A coworker complains about how
depressing winter is. But I’m biased
because flashing back to last winter, I remember how awesome it was, as my
teammates and I zipped through the streets of Worcester in the dead of night on
our cross-country skis, and how agonizing it was, as the piles of snow got so
high in our front yard that there was no choice but to perform a science
experiment on how much snow my car could get through.
The part of me that misses skiing is at constant odds with the part of me who enjoys staying warm, so while I will argue little about "missing winter", I also won't be complaining when it's time to hit the slopes in the act of late Spring skiing.
But everyone here, used to mild and warm temperatures is shocked by my complacency under these distasteful weather conditions. Is it weird that I like running when it's raining out? It's better than being hot. I mean, I could take or leave the wind, but as long as it's not torrential downpour or hail (yes, Buffalo, I have not forgotten being pelted with hail in May, 2013), who am I to argue?
I look out the window, confused. The weather forecast is constantly calling
for rain, but it’s only as bad as they say it will be about half the time. And, I’ve come to the conclusion that if I
keep listening to the forecast, I’m going to end up spending every Friday night
and Saturday I’m here, curled up on my couch with my Netflix account, a loaf of
Challah, a container of hummus and a bar of chocolate (not that that’s a
terrible way to spend Shabbat or anything).
Plus, what’s the rain going to do?
Melt me?
Not
that the forecast is never right, and not that I haven’t silently complained
about the cold at any point of me being here (or had moments when I asked my
winter coat why I hadn’t brought it with me).
That said, if I were to genuinely complain about the weather here, I would
actually incur the wrath of all my friends and family back home, and open
myself up to an onslaught of angry snowball throws and hailstorms.
And
I bet if I came here in the summer, I would be whining more about the weather,
because if you’re like me and 70 Fahrenheit is too hot for a run, then hit the
Tel Aviv Promenade (running path along the beach) in the summer and prepare to
die (or cry).
Speaking of which, race day is in 5
weeks, so I truthfully did spend this past Saturday afternoon curled up on my
couch with a loaf of Challah, dried fruit and chocolate, take a long nap, and
then watch more Netflix than I’m proud of (but only after I spent the morning
on a 19-mile training run).
Running on Shabbat is always an
interesting experience, because by custom, a lot of people won’t run on
Saturdays. It’s a day to go to
synagogue, spend time with family, and rest.
The same goes for driving. There
are cars on the road, but fewer than usual.
Generally, it’s a pretty dead/calm day.
There are always a handful of runners out, but not a whole lot, because
it’s the Sabbath. You see more people
out walking with their families or their dogs.
Within a couple of miles, even with
a little rain, I’m burning up wearing anything other than a T-Shirt and shorts
and instantly regret my layers (complete 180 from Buffalo, New York, it’s
hailing on Mother’s Day weather).
I discover parts of Herzliya that I
didn’t know existed. Didn’t
actually know Herzliya had an airport (okay, so it’s more like an airfield),
and when I bring it up to my supervisor at work the next day, he mentions that
it’s always in danger of being shut down because it’s primarily private planes that
sometimes disrupt things. I found a
little village and some fields, which is actually a really beautiful area. Then, I managed to loop back to that little
village again and again without trying and I found out that the way I say
“Herzliya” to people when I’m trying to ask for directions apparently doesn’t
sound like Hebrew and if they don’t speak English, they don’t seem to understand
me even if all I do is say the word with a questioning look on my face and
point. Guess I need to step up my game
on the accent/pronunciation. But, luckily 19 miles is a long way, so if you’re lost, you
have plenty of time to find your way home again.
And basically, if you’re wandering around
a city for that long, you start to develop an understanding of all its nooks
and crannies. It’s also pretty
interesting to see it after hearing all the local’s interpretations of it. What they called a gravel road, I have yet to
see any gravel on it. Or maybe, I was
just on a different road? Maybe we’ll
never know.
What they call “running in the
fields for a really long time”, I would call “running in the fields for a
kilometer”. Just like what they call “raining
on and off”, I would call “drizzle”. It’s
all perception. When you hear someone
explaining something, your mind instantly snaps a picture that usually barely
resembles the original.
Isn’t that why we travel in the
first place? Why I came here? We can read travel books and look at pictures
of a foreign country. But, it doesn’t
become real until it’s more than just words or pictures on a page. I say this, not to undermine the importance
of travel books, pictures, or even this blog, but to emphasize that famous
quote, “It’s not the destination, but the journey”. Yes, I know how cliché that is, but that’s
okay, because it’s true.
Running is like that. Most people don’t run to go somewhere. We run to cover distance, but what happens in
those miles (sorry, kilometers)? What do
we see? How many cats and snails (yes
there are a lot of snails here; it’s weird) do we count as we pass them on the
sidewalks? How many kite surfers launch
themselves into the air as we run by and how many cricket matches and soccer
(sorry, football) games do we witness?
Who do we talk to? Where do they tell us to go?
Where’s the pride in having
everything go as planned? What about the
moments where you can’t find your accommodation anywhere, and you’re forced to
step back for a minute, take a deep breath, and look harder? What about the sense of relief that floods
you when you finally arrive at that destination you sought out for so
long? What about when you’re hungry but
everything’s in an alphabet you can’t read?
Or when you’re nineteen miles into your nineteen mile run but you
planned it wrong/got lost one too many times, and now you’re still a mile from
home?
People say, “I’m going to Israel to
swim in the Dead Sea.” Disclaimer: As
you probably know, you can’t swim in the Dead Sea. You float.
But, the point is, no one says, “I’m going to Israel so I can get lost,
hand the shopkeeper the wrong amount of money, struggle with ordering food and
walk a mile when I’m more sore than I’ve ever been in my life”. But, honestly those have been some
of the best moments (and even if it wasn’t terribly enjoyable, it’s hard to
deny the benefits of cooling down from a long run). Learning the hard way that everything is
actually closed on Shabbat, as I searched for water on my long run (finally
found an open gas station), mastered the currency, negotiated a taxi fare down
forty shekels (ten dollars), figured out where they keep the English menus at
certain restaurants and finally got my computer to translate my lunch order
(also on a somewhat unrelated note, Google Translate may still need some help
considering that this was one of my lunch options today: Humus Mixed: Plus strips of India, spleen, heart and onions burnt charcoal,
olive oil, parsley, spices, accompanied by two bread and pickles).
So I’m here in Israel, a hybrid
between a tourist and just an American new to town. I had a picture in my head of what things
would be like here, as I’m sure you all do.
And I’ll tell you, it’s a lot different than I expected, but that’s
good. We picture what we’re used to, and
I can safely say that while the Middle East and the Eastern United States both
have their charms, they’re just a little bit different.
So let me know when your flight
lands and I’ll meet you at Ben-Gurion to show you “The City that Never
Sleeps”.
Catch you later. Thanks for reading!
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