling over into the calls she had with Peter’s wife. It seems that these calls were the main reason for Peter’s rocky marriage that later fell apart. Peter’s wife had even sent her brother and father to follow us on a number of occasions, without us knowing.
Peter was only telling me now, in the prime of my summer adventure, because he’d had a big fight with his wife and all the sordid little details from the last couple of years had come flooding out…
Well, I was livid. I knew what my mate Peter had been going through the last few weeks at home, so the thought that Ofira’s mother was partly behind it all drove me mad! My shock quickly turned into rage and I stormed off to the nearest phone box, ready to give her mother a right rollicking…
But, of course, Ofira answered me. And all that rage in me quickly vanished as Ofira swore she knew nothing of what her mother had been up to. And I believed her. She was even angrier at her mother than I was, so it all seemed genuine. Before long we were catching up on old times…
…and another few weeks later had decided to rent our first place together. I’m still not sure how and why it happened, but it seemed we were destined to live together, at least for the time being. We were both very much anti-Ofira’s mother, and looking back, I can see that the idea of living together was probably Ofira’s way of getting back at her mum, rather than a full-on desire to actually live with me.
But rent a place we did, in the very rundown neighborhood of Neve Sha’anan, next to the new Central Bus Station in Tel Aviv. Rent was dirt cheap, and the apartment was probably one of the worst I’d ever come across, but a quick lick of paint and a bit of a wash and the place could almost be called “home”.
Home it became, and with plenty of visits from friends, including Mandy and Haim (the British girl who got married to Israeli Haim and took him to England) from my Purple House days, suburban bliss was hitting home. I was back to the gardening, a bus ride away, while Ofira took the daily bus to Petah Tikva where she’d been working since completing her army service.
And 1993 slowly moved into 1994. The great love affair with Ofira wasn’t really the great passion-fest it should have been, maybe because of a certain maternal figure pulling some strings in the background, who knows…but 1994 was about to be another very interesting year. And I was just about to leap out of the frying pan into the fire…
Next up: Mixing it with the Israeli underworld!
How I ended up in the Holy Land. And stayed…Part 9
Continuing on with my tale of woe and joy of how I ended up in Israel…tales of a non-Jewish potential Kibbutz volunteer who falls in love with Tel Aviv, dodges Scud missiles, lives and works illegally for years on end, gets besotted by one Israeli girl despite the best attempts of a legendary Jewish mother, but ends up marrying and divorcing another… and then marrying yet another to join suburbia and the hi-tech revolution, while becoming the seemingly respectable owner of an English school.
In case you missed them; Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8
Part 9: The Summer of ’93!
As my fingers continued to grow greener thanks to my little gardening job over in suburbia, 1993 didn’t start off quite so rosy for me and Ofira. Looking back now, it’s easy to see that we were coming down from the plateau of earlier days, as I guess most relationships do at some point.
But it went a little deeper than that…I knew that my tourist non-Jewish background was a little hard for her to truly accept, despite all we’d been through and the big front she liked to put on in regards to her family and their “concerns” about us.
Which kind of pissed me off. I’d always been brought up to accept somebody for who they are, not what they are, and to be “dismissed” as a serious player in Ofira’s life bit deep. We’d been together for two and a half years when I decided that enough was enough.
It hurt like crazy, but for my own self-respect, I had to get out. And the pain was so intense I decided that I had to leave Israel too. There were just too many memories; everywhere I turned there was something to remind me of Ofira, places we’d sat and talked, places we’d laughed and taken pictures…I still loved her madly, but knew that love wasn’t enough…
So, after moving out of Ofira’s and back into the Gordon hostel, I sat down one night and told Pete, one of my fellow lifers in Israel, that I was leaving. He was a bit shocked but after we both had a couple more beers, he knew it was the right move for me. And as a final farewell, we decided that we’d hit Eilat for a few days of fun and sun before I flew back to England. By the way, that ticket to England was a one-way ticket: as far as I was concerned, me and Israel needed a break, possibly even permanently.
A good move, that Eilat holiday! We hit Eilat in May, just before the mad tourist season kicked in, and we had a ball. We drank like Brits on holiday, we burned in the sun like Brits on holiday and we ate bacon & eggs like Brits on holiday! We also hooked up with a group of three Israeli soldier girls, who had just been released the week before, and I can remember one night on the beach with one of the girls, Maya, who helped ease my broken heart for a few hours. We danced to the music booming out from a nearby club, we laughed, we talked, and the sun was high in the morning sky before we finally called it a night.
A few days later, there I was, my heart wrenching just a little as I got on the plane back to England. In contrast to my last exit from Israel, I hadn’t sweated buckets as my turn for a security personnel grilling came; this time I couldn’t have cared less if the immigration had permanently blacklisted me due to my outdated tourist visa which had expired over a year previously. They didn’t even blink, perhaps because of the one-way ticket, who knows. But the door to return was wide open.
Back in Blighty, my parents were surprised to see me as I hadn’t told them I was coming back. I hadn’t told the weatherman either, as the rain welcomed me back with a wet, sloppy kiss. A kiss that lasted for seven days, non-stop, in June for Gawd’s sake. After spending the last three summers in the Mediterranean, this wasn’t what I was looking for…
And despite my best attempts to forget all about the Holy Land, all about Ofira, and all about nice, sunny weather, Israel was still in my blood. I’d planned for a long summer holiday back in England before deciding what I’d do with myself, but when my mate Peter called me at my parents’ place with an offer of a job in a hostel he was now managing in Tel Aviv, I hesitated for about 1 second (while looking out the window at the rain beating down in my parents garden) before telling him “I’m coming!”. A quick drive down to a local tourist agent and my ticket was booked. I was heading back to Israel!
So a couple of days later, I was back in Tel Aviv. I’d only been away for a couple of weeks but it all felt different again. This time I was headed straight for the Sea and Sun Hostel, which was on HaYarkon Street, maybe 100 meters from the Purple House, if that. This was Pete’s new place (he’d been hired by the owner to run it) and the hostel was just kicking in for the summer season. It felt good to be back in the tourist game again…
After a couple of nights picking up hostel guests from the airport, a new opportunity came up, an opportunity which was about to turn the summer into the best of my life. The owner of the hostel was looking to get a bar started in the hostel and to our astonishment was prepared to give me and Peter the bar and all the profits. Just as long as we made it “happen”. The twinkle in my eye was back…
So we got a bar started. On the roof of the hostel. As it was mid-summer, it was pretty inaccessible during the day thanks to the intense heat, but during the evening it did, in fact “happen”. The bar itself was basically an open roof, with a few chairs to sit on, a TV and video, plus a great stereo through which I set the scene with lots of my compilation tapes (lots of 80s stuff, New Order, Depeche Mode, The Pogues, The Clash etc). And, of course, a giant fridge filled with beer.
I was usually in charge of everything bar-like as Peter had the hostel to run, so got to know everyone and what made the place tick. My days were soon evolving into the dream lifestyle…late lie-ins, lunch cleaning the bar with some great tunes blasting out, an hour or two on the beach across the road, a quick trek down Bograshov Street to the local video store, plus a visit to the local beer merchant to top up on stock. And then the evening session would kick in, as people would come up to the bar for a beer and a movie. And a flirt with the barman.
Oh yes. After nursing a broken heart just a few weeks earlier, I was now enjoying myself. The beer was flowing, the girls were aplenty (both tourists and Israelis, as the bar got more known across town) and I had completely forgotten about Ofira (I hadn’t even called her telling her I was back in Israel). Midnight skinny dipping (with a female friend) was a known occurrence in Tel Aviv’s jellyfish riddled seas – ooh, watch out for your bits – or alternatively, the party would continue at another bar somewhere in Tel Aviv as we had to close by midnight, often at the Terminal further down the road or even at the legendary 90s club, the Colosseum.
It was a magic time for me. A time when everything was going right and I was doing exactly what I wanted. OK, the bar wasn’t making us any money because me and Peter were probably drinking most of the profits, or giving away too many beers “on the house”, but we weren’t really in it for the money. At least I know I wasn’t.
My star was high in the sky and I wasn’t about to let it fall. And my star was bringing me ever more fame: thanks to the intercom that was rigged up throughout the building, I got to be known as Mr Popular as “Ashley, telephone” would ring out through the floors in the hostel whenever I got a call (remember, these were pre-mobile phone days, so the only way of getting in touch with me was via the hostel number).
Good times. That lasted for a crazy couple of months.
And then one night Peter sat down and told me a little story. A little story about Ofira and in particular, about Ofira’s mother. A story that ultimately meant the end of my magnificent summer…
Next up: The return of Ofira
How I ended up in the Holy Land. And stayed…Part 8
Continuing on with my tale of woe and joy of how I ended up in Israel…tales of a non-Jewish potential Kibbutz volunteer who falls in love with Tel Aviv, dodges Scud missiles, lives and works illegally for years on end, gets besotted by one Israeli girl despite the best attempts of a legendary Jewish mother, but ends up marrying and divorcing another… and then marrying yet another to join suburbia and the hi-tech revolution, while becoming the seemingly respectable owner of an English school.
In case you missed them; Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7
Part 8: Making Israel my home!
So, like it or not, I was getting firmly entrenched in the Holy Land. Saddam had tried his best to convince me otherwise by throwing a few Scuds at my double love affair with Ofira and Israel, while my mum’s sickness a few months later had even brought me back to Blighty for a bit. But there was only one destination in my heart in those days and not a lot was going to stop me from getting back there: that little slice of land in the Middle East known as Israel. And a beautiful army girl waiting for me in a 2nd floor apartment somewhere in suburbia might just have swung it.
Back from England, things felt a bit strange. Ofira had welcomed me with perhaps the biggest hug ever recorded and she felt great to squeeze back, but the summer was over and I’d been out of the loop and people had come and gone. I was no longer a tourist, I wasn’t flying back into the Holy Land and needing a bed in a cheapo hostel – I had my own little sofa to kip on in Petah Tikva!
I did manage to locate some old pals from the Purple House, who were still in Tel Aviv; I met up with Mark, the old barman, and we caught up over a beer (though not a crate this time!), while Peter was also back in the center of the country, after leaving his moshav in the north. I’d been away a couple of months but in that time, he’d gotten married to an Israeli girl and was going to be a Dad, living in leafy Givatayim.
I distinctly remember one morning sat on Dizengoff street, drinking beer with these two guys (Peter and Mark), reliving the last few months, coming up with memories that seemed so long ago, yet were just a few months old…I think it was from this session that a weekly beer session was inaugurated. Peter and myself arranged to meet up every week in Tel Aviv and escape the routine of life in the ‘burbs, while we’d meet up with Mark occasionally (Mark went on to settle into hostel life for a good while longer).
Those weekly beer sessions proved to be a lifesaver on many occasions. Getting accustomed to life in Israel ain’t easy, and being stuck within a Hebrew/Israeli environment on your own for most of the time made the need for a few beers critical. But little did I realize that these sessions were being monitored closely by the Mossad, aka Ofira’s mother, who really was sticking her nose into both mine and Peter’s lives without our even knowing it, more of that to come in the next episode…
So, my 3 month tourist visa quickly ran out once more with no solution in sight other than to hope and pray on my next exit out of the country. Of course, I wasn’t supposed to work on a tourist visa but it’s never hard to find something if you’re young and prepared to put the graft in. I kipped on the sofa at Ofira’s place while a variety of odd-jobs ensued, including: painting apartments in Tel Aviv, washing dishes, furniture removal, and even cleaning houses.
But as 1991 moved into 1992 and the hot, steamy summer beckoned, there was an inevitable return to my more touristy roots. I started sleeping over at the Gordon Hostel (with a balcony overlooking the Med, of course) just to save me the hassle of catching buses back to Petah Tikva. Ofira’s army service also meant that she wasn’t home every night of the week, so I made the most of my freedom with some beery nights in Tel Aviv.
And it wasn’t long before I was actually working at the Hostel, just to pay my way. I mainly did a few night shifts on reception, keeping tabs on the comings and goings and making sure Adam the Barbarian didn’t go on the rampage with his baseball bat too often. Adam was a Brit who hated Israelis with a passion and didn’t need much of an excuse to go off on one, but would you believe it took a haircut of all things to convert him into a normal human being. With a dashing new look he fast became a connoisseur of fine Israeli women…and his baseball bat soon hit the trash can.
They were actually nice nights, despite the crazy hours (something like midnight – 7am). I read books, listened to the great Voice of Peace, and fended off a few advances from some crazy Israeli girls. I even had one girl follow me all the way from Petah Tikva to the hostel (on the bus), and she actually stayed and chatted with me all night. She seemed a bit “lost” but a few months later I met her in Dizengoff and she had metamorphosed into a vivacious suntanned beauty, and we had a laugh about “that night”.
But as the year wore on, and I stopped working and hence stopped over less at the Gordon Hostel, I needed something more. My Hebrew had improved a lot over the last few months, largely due to too much time on my hands and a great copy of the ulpan book Peter gave me (as a new citizen through his marriage to a local girl, he was entitled to free Hebrew lessons at a Hebrew school – known as ulpan - but had given up, hence my new reading material). And I used my new language skills to search for jobs in the local newspapers. With a little help from Ofira, I landed myself a new job as a Percy Thrower wannabee – that’s right, a gardener.
After meeting the two beautiful Israeli girls who ran the advertised gardening business a short bus ride from Petah Tikva, I was a happy camper. They were paying me peanuts, something like 1700 shekels a month for a full-time gig, but the work was fairy easy and they weren’t too bothered about the lack of a proper working visa.
This little gardening job opened my eyes to life in Israel, in many ways. I got to meet some great people, and some not so great people. I’m still in touch with a couple of my ex-work colleagues, some real top-class blokes. Others were less classy, but it was a real experience with some of them as they couldn’t speak a word of English – it did wonders for my Hebrew! Ah, strange old Eli, I wonder what you’re up to these days!
And as the weeks flew by and my hedge trimmer worked overtime, little did I know the greatest summer of my life was just around the corner…
Next up: The summer of ’93!
How I ended up in the Holy Land. And Stayed…Part 7
Continuing on with my tale of woe and joy of how I ended up in Israel…tales of a non-Jewish potential Kibbutz volunteer who falls in love with Tel Aviv, dodges Scud missiles, lives and works illegally for years on end, gets besotted by one Israeli girl despite the best attempts of a legendary Jewish mother, but ends up marrying and divorcing another… and then marrying yet another to join suburbia and the hi-tech revolution, while becoming the seemingly respectable owner of an English school.
In case you missed them; Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, and Part 6.
Part 7: An unexpected return home!
So, there we were, huddled together on the sofa, with Azit the dog wedged between us, presumably taking up the mantle of family chaperon while Ofira’s parents were out. On the TV in front of us, Blake Carrington and Alexis were throttling each other in another rip-roaring episode of Dynasty. Oh yes, me and Ofira knew how to live.
Suddenly the phone rang. Ofira answered and, to my surprise, started speaking in her heavily-accented, but very cute, English. I soon understood the call was for me and hesitantly took the phone when she passed it over to me. It was my sister. Amidst jokes about my now accented English, she told me about our Mum, who had been diagnosed with cancer. Clearing the lump from my throat, I told her that I’d be over as soon as I could possibly get a ticket.
That phone call really came as a timely wake-up call. I’d been coasting in Israel, enjoying myself and forgetting about anything and everything. Perhaps it was time to shake things up a bit with a visit back home. My parents had been running their own business for a number of years and working their socks off and now with my Mum sidelined and my Dad doing his best to look after her and keep the business alive, it was time for me to come back and do my bit. But they really should have warned me about those 5am starts…
The very next morning I went and purchased the first ticket I could for a flight back to Blighty. Ofira and I were a little upset as we’d been seriously falling for each other, but she was right behind me. Despite the uncertainty about how long I’d be over in England (I bought a one-way ticket), I knew I’d be back and we’d be together again.
Getting a ticket wasn’t a problem, and I had a flight booked for the next day. But there was another problem looming, a problem I’d been secretly fearing – my outdated tourist visa. The original 3 month visa had long expired, by some 6-7 months. I’d had a couple of friends from the hostel days who’d been deported because of their outdated visa (and illegal moonlighting) and word had gotten back to the hard-core group left in Tel Aviv, so it was a bit of a worry, especially when you’re in love and really, really want to make it back…
I didn’t think it would be such a problem; Ofira came to the airport with me and accompanied me through the check-in and we were honest and co-operative, if a little tense. Well, what’s that saying about never showing your fear to a dog? The security guys at Israeli airports aren’t just the equivalent of German Shepherds, they are, of course, likely Mossad assassins of the future, so what little tension they could sense was seized upon – they gave me and Ofira one hell of a grilling!
We were split up, I was taken to one side and interrogated, Ofira questioned by someone else, and then this procedure was repeated again by another pair of security personnel. My expired visa seemed to be a major talking point: as a couple of security big-wigs looked on and gave us that cold, security person glare from afar. I had the willies at this point – my major worry was that they’d “blackball” me and I’d be denied re-entry to Israel. But after what seemed hours, and even providing proof of our relationship with pictures and letters to each other that I’d handily brought with me, I was free to board the plane.
After a hug and a tearful Ofira squeezing me so hard I though my eyes were going to pop out of my head, we parted. I told her I’d be back soon, and I meant it. I headed up the stairs to the departure lounge and we waved that last heart-breaking goodbye. I handed in my gas-mask to Immigration and then just about made it onto the plane.
A few hours later I was back in England.
Ah yes, sunny England! Believe it or not, the sun was actually shining when I landed and it felt somewhat reassuring to see all that greenery when coming in to land. But it was my first time back home in over a year, and I wasn’t feeling any real pangs for the place. I knew I was going to be heading back to Israel as soon as I could.
My brother was there to pick me up, and he was quick to point out that I was swearing like a motherfucker trooper. It was great chatting with him and catching up on all that had been happening, but all the time on that journey home, there was this feeling that life seemed so different for me now. The people around me hadn’t changed, I had…
Seeing my parents again was great, of course. My Mum had undergone surgery a couple of days before and was recuperating at home. But she seemed in great spirits and looked as healthy as I ever remembered her, so I was mightily relieved. And as I stepped back into my old bedroom, there was something warm and fuzzy about this blast back into my past. Seeing old posters on the wall, a map of Europe peeling away from the wall at one corner…and then I put my Etnix cassette into my stereo and listened to Keturney Masala (see the clip below) and a load of good and recent memories of my times in the Holy Land came flooding back to shout out any sentiments I might have had for England…
So, for the next few weeks I helped out in the business, opening up early, closing late, going to wholesalers and so on. I missed Ofira and Israel a lot, and it didn’t help when she would cry during our frequent phone calls or send letters (not emails!) with too many kisses to count. Guys, beware of Israeli girls, this is a trick they like to pull…they reel you in and then, KAPOWWW!
There’s not a lot to tell about my time in England. In the end I stayed around two months but didn’t really enjoy it too much. One thing I do remember enjoying is wearing my Purple House t-shirts on trips into my local town. I felt like i was showing off; Hey look, I’ve been living in the Middle East the last few months, I’ve even survived Scuds raining down all around me…look at my t-shirt, yes, it proves I was there! No question, I felt almost invincible, but in a place i didn’t really want to be. I wanted to be back in Israel.
In the end my Mum recovered well, and I was free to fly back. I packed up my things, while making sure to stock up on lots of English chocolate (Israeli chocolate just wasn’t working for me!) and off I was again, heading back to the Holy Land. It had been great seeing my family again, of course, but there was a greater force pulling me across the Mediterranean, a deadly combination of the Holy Land and Ofira…
