“One of the best Shabbos experiences I had in Israel was when I met a girl on the bus. We’d seen each other a couple of times, and had always smiled at each other. Then on the bus back to Jerusalem, we started chatting. Her family had moved to Israel when she was younger, and they loved having guests. And so a friend and I went for the weekend, and adored every second of it.
And no, it wasn’t weird to go to someone’s house when you only met that someone on the bus. It’s Israel. That’s how it works there.”
—N.J.
THE BUS FROM Chevron to the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem usually takes a little over an hour, but today it takes two and a half hours.
The only reason I know that is because Salome texts me, worried, an hour into the bus ride. But considering how the conversation flows, I would never have noticed the bus took so much longer than usual. I don’t space out and stare out the window for even a minute, because talking to Avi is so much more compelling than the long stretches of sand that usually enthrall me.
I try not to overthink it all that much, but I find myself telling Avi things I wouldn’t normally tell a mostly random stranger. Even a mostly random stranger in Israel. But so does he, and our conversations range from talking about our favorite thing to order on the crepes at Katzefet, (which leads to us arguing about whether actually call it Katzefet or Fro-Yo), to him telling me about growing up during the Intifada, and me telling him about my friend from preschool who died in a fire when she was five.
I laugh in those two hours more than I have probably laughed in the past month and a half. And when he makes a Veggie Tales reference, I’m sunk.
This is bad.
Very, very, very good. But very bad.
“The chayalim? Best. Ever. It was a mutual party of fun—we thought they were adorable and they thought we were hilarious. We all kinda just flirted shamelessly with each other, bumbling over languages and just trying to understand each other. But we also worried about them, whether we had ever met them or not. They were the same age we were, and they were in the army while we were just goofing off in school.”
—M.B.
THE BUS PULLS into the Tachana Merkazit, and it all comes crashing down. We’ve been talking for so long, and it has been blissfully awkward free, and I almost forgot that Avi’s just a random chayal I met at a bus stop. And that upsets me a lot more than it should.
The bus parks and we all file off. Avi goes to grab his bag from under the bus, and I fidget.
Tamar. This is not nearly as serious as you want it to be.
Avi walks over to me, bag swung over his shoulder, and for the first time since I crossed the street in Chevron, everything feels awkward.
“Well,” he says.
“It was nice to meet you,” I say, rushing the words out. I don’t want things to just end now, but what do I think is going to happen? “Mazel tov on your brother’s bar mitzvah.”
“Maybe I’ll see you around Chevron. You’re staying there, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, I’ll be there, too.” Avi smiles.
“Bye.” I can stand here and watch him smile all day, and oh my God, Tamar, you need to leave before you do something stupid. I turn toward the exit.
“L’hitraot.”
I smile and wave like an idiot, and head out of the bus station, feeling like I’ve left something behind there.
Calm down, Queen Drama. He’s just a guy.
But I’ve never felt this way about just a guy.
That’s because none of the guys I’ve ever had any feelings about were tall, dimpled, sweet chayalim with slight southern accents and a wicked sense of humor.
I head out of the bus station. After the whole bus ride, I still don’t know his last name, or where his family lived.
But what was I going to do, though? I ask myself as I hop onto the train to Bayit Vegan. He’s a chayal. I’m only here for a month. It can’t work out.
“It’s a wonder my roommates and I never killed each other. God knows why they thought of putting us all together in one room, but somehow, it worked, and I left school with another three sisters.”
—L.F.
“TAMAR!” SALOME SHRIEKS, throwing her arms around me. “I missed you!”
I hug her back as tight as I can. “Oh my gosh, look at you, all married and cute!”
“You were at my wedding, silly. You’ve seen me married.” Salome pulls back and smiles. “Look at you!”
“I look the same as I did last time I saw you, silly. I’m not the one with a scarf on my head.”
“Look at you, not saying that other word.”
“Tichel? Because every time I would say tichel, you would tell me it sounded like some sort of old Eastern European cookie.”
“Well, it does,” Salome protests.
“It kind of does. Kichel, tichel. But one goes in your mouth and one goes on your head,” I say. “Also, can we discuss that you live here? Did you ever think you’d end up living here?”
Salome shrugs, and manages to look classy while doing it. It’s that French thing. It’s practically impossible for Salome to look anything less than classy and infinitely cooler than anyone else. Covered in mud, sliding down the side of a cliff, flinging paint, you name it.
But it’s Salome, and her Frenchness is just what makes her my Salome.
“Well, if I was going to live anywhere in Jerusalem, it would probably be here,” she says. “Like what Riva used to say—all of the Frenchies all hang out together.”
“Frenchies,” I snicker.
“Like the girl from Grease,” Salome says, trying her best to imitate me, which sends me into gales of laughter. “Why are you laughing? Am I not American enough for you?”
“I love you, Salome.”
“I love you, too. And I will not sing any songs from Grease, because I have pity on you.”
“Oh, pfft. Where did that come from?” I demand. “You never had any pity on me before.”
“Well, now I’m old and married, and so maybe now I have some pity on you,” she says.
“I’m sure.”
“I’m lying. I don’t remember the words to the song.”
I clutch my heart. “Salome. I feel so betrayed.”
“Nebach,” she says, which makes me giggle.
“Nebach? When did you turn into such an Ashkenaz?” I demand.
“When I married my husband who went to all the Ashkenaz yeshivas.”
I cackle. “Your husband is a Mir guy.”
“I know. I was wrong.”
Back in seminary on Purim, Riva and I had dragged Salome to the Mir Yeshivah for the reading of Megillat Esther. She asked why we had to go there. Really, it was because it was pretty close to the Kotel, where we had been that morning for davening, but we told her it was because we were going to find her a husband there.
“Like I’m going to marry an American Ashkenaz,” she had scoffed, which made us laugh. “Fine. I’ll go and then I’ll go home and find you both French husbands.”
“Why would you do that to the poor French guys?” Riva had asked, trying to keep her face straight. “Do you hate them that much?”
“No,” Salome had said. “Never mind. Fine, we’ll go to this Mir, and I’ll find both of you husbands. So there.”
And now she was the one who had married a guy who was in the Mir. An American who went to the Mir, which was an endless source of amusement for us. Riva and I ignore the fact that his parents are French when we tease her about her husband, like the excellent friends we are.
“How’s Yoni?” I ask as we stand up and get ready to set up the menorah by the doorway.
“Thank God.” Salome smiles. “He’s happy you’re here for a while.”
“For a month,” I say. “I don’t know if he’ll be happy by week three.”
“No, he will. He’s just a little worried about how much trouble we’re going to cause.”
“Us? Cause trouble? Never.”
“I tried that on him. He didn’t believe any of it.”
I shrug. “Well, too bad that he doesn’t believe the truth. And it’s not like we’ve ever done anything that would make him think we’d ever cause trouble.”
“Never,” Salome says, her voice grave.
It takes us approximately three seconds before we crack up. Salome and Yoni met when we were in the midst of what some might call “causing trouble.”
“So, have you had a sufganiya yet?” Salome asks as we step out onto the sidewalk.
“Sal, I’ve been here for less than a day.”
“So?”
“Not yet. I wanted my first one to be from the shuk.”
“Throwback Tuesday?”
“I regret ever encouraging you,” I fake moan.
“You know you looooove me,” she sings, and I remember just how devious Salome actually is. It’s probably the only reason she survived the first month and a half of seminary with two crazy Americans as roommates, especially since she didn’t speak that much English then.
She does now, and will deny it, which is hilarious.
I poke her. “I do love you, but not when you do weird things like this.”
We’re walking down Herzel because the sky is a clear blue and drastically different from this morning’s rain. And even though it’s cold out, the cold is laughable in comparison to the polar vortex that will never end in New York.
“Oh my gosh, I forgot to tell you!”
“Tell me what?” Salome demands.
“About the chayal chamud that I met today,” I say, trying to sound casual, because for real, I’m making it into too big of a deal. I am. It can’t be as big of a deal as I want it to be.
“You’re like a magnet, Tamarie. You can’t go anywhere without making friends with cute soldiers.”
I shrug. “I think that might be a bit of an over exaggeration.”
“Excuse me, Miss All the Chayalim in Chevron Are My Best Friends?”
“They’re not all my best friends.”
“Only because there are new ones there now.”
“Your faith in my chayal friending ability is a little much. If either of us would be the one making friends with all the chayalim, it would be you.”
Salome rolls her eyes. “One time I get serenaded by a bus of soldiers, and you never let me live it down.”
“Never ever.”
“Wait, so what didn’t you tell me?”
“So, this morning I was waiting at the bus stop by Me’arat HaMachpeila, and there was this chayal guy sitting there.”
“Yessss. And now you’re getting married to him?”
“Whoa there, Sparky. No. I barely know the guy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Salome.”
She raises her hands in defeat. “Okay, so there was a cute chayal sitting next to you at the bus stop. Then what happened?”
“Why do you automatically assume that something happened?” I demand as we walk by Yad Sarah.
She’s right, but she doesn’t have to be so smug about it.
“Tamarie. I lived with you for ten months.”
“You make me sound so much more . . . I don’t know, femme fatale-ish, than I actually am.”
“Look at you, using French words correctly.” Salome wipes away an imaginary tear. “I’m so proud. Now tell me what happened.”
I give her the rundown of that morning. “And then we said good-bye at the Tachana Merkazit. And, yeah. That’s it.”
“That’s it??”
“Yup.”
“No. I don’t like the ending.”
Neither do I. I shrug. “Well, that’s what happened.”
“But you’re going to be there for a month. I think you’re going to see him again.”
“Yeah, but . . . I don’t know. I don’t think anything can come from it.”
“Have some faith, chouchou.”
“Yes, Maman.”
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
I hug her. “I would never. I love you too much.”
“I don’t remember things working like that,” she says. “But you have to post this in the chat, and then you have to update me and Riva every time something happens.”
“Okay, pumpkin. Don’t worry.” I pull out my phone. “Now?”
“Why not?”
Me updating Riva, and Salome adding in her two cents, lasts us until we get to the Machane Yehuda Shuk, which is both my favorite outdoor marketplace in Israel and also the home of all of the doughnuts over Chanukah. They sell sufganiyot everywhere, but for some reason, the ones here taste the best.
“Sufganiyotttt,” I sing, pulling Salome along. “Let’s go let’s go let’s go!”
“You’re acting like this and you haven’t even had any sugar yet,” she says. “This can only end terribly.”
“Oh, shh. It’s not like I drank any coffee today.”
“Of course you wouldn’t drink any coffee! You should remember what happened last time you drank coffee.”
“Nothing happened,” I say as we weave around an old woman in pearls sorting through chicken livers.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I promise. I started drinking coffee in the beginning of the semester, and now I’m fine.”
“I feel like some part of my innocence is gone,” Salome says, steering us around a group of tourists. “You can drink coffee now?”
“I know. I’m a grown-up now and every—loooook, they look so good oh my God I want to eat all of them.” It’s sufganiyot, and dear God, I want to buy all of them. The powdered sugar ones, the ones with highlighter-colored frosting, the ones that have cream in the middle instead of jelly . . . all of the doughnuts.
“Eating all of them would make you sick.”
“Shh, voice of reason. I will be ignoring you when it comes to doughnut advice.” I turn to the guy behind the counter and switch to Hebrew. “Good afternoon.”
“The bags are over there. Just let me know how many you plan on buying.”
“All of them.”
“She’s lying,” Salome interrupts. “Not all of them.”
“All of them would be a lot to carry,” the guy agrees.
“None of you have any faith in my ability to carry things,” I huff.
“That’s why you have a boyfriend,” says Shuk Guy.
“I like the assumption I have a boyfriend,” I say to Salome. “These Israeli guys. Always thinking about our marriage prospects.”
“Such yentas.” Salome shakes her head sadly.
“Look what seminary did to you,” I tsk, taking two doughnuts. “You’re practically fluent in Yiddish.”
“Riiiight.” Salome pulls out her wallet and pays before I can pull out mine. “That’s why I went to seminary. Not to learn English. To learn Yiddish.”
“Obviously. Why do you think I came to school?”
“To hang out with chayalim.”
“You lie like a rug, missy.”
“A Persian carpet,” she answers, and then sticks her tongue out.
“Such maturity.”
“Always.” We start the walk toward the Old City, bickering and in general just goofing off.
And I can’t stop thinking about Avi, which is kinda weird.
Maybe it’s because I’m still kinda traumatized from going on the date that shall never be discussed again with you know who.
Going on a date with Avi would probably be a lot more fun. Also, less awkward, and would probably not end with me going home and telling my mom that I’m just going to buy a herd of cats, and too bad that Abba is allergic.
Which was how that other date that shall not be mentioned ended.
It was just buckets of fun.
“Tamarie.”
“Huh?”
“You were out spacing.”
“Sorry.” We’re almost by City Hall. “Ooh, wanna stop by the pillows?”
“For a picnic? Always.”
“Yesss.”
There’s a little gardeny art exhibit behind City Hall, where all the seats available are pillows made of concrete. It doesn’t sound comfortable at all, but I promise, it is. I’ve spent hours here, with friends or alone. It’s usually empty, and it’s far away enough from the street that it’s a good thinking spot.
Salome sits down on her pillow and looks up at the sky. Cloudless. “Now all we need is Riva,” she says. “And then it will be perfect.”
I pull out my phone and take a selfie with Salome to send to Riva. “I kinda feel bad about sending her pictures,” I say as I pass Salome a sufganiya. “You know? But on the other hand, she’d be really mad at me if I didn’t send her all the pictures.”
“Sometimes you have to pick the thing that hurts less,” Salome says, taking a nibble out of her doughnut.
“True.” Then I take a bite out of my sufganiya. “I’m moving to Israel. That’s it. Forget my stupid college scholarship.”
“If I remember correctly, you may have said something that sounded exactly like that around every other day last year.”
“Don’t rub it in, giveret. I’m going to enjoy my doughnut in peace and quiet and . . . other happy peaceful-sounding words.”
“Whatever you say, dear.”
“As I wish?”
“No. Not Princess Bride.”
“Gasp.”
“Nobody actually says ‘gasp’ instead of gasping,” Salome says, licking sugar off her fingers. “Just you.”
“It must be because I’m dead inside.” I grin. “Also, don’t think I haven’t noticed you avoiding the Princess Bride problem here.”
“I thought I was the one who was dead inside,” Salome says. “But okay. And no Princess Bride because Buttercup shouldn’t have been so obnoxious, and Wesley should have said something a little more aggressive than ‘as you wish.’ ”
“Rebbetzin Samuels would be so proud of your critique on fictional character relationships,” I say. “Although the movie part, maybe not so much.”
Salome flutters her eyelashes. “It’s a book, Tamar.”
“You win.” I finish off my doughnut. “But you do have a point about Buttercup.” I ponder for a bit. “I’m kinda sad now, you know?”
“Romantic dreams are popped like balloons?”
“Something like that. Probably not that dramatic, though. More like a slow hissing of the balloon, and not so much popping.”
We both dust off the powdered sugar and head toward the Old City, to the Jaffa Gate. There are the usual two carts selling bread right outside the gate, and it’s the same guys who were here the last time I was by the Old City.
The Old City is decorated for Chanukah. Even the Arab shuk looks a little more festive than usual. We pass the church hostel, and Salome nudges me. “Look, Tamarie. You can stay here for Shabbat if you want to.”
“I told you, I already did,” I say, smirking. I haven’t, but we like to lie to each other about stupid things. Mostly if said stupid things involve places we claimed to have slept at. “Remember? That Shabbat you went home and Riva abandoned me?”
“Right. And you also slept on a park bench in Tzfat.”
“No, that I actually did.”
“Uh-huh,” Salome drawls, clearly still not believing me.
“One day you’re going to realize that Riva and I weren’t lying when we told you we slept on that park bench,” I say as we turn onto St. James. “I’m just saying.”
“Well, even if it is true, I will live in denial and pretend it isn’t.” Salome stops to chat with someone in French in front of the little grocery store on the corner. “Sorry, a neighbor.”
“No problem.” I pause. “Which way do you want to go?”
“Whichever way you want to go is fine with me,” she says.
“Is the staircase to the courtyard down before the menorah open?” I ask. Chalk that up as yet another place for hiding with friends and having heart-to-hearts at three in the morning.
“It should be. I haven’t been through there in a while. We can go check.”
‘We’re walking through the Cardo when Salome pokes me. “Ooh, chayal chatich by the museum.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Even you would think he’s hot.”
“Tsk tsk, married lady,” I tease. “Where?”
She laughs. “By the burned house museum.”
I turn slightly to look, and squeeze her arm. “That’s Avi!” I hiss. “Don’t turn around. Don’t you dare—”
Salome turns, and turns back. “Tamarie, look at you with good taste all of a sudden.”
“All of a sudden. Shtuyot.” I glance back for a second. He’s there with another two chayalim, and he’s still cute. “But I know, right? Isn’t he a chayal chatich?”
“As I said, chouchou. All of a sudden you have good taste.”
“And which one of us saw Yoni first? Oh, wait, that was me. It’s not sudden, chouchou.”
“You have a point,” she concedes. “But other than Yoni.”
The gate to the staircase is open, and we slowly make our way down into the first courtyard. There’s some Aish guy taking a nap on one of the park benches, and another two guys who seem to be trying to write a song. The second courtyard is empty, but the Kotel is right here, and as much as I want to twirl in circles through the courtyard and pretend I’m the Orthodox Jewish version of the music video for Taylor Swift’s “You Belong with Me,” I want to go to the Kotel more.
The Kotel is moderately crowded, and the minute I sit down to pray, I burst into tears. Again. I am a regular watering pot when it comes to Israel, it seems. There’s an old Sephardi lady sitting next to me, and without pausing her Tehillim, she hands me a tissue, which only makes me cry more.
I curl up onto my chair, as close to the actual Kotel as I possibly can get, and pray. Salome is saying her Tehillim when I finish, so I lean against the Kotel wall and have a little conversation with God.
I can’t stop thinking about him, and I don’t know how seriously to take myself. It could be it’s just a garden variety crush or something, but I don’t know. I pause. I’m not going to do the whole “show me a sign” thing, but I would love some clarity.
The stones are sun-kissed and warm, even at this hour, and little notes are shoved into the cracks everywhere. I close my eyes and just stand there, soaking everything in and just breathing. There’s nothing that centers me quite like meditating by the Kotel, and by the time I move back a few minutes later, I’m feeling more solidly here than I have been in a while.
Salome finishes her Tehillim and tucks it into her purse. We walk backward in silence and turn by the ramp.
“You look better,” Salome says as we go to wash our hands again.
“I feel better.”
“I’m glad.” Her phone buzzes, and she pulls it out. “Yoni is running a little late, but he wants to know where we should meet him for dinner. I hadn’t told him anywhere in specific before he left. Where do you want to go for dinner?”
“Nooo, don’t make me decide!” I dramatically fling myself at Salome. “You know I’m bad at decisions.”
“Do you want me to narrow it down for you?” she asks, patting me on the head.
“Obviously. Also, is there anywhere you know Yoni would want to go?”
“He’s not picky. Okay. Milk or meat?”
“Either.”
“Piiiiick.”
“Well, it’s Chanukah. Milk.”
“Look at you, making progress. Okay. Ohhh, do you want to go to the tofu place?”
“Yoni eats tofu?” I ask, puzzled. “I didn’t think that was his kind of thing.”
“He loves tofu,” Salome says, texting. “His mom is such a Californian.”
I’ve met Yoni’s mom, and “such a Californian” is not the first thing I would think of when thinking about her. Super elegant and classy and French is more it.
“Well, that’s handy,” I say as we walk back through the Cardo.
“It really is,” she says. We skirt around a group of giggling seminary girls.
“Were we ever that little?” I ask.
“Yes. Last year.” Salome shakes her head. “Sometimes you confuse me, chouchou.”
“Only sometimes?” I stick my tongue out at her. “Chronologically, I know that was us a year ago. It just feels like a lot more than just a year. I don’t know. Seminary is the weirdest bubble of a year.”
“It really is.”