My Mercedes

My mom just called and said she read my blog and that it sounds “so sad.” This is surprising! I didn’t think I was sad – I was going more for resigned and bitter, but whatever.

My days here in Jerusalem have themes. Like there are the “I'm going to trip and fall in oncoming traffic at least three times today” days, and the “I'm going to miss every bus and hit every traffic jam possible today” and the “every random guy is going to hit on me today” days... but my secret favorite of all these are the “every old man or woman I see today will stop to talk to me”. Now I know, this may surprise some people, and no I am not being sarcastic. The truth is, I love old people. Even the scary mafia babushkas that will maim any unfortunate shmuck that may accidentally step between them and the potatoes at the shouk. While old people may seem confused and outdated, they are wise and big-hearted and they smell like my grandparents (and cabbage). One of the things that I love about Israel is that while not everyone loves old people the way I do, everyone here respects them. Every babushka is everyone's safta, and every dedushka is everyone's “abballe”.

On one such “magnet for elderly people” day, a plump and sturdy babushka came and sat next to me on the bus, parking her typical Yerushalmi plaid granny cart in the aisle. I knew she would talk to me, because that is the type of day it was. She turned to me and said, “do you know what this is?” Referring to the cart full of groceries... an “agala?”I replied sheepishly, wondering why she felt compelled to test my Hebrew. “Nope,” she said smiling with all that wisdom in her puffy face, “it's my Mercedes.” That not only made my day, it made my week.
 
Following my mother's observation about my sad blog, I decided to drop my constant companion, that fiddler that follows me wherever I go lately named Self Pity. I should remember the old lady on the bus with the Mercedes full of vegetables.
 
Unfortunately, losing the Fiddler is not as easy as it sounds. You see, he tends to pop up with his sad violin out of nowhere, and somewhat unexpectedly. For example on Shabbat my Awesome Hubby treated us to a day at the Spa. Self Pity was nowhere to be found, in fact I was even flirting with his arch enemy, Contentment… but then, out of the steamy changing room comes a gorgeous woman in a black bikini, hair blowing in the wind (in slow motion), swinging her miraculously cellulite free hips and proudly carrying her round, perturbing swollen belly with a popped up bellybutton, like a nose on a smiling face, looking better in a bikini at 7-8 months along than I do childless. And there he was, right behind her, with his annoying whiny melody, crying his crocodile tears right there in the girl’s locker room, where he was certainly not welcome, especially when I had successfully avoided him ALL DAY!

I have decided that from now on I will ignore the Fiddler. On the bus ride from work today I focused on other things. I will not let pregnant women (which are around every corner in this city) upset me. I will be kind, altruistic and generous. No jealousy here, nope.

Lalalallaa... the sun is shining... lalalala... it's about a million degrees on this bus... lalala... that old lady just about knocked that soldier over... tralalala... those screaming kids are enough to make me count my blessings... and then I noticed him. Nope not the Fiddler, a kid, about 12 years old, in fully Charedi getup, black hat, long black coat ,side curls hanging over his ears, the whole look, circa Hungary 1742. This little kid was staring at my boobs so intently I thought he might be hypnotized. Seriously, he was about a step away from drooling.

Now, in a city as divided and polarized as Jerusalem, the kid wouldn't have to be staring at a secular girl inappropriately for her to dislike him. She would be likely to do so by default. I was just about to turn my back in disgust and shoot him a look that would clearly say “you should be ashamed of yourself you prepubescent little booger”, but then I thought... it is so damn hot on this bus that I would gladly go skinny dipping in glacier water in Antarctica if it was an alternative to this ride and this misken adolescent is wearing enough layers for a Chicago winter. So if this is his only pleasure in life? Let him stare for a few more minutes, it'll be as close as he gets to a pair of these for a long, long time. And so I stayed where I was. See? I can be generous and kind and giving. The Fiddler was nowhere to be found and I rode that winding Mercedes the rest of the way home.