Day 22: Fake Freedom

For those of you who have no lives of your own and actually care about this family's narrative, we got out of quarantine a week ago and have already spent countless hours at the beach and the pool. The kids are sun-burned and my bed is sandy.

We live on the third floor of an apartment building with four floors, 16 units, and lots of Jews. We're in a neighborhood called Tochnit Lamed in the northern part of Tel Aviv, just over a mile from the beach, though of course luck would have it that there's an abandoned airport smack dab between us and the water. 

There's a park with playgrounds next to our apartment building, the local public school is next to the park, and the "Country," which is what Israelis call private rec centers, is next to the school. So basically everything we need for my children to become below average students and athletes is all within 100 meters.

At either end of our block, there are small, super expensive grocery stores, an ice cream shop, a hair salon, and a café known for its "burekas," the ubiquitous Israeli phyllo dough filled with cheese. Yes, I had to ask the Boss how to describe "burekas," and no, I haven't been to any of these bougie enterprises.

I'm teaching at an international boarding school in a place called HaKfar HaYarok (the Green Village). It's a youth village with a bunch of schools, agricultural centers, and stray cats. My students are from all over the world and incredibly impressive, though not as impressive as the abundance of peacocks strolling the grounds. I'm teaching on Zoom for now, but the plan is to be in-person once all the students arrive and finish quarantine. And then a week after that someone will get COVID and we'll go back to Zoom. 

The Boss will continue to work remotely two evenings a week, though she just had a week of vacation which felt nothing like vacation. More on this below.

The kids have made some friends and are in full chill mode. They've forgotten how to keep a schedule, how to eat in public, and how to read. They start school next week, when at least three of them will come home crying on the first day because they realize there's no going back.

So you'd think with the warm weather, no school, and no quarantine that we'd have some freedom in this new land. Think again.

As you may remember, we quarantined for the first 11 days at the Boss' aunt and uncle's apartment. When we moved to our own apartment for the final few days, we experienced freedom for a fleeting moment during the glorious 20-minute drive: Broosevelt looked out the window and asked, "Why is there so many things in Israel?"

We arrived to the apartment, however, and that false sense of freedom disappeared. As we moved all of our stuff inside from the car, I couldn't even leave a bag unattended on the sidewalk. Israelis aren't down with that. Ya know, terrorism. 

So we climbed the 50ish steps to our no-balcony domicile and spent the next 72 hours staring out the window, unpacking our 24 pieces of luggage, deciding where the sheets and towels should go, and putting up hooks. At least the view is decent (see below). 

We are overwhelmed with appointments. Tuesday, we went to the Ministry of the Interior to get our identity cards. Wednesday, we went to the bank so we can have some money. Yesterday, we went to the Ministry of Absorption to sign up for health insurance and other slow-moving, semi-socialist, bloated-bureaucracy type things. I miss America and its failed capitalist paradise.

The heat here is oppressive. Every Israeli I meet can't wait to tell me that this is the most mild August in recent memory, but when it's 88 and humid during the day and 82 and humid at night, it doesn't feel mild. I shower three times a day.

Clearly our children don't feel free. There have been a lot of bed-wettings in the last few days. I don't wanna name any names, but Broosevelt's stock has really dropped. 

We don't have freedom to spend money how we want. At a restaurant the other day, the Boss and her cousin were discussing how much tip to give and, in typical Israeli fashion, the waiter was not only closely listening to the conversation, but also offered critical feedback when he didn't like the agreed-upon tip percent: "Ha shirut lo haya tov?" ("The service wasn't good?")

We have no physical freedom in our apartment. My kids are used to running and jumping and screaming and yelling and wrestling and crying because we have always been spoiled single-family home-owners. The day after we moved in to our apartment, the doorbell rang, and Shirli (SHEER-lee), our downstairs neighbor, politely told us to stfu. Turns out that Shirli is a hippie who studied at the world-famous hippie meditation center, Naropa, in Boulder, Colorado. Now she does pressure point massage and needs absolute quiet when her clients come. She certainly doesn't need the "earthquake" (Shirli 2020) that my kids have created. Despite the anonymity of this blog, I'm unable to share my honest feelings about Shirli with you, but I feel sad that she will die of unnatural causes in the next few weeks.

We can't say no to people who are being kind and welcoming. Our neighbors in the apartment upstairs have three girls about my kids' age, and they invite us to hang out at the park with them every day. I'm glad my kids are making friends and playing outside til' after dark, but maybe they could eat an actual dinner instead of just chips and maybe the weirdly skinny neighbor dad has done a lot of heroin.

Social engagements with the Boss' family are constant. The day after quarantine ended, we drove to Jerusalem to have a shabbat picnic at the park with the Boss' mom (Doris), dad, aunt, cousins, and maternal grandfather (Saba, age 95). It's cool; it's not like I moved to Israel to meet new people and explore new things. 

I mean, was it interesting to hear about how the Boss' paternal grandfather lived in the United States in the 1950s and brought back information to Israel regarding the "automation of heavy water," thereby helping Israel get nukes? Was it fascinating to learn more about how Saba escaped the Nazis in Czechoslovakia in the 1930s and fought in multiple wars before and after Israel became a state? Yeah I guess all that's cool, but, like, did either of them win Most Improved Player in the YMCA basketball league when he was 12?

I give the Boss credit because she doesn't even pretend to have any freedom right now. The washer and dryer are tiny, so she does two loads of laundry every day. She drove an hour to get the car we're leasing. She has already gone to the local mall twice to buy ridiculous, yet needed, items like measuring cups and mattress protectors. She has been to the kids' school four times and the over-priced super markets a bunch because the milks they sell here are too small for my lactose-desperate little monsters. 

She's on the phone every second: Israel's nickname is Startup Nation because it forces people like the Boss to get an App for everything: parking, the beaches, taxis, food delivery, gas, the gate to the parking lot below our apartment, and, most embarrassingly, the iRobot: the wildly expensive, autonomous disk that vacuums our carpets and sweeps and mops our floors. The machines have taken control.

Panini loves restrictions and is thriving. Panini knows she can't speak English to all the tweens she's meeting, so her Hebrew has taken off. Panini has embraced the metric system and finally baked a half-decent cookie cake. Panini knows the water is rough and the undertow is strong, so she goes out just deep enough to feel some danger but not too much. Panini knows the parks here don't have bathrooms, so she pees in the bushes when necessary. Of all my weak children, Panini is Most Likely to Succeed.

After nearly imploding during quarantine, OG thinks she is now free because she has no idea that when school starts next week, she'll barely understand her teacher, no one in her class will speak English to her, and she can't read, write, or speak Hebrew. The other day, Broosevelt wanted to play with some boys he saw on the nearby basketball court, so OG used her charm to get the local Israeli boys to include my little immigrant son in their game. Socially manipulating 6- and 7-year old boys is one thing; dealing with pre-pubescent 9- and 10-year old girls is another. The rude awakening is coming.

Broosevelt has been completely stripped of any and all freedom by members of the female persuasion. At home, he has no choice but to play with his three sisters. At the park, he plays with his sisters and their female friends. His incredible father does his best to make young Broosevelt a strong, sensitive man, but Broosevelt spends too much time looking for Mommy, unpacking and repacking his school supplies in his backpack, and explaining why he needs to wear a swim shirt in the water at all times. He is desperate for genuine male bonding, and though he has spoken a total of two sentences in Hebrew in the three weeks we've been here, I think the start of school will be the end of his subjugation by the female species and the beginning of his personal growth. His Hebrew will explode, he'll wrestle with other little dudes, and he'll finally become the young man his father no longer hopes he can become.

Boni could be living in the Warsaw Ghetto and would still feel free. She wears whatever clothes she wants whenever and wherever she wants. She eats food around the clock. She plays mostly with little kids but frequently demands that big kids entertain her. She practices piano or doesn't practice piano. She doesn't speak Hebrew. She stays up way past her bedtime or falls asleep on the floor before dinner. She eats her frozen yogurt over a period of three days. She is free.

Freedom, or lack thereof, means nothing to me. I mock those without freedom. I teased my paperwork-averse Romanian colleague about how the oppressive bureaucracies behind the Iron Curtain clearly traumatized him, and he responded with something about his dad spending three years in a forced labor camp. I apologized but didn't mean it.

I thrive in all conditions. I complete every household chore with the Swiss army knife I wisely packed. People speak English to me not because my Hebrew is bad but because they know I am so fun to speak English with. People at work said I missed a meeting with students at 14:15, but I said, "Well I want my students to develop their independence and anyway 14:15 looks just like 4:15."

Saul respects his readers, so if you have questions that need answering or topics you would like to hear more about, comment below. Much love to all of you.

Day 8: Quarantine Catastrophe

Even though Israel quarantine is like Wuhan quarantine (house arrest), our groceries are delivered to us, the air conditioning is excellent, and we can eat three meals a day on the patio in the yard. Life's really not that bad. And yet, after eight days of quarantine at the Boss' aunt and uncle's apartment outside of Tel Aviv, I've realized it was a mistake to allow the Boss to raise my children, as they clearly have no idea how to function in these “harsh” conditions. 

The Boss thinks she's way more important than she is. She's working remotely two evenings a week, but it was obviously just a coincidence that none of the kids could fall asleep last night and that two of them were crying. They didn't miss Mommy; they were just psyched to spend eight hours straight with Daddy. The tears were tears of joy. 

This morning, she tried to make the kids feel better about the situation by explaining that she's only working 20 hours a week in Israel, whereas she worked 40 in Chicago: "It's just that those hours are in the evening when you're home instead of during the day when you're at school." Broosevelt couldn't articulate it, but his eyes said, "So even though you'll be working less, it'll feel like you're working more. I love Daddy so much."

(See below for Broosevelt's note confirming everything written above.)

The Boss does three hours of Zoom calls with her colleagues in Chicago and then, to make herself feel better about abandoning her children, scrubs the shower during a 15-minute break. She then scarfs down the delicious and healthy dinner I've microwaved, and goes right back to work. When she's finished for the evening, she folds the laundry, cleans up the toys on the floor, and sets up appointments for once we get out of quarantine. She's under the mistaken impression that she needs to do everything in this house when, in fact, I am the one who taught Broosevelt how to swing a bat, who makes sure the kids set the table for dinner, and who fills up the kids' water guns before they even ask.

The Boss is frazzled. She can't even follow the one rule our family holds dearly: No Phones at the Table. On three separate occasions in the last few days, all four of my children rightly and simultaneously condemned her for using her phone during the only sacred time we share. The only thing keeping her afloat is, of course, me, the one person who thoughtfully listens to all her feelings of guilt and anxiety during our nightly Pillow Talk of Validation.

Panini's definitely not her best self in this grim quarantine of gentle Mediterranean breeze, yoga in the yard, and nearly unlimited screen time. Three days ago, she baked Oreo cheesecake cookies but was so confused by the metric system that she threw away the first batch and started adding flour by hand. The nine "edible" cookies tasted like Oreos and sponge.* Two days ago, she got a migraine due to exhaustion, dehydration, and an extraordinarily weak constitution. Yesterday, she broke a glass into 20 pieces. She spends most of her time on the (used) iPhone she got for her 12th birthday. Sadly, she doesn't know that her friends in Chicago will soon stop pity-texting her and move on with their lives. The Line of the Week came from Boni when we were all looking over Panini's shoulder while she was on TikTok, and Boni said, "Is this seriously what she does all day?"

I have no idea what to make of OG right now. When we're all eating breakfast, she's brushing her teeth. When we're all exercising, she sits in the corner and does puzzles. When we're all going to sleep, she does handstands. Today we forgot to feed her and she forgot to ask to be fed. She ate breakfast at noon. OG is, admittedly, a sweet, squeezable, little angel. But when all you do all day is read, draw, and avoid getting squirted by the hose, your time on earth is limited.

Broosevelt the Quarantine Mistake Maker has a new favorite word: Sorry. Sorry for standing on the couch; sorry for spilling the water; sorry, father, for disappointing you in general. He likes to play soccer, but he refuses to take the damn ball outside. He's good at piano, but he needs to stop singing. He knows all the rules in chess, but he cries when I crush him. I've realized that he keeps asking about other planets because he might actually be living on one: At breakfast the other day, he said the Oatmeal Square sticking out of Boni's underwear smelled like the Huns in Mulan. 

Boni has moved up the Power Rankings this week, embracing the opportunities this rigid quarantine provides to do yoga, eat every 90 minutes, and never get dressed. She is, however, full of mosquito bites, excuses, and Privilege. Yesterday at breakfast, she demanded creamy peanut butter rather than chunky, honey on top of her peanut butter, and two slices of bread to make a sandwich cuz god forbid she get her tender little Privileged hands sticky. Despite having the Line of the Week, she also experienced the Nadir: After her bath, she was swinging her towel around while drying off and she demolished a fancy ceramic soap holder. It took me half an hour to clean up the soapy shards. 

I'm the only one who's figuring things out during these trying times. Work starts in a few days, and I've nearly finished reading the first book I'll be teaching. I've mastered the spatial dynamics of the dishwasher, I've showered nearly every day, and any/all claims that I broke Panini's phone while replacing the battery are completely false. I'm also getting into incredible shape: The other day, I walked up and down the 30-yard parking lot behind our apartment for, like, a really long time.

The pita and hummus are excellent, the grapefruit trees in the yard are awesome, it's 85 degrees every day, and we have a kiddie pool to cool down in. Alas, we spend most of the day inside, accusing one another of cheating in UNO, leaving Sand Art glitter everywhere, and breaking shit that's not ours.

The dishwasher is currently leaking.

We need to get out of quarantine yesterday.

*Panini tried to veto me including information about her ratchet cookies because she doesn't want you to think she's a bad baker. Let the record reflect that she is an excellent baker but that she cares about what other people think, which is wack.

Day 1: The Ignominious Farewell

Exactly 40 years ago, my mom, dad, two brothers, and I triumphantly boarded a plane in Philadelphia and flew to Israel, where we spent the next twelve months living in Jerusalem. The Phillies won the World Series a few months later, my dad fulfilled a life-long dream of completing a research sabbatical in the Holy Land, my mom honed her professional photography skills and captured the Greatest Picture in the History of the World (see below), my brothers learned Hebrew and got good at sports, and I found the first of what could only be described as a "plethora" (Three Amigos) of girlfriends over the coming years: Tovit. Sweet, beautiful, brown-haired, non-English speaking Tovit. The one that got away...

Yesterday, with COVID at full tilt, Trump's Pathological Narcissism out of control, and political and social upheaval in Israel, my family and I flew to Tel Aviv with masks on our faces, stale Goldfish in our bags, and our tails between our legs. We're not seeking opportunity and adventure; we're escaping disaster. And if that Orange Motherfucker wins in November, we'll see you never.

We needed to end our preparation purgatory and get the hell out of Chicago...

The Boss had completely lost it, using power tools to clean out the garage, packing hangers in suitcases, and making breakfast sandwiches on frozen hamburger buns because we needed to use up every last bit of food, per our ancestors' experience in the Holocaust. On our final day, she tried to emasculate me by taking me to Old Navy to buy shorts. 

Panini was bored out of her mind and ran out of her allotted iPad time by noon every day. She spent most of her time reading books for 3rd graders and complaining about the sores in her mouth from her braces.

OG cried every time she said goodbye to a friend and almost cried when one of her friends said goodbye to her but didn't cry. The day before we left, she literally forgot she was in the shower and ran out of hot water. OG's not gonna make it in Israel: If you waste hot water here, they stone you.

Broosevelt got a sweet new roller bag with planets and moons, but, three days before we left, packed his pillow in it because he has no concept of time or anything else. 

All Boni did in her last couple days was play Legos, walk around naked, and pretend she was better than everyone else.

I was the only one left with a sense of purpose, kindness, and magnanimity. I provided for my ungrateful children by deflating sports equipment and counting out individual Lego pieces so they would have things to play with once we got to Israel. I forgave our friends who said they would come say goodbye but didn't. I even comforted my tennis-playing Croatian buddy who masked the sorrow of my departure with disdain and derision. After a final evening of hanging out, he said to me in his sultry Slavic accent, “I don’t feel fulfilled when I leave talking with you.”

Things only got worse once we left...

The Boss didn't sleep on the plane and, due to anxiety and lack of sleep, has a sexy twitch in her eye. 

Panini celebrated her 12th birthday in particularly ignominious fashion: on a plane watching Jumanji, surrounded by hundreds of religious-types wearing long dresses and yarmulkes.

OG barely had room in her seat because she made the unwise decision of bringing along Boobie Bear, her large stuffed animal who had absolutely no right to come on this trip.

Broosevelt continues his Reign of Cluelessness. After we arrived last night, I gave him outstandingly clear instructions for what to do when he woke up jet-lagged: read in bed, play quietly, etc. Two hours later, he was crying in our doorway because he was "scared of the noises." And three hours after that (after watching Netflix, studying his Pokémon book, and reading National Geographic Kids), he looked at me and earnestly asked, "Daddy, is there any dolphins still alive?"

Boni hasn't changed a bit: All she has done so far in Israel is play Legos, walk around naked, and pretend she's better than everyone else. 

I continue to be the family hero, carrying our 12 suitcases from the airport to the van and then again from the van to the apartment, loading the dishwasher (twice), and turning up the air-conditioning when needed. I've even figured out a way to cultivate independence in my children by not playing Jenga with them and, instead, writing this blog.

Per Israeli custom, passengers applauded when the plane hit the tarmac in Tel Aviv. Immigration officials then greeted us with Welcome Home signs and bags of candy for the kids. They also gave us 6,000₪ (nearly $2,000), a pre-loaded SIM card, and free transportation to our apartment, which, for now, is the Boss' aunt and uncle's apartment, where we were welcomed by family, streamers, and a home-made birthday cake for Panini. We're quarantining here because there's a yard, a fully stocked fridge, and everything else imaginable to make our entry as comfortable as possible because, obviously, I wouldn't stand for anything less. 

It's unclear if this experience will be as awesome as my family's was 40 years ago. We can't leave home for the next 13 days, however, so I will report back soon.

The Greatest Picture in the History of the World

Day T-minus 4: Total Denial

In four days, my family and I are moving from Chicago to Tel Aviv for the coming year. Please allow me to introduce the sordid cast of characters in this ill-advised adventure destined for disaster.

First, we have the Boss. She is, of course, the Boss in name only. I let her take care of things like our taxes, our bills, our home, and the kids' education, but we all know who's actually in charge: the guy who does the dishes, takes out the trash, and runs Family Movie Night. The Boss is a high-powered Ph.D., but she couldn't even pull off a full-time sabbatical for this year. Instead, she'll be working part-time and remotely, while her husband, the bread-winner, will be fully employed at a world-renowned international IB school. The Boss enjoys reading, yoga, and fine dining, none of which she ever does because she's too busy making sure everyone is aware of the degree to which she martyrs herself for her family. In contrast, I stoically go out my business, making sure everyone is happy, healthy, and good at tennis.

The Boss does not know what she has gotten herself into. Her entire family is Israeli, she spent every summer in Israel as a kid, and she speaks Hebrew fluently. This means that if she carries the lion's share of the burden at home right now, she'll be doing absolutely everything when we get there. She's currently under the impression that she'll be able to enjoy her days while the kids and I are at school, engaging in various cultural activities and having coffee with her bougie Israeli friends. Little does she know that she'll spend her time drowning in the Israeli bureaucracy, scouring local FaceBook groups for second-hand bikes, and fending off aggressive Israeli men who mistakenly think her husband doesn't bring the heat.

Next, we have Panini, my almost 12-year-old daughter and, generally, my favorite child. She's my first-born, she likes sports, and she has a great sense of humor. She is also, however, becoming the most uninteresting human being on the planet: TikTok, SnapChat, and wildly inappropriate shows on Netflix. She doesn't even tell me about her life anymore; she only tells me about Meredith's life in Grey's Anatomy. I used to nod my head politely and pretend to listen. Now I just stop her dead in her tracks and tell her how boring she is. Her only redeeming quality is that she learned how to bake during COVID. Yet she somehow has managed to make even that a failure because the mess she leaves in the kitchen is disgusting and offensive and makes me concerned that she will fail in life.

Panini is super excited to get to Israel because she thinks she's gonna make new friends, bake whenever she wants, and go to the beach every day. Well, guess what Panini? The same disease that prohibited you from seeing your friends for the past four months is burning like wildfire in Israel. So new friends aren't happening, and neither is school. Have fun doing remote learning in our small apartment and taking classes in a language you don't speak. Also, Israel has a surplus of hummus but a dearth of flour, so there goes your baking. And those beautiful beaches in Tel Aviv? Closed due to COVID.

OG, my 9-year-old daughter, is simultaneously the smartest child in the world and the dumbest person on earth. Her reading is off the charts and she can do complex multiplication in her head. But she also forgets to eat and go to the bathroom. She's an excellent artist and, if she cared, a good athlete. But she takes fucking forever to do anything: brush her teeth, get dressed, put on sunblock, etc. I go back and forth between feeling sympathy for her struggles to utter disgust at her inability to function as a normal human being.

I think OG is the saddest about leaving. She says she's gonna miss her friends, but she's seen two friends in the last four months, so what's to miss? Having shared a room with Panini her whole life, she doesn't want to have her own room in our apartment. Most kids complain about sharing a room though, so I'm confused. And sleeping alone should be the least of her concerns. The piano teacher she loves? Say bye-bye. Her cool green bike? Not hers anymore. All her books? Get used to the shitty Kindle with no light and dead batteries. Gymnastics? Not happening due to COVID, but have fun watching videos on YouTube. 

Broosevelt, my 6-year-old son, is a smart, sweet, tender-hearted boy who spends most of his time crawling on and smelling his mommy. He loves reading, Pokémon, and sports, and he's really good at two of those things. Poor little guy. He's been bugging me for a baseball bat because he loves baseball because he doesn't know he's not good at baseball. He's a good writer, but he can't draw; he's a fast runner, but he can't catch; and he has a knack for piano, but he has shockingly weak fingers. I obviously love him way more than anyone else in the family and, as a result, am likely suffocating his growth and independence.

Broosevelt is probably the worst off when it comes to Israel due to his complete and utter cluelessness. Sometimes I think he knows what's going on because he asks about the planets and the solar system, but then, at 11am, he'll say shit like, "Is it dinner time?" Yesterday, he said, "If each month has, like, 30 days, and we're only gonna be in Israel for twelve months, then a year there isn't even that long." I told him that I see his logic, but trust me bro, a year's a long time and you're gonna cry a lot.

And finally there's Boni, my 6-year-old daughter and Broosevelt's twin sister. Objectively speaking, she is smart, mature, and beautiful. I am still unclear, however, as to what purpose she serves in our family. I have two other daughters and it's obvious that our attempt for a third child was to create Broosevelt, not her. She's a good swimmer and gymnast, but she's terrible at the sports that matter. She's a good artist, but OG's art makes hers look like trash. And, perhaps most importantly, she'll never be a boy like Broosevelt. Sometimes I look at her and think, "Why are you even here?"

Boni has no idea what's in store for her in Israel. Here, she can impress everyone with her high EQ, expansive vocabulary, and genuine concern for others. And, yeah, people melt when they see her cute smile and pretty dresses. But in Israel "feelings" and "cuteness" get you nowhere. Obey your parents, plow the fields, and serve in the army. She won't do any of those things, and that's why her time in this family is quickly coming to a close.

In general, my kids are excited but completely unprepared for this experience. Panini thinks she speaks Hebrew, but she literally can't finish a single sentence. OG has more than 70 loveys on her bed, and she's in total denial that 65 of them will spend next year in a box. Boni is excited about sleeping on the top in her new bunk bed because she doesn't know how often she'll fall off. And I am nearly positive that Broosevelt thinks Israel is somewhere in Chicago.

As for me, I can't even bring myself to do a few final chores before we leave. Make one more Goodwill run? Car's low on gas. Change all the dead lightbulbs? No ladder. Fix the plant hanger that's falling off the wall? I'm not good with tools. Change out our phone batteries? I said no tools.

Five months ago when we fantasized about this chapter in our lives, we thought our kids would play on Israeli soccer teams and that we would be invited to our neighbors' homes for Shabbat. We hoped we could travel to the archaeological sites in Petra, take a ski trip to Switzerland during Hanukah, and visit Morocco in the spring. COVID has destroyed these plans. Yet, here we are, charging full-steam ahead into a country where cases are spiking, where protests occur daily, and where the people are, quite frankly, kinda dicks. 

Denial's a beautiful thing: It's gonna be a great year!