Many Israelis choose a civil marriage, either in Cypress or here in the holy land, and this choice generally makes the process much simpler. It was very important to my husband that we were married in a religious ceremony. Our first wedding reflected my values (Reform female rabbi, a ketubah we wrote and a local, organic menu), so I felt it was only fair that my husband have a similar opportunity to express himself (Orthodox rabbi, standard ketubah, lots and lots of meat). But it wasn’t that simple.

In order to open a marriage file in Israel, the Rabbinate first needed to confirm that I was Jewish. I anticipated this and came prepared with my birth certificate, my passport, my parent’s wedding certificate and a letter from and Orthodox Rabbi in the US. The first question they asked was for our Israeli identity cards. My husband laid his on the table and explained that I did not have one, due to my being American. The response was, “Oh. Well, then you can’t get married.” Talk about warm and welcoming. We explained that despite my being American, I was indeed Jewish, and thus the intended marriage could actually happen.

A very long process ensued that included actually standing in front of the Beit Din, Israel’s religious court, otherwise known as two men sitting behind a raised bench. They kept calling in new Rabbis to see if anyone knew the Rabbi who wrote my letter of recommendation—it was a very technical process. Ultimately, we learned that the letter from the Rabbi in the US would not suffice and I would need a letter from the Rabbinate of my home town. This is the first thing that actually made sense out of the whole process; what didn’t make sense was why someone hadn’t told us this when we had called six months earlier or visited in the previous weeks.

As I am currently living in Israel, my mom took the task upon herself to meet with the Beit Din in Boston and prove, once and for all, my religious identity. Before she could meet with anyone, we first needed to procure some relevant documents: my parents’ ketubah (framed and hanging on their bedroom wall), three letters from prominent Boston Jews (prominent is otherwise defined as Shabbat observant), my birth certificate, three passport photos, and if we had photos of my grandparents’ gravesites, they would also help in the identifying process. At this point, my mother lost her calm and asked whether or not we should hire a photographer to take formal shots of her next to her mother’s grave as she forgot to pose for photos during the actual funeral. A minor break in solemnity.

The meeting itself was harmless. The Rabbis she met with actually knew the Rabbi that had married her thirty-seven years earlier and all of the documents were in place. After six months and many different appointments, I was officially decreed a Jew! While I was elated at having the official document and being able to proceed worrying about less important wedding matters, I was left with a few questions. How did the Rabbis know who wrote my letters of recommendation? How do they know that those people actually signed said letters? How did they know I was the one in the photos?

I am positive that it sounds like my feelings toward this situation are irreverent at best and pissed off at worst, but in truth I understand the need for the process. While I find the Orthodox wedding process in Israel to be frustrating and anger inducing (I have said nothing of the ritual bath before the wedding or the bridal classes that are required), I understand wanting to know that the people getting married are Jewish.

With all of the official stuff dealt with, the wedding itself was beautiful—it was a Friday morning event on a Kibbutz with lots of friends, family, good food and music.

If you are in Israel and are trying to navigate Jewish life cycle events, such as marriage, Itim, an organization dedicated to making these events both meaningful and stress-free, was an amazing help!

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Kids don’t have school next week and there was even a talent show in my Ulpan this week, replete with juice and jelly doughnuts. (Ulpan is an intensive Hebrew school that draw Jews and non-Jews alike from every corner of the earth). No drunken holiday parties where you mistakenly kiss your co-worker and no secret Santa gift swaps. Honestly, the biggest difference between Hanukkah in the US and Hanukkah in Israel is the lack of Christmas. Christmas of course still takes place here. Moreover, it is celebrated in the spots that matter, Bethlehem and Nazareth to name a few, but both holidays are celebrated out of respect for their roots…and the jelly doughnuts. Growing up in Northern Virginia, my brother and I were the only Jews in our elementary school. When Hanukkah came around, we felt pretty left out. It’s not like we were watching all the non-Jews and their candy canes from afar, but Christmas pretty much overwhelmed the senses from October through January and left my brother and I wondering why Judah and Christ weren’t on the same level. My mom made an appearance in our school every year around the middle of December. She brought plastic dreidels, jelly doughnuts and gelt. She taught our classes how to play "dreidel" and each year showed us how to make hannukiot from celery, peanut butter and pretzels. She gave Hanukkah a good name. As the years went by, more and more Hanukkah songs made it into the winter assemblies and as my brother and I got older, we gained more allies in the Hanukkah department. It was a big year in our house when we bought an electric menorah to put in our window. We lived in a neighborhood of non-Jews and many were not terribly pleased that we were there. The electronic menorah was my parents’ version of public Judaism. So, back to Israel. Hanukkah is not Christmas–not in the United States and not in Israel. Hanukkah celebrates the amazing miracle of oil lasting for eight days. It’s a great excuse for Israelis to eat foods laden in oil and spend more time than usual with their families, but life basically proceeds as normal. When looked at side by side, the Hanukkah miracle in no way compares with leading the Jews out of Egypt and through the desert to reach the Promised Land. The latter equals no school AND no work. Despite having to work, Israelis do have some fun with Hanukkah. Jelly doughnuts and latkes are everywhere but it is the bakeries that are the real show. Smells of everything from dulce de leche to hot chocolate to the traditional jam filled sufganiot invade your nose, and all will folds in the face of frosted goodness. There is no doubt–Israelis pride themselves in their doughnuts.  Some people take trips, some revel in knowing that latkes can suffice as dinner for eight nights in a row. Most gather for dinners and lighting the menorah. Our family isn’t giving gifts this year, thankful instead for health, happiness and love.

Next year in Jerusalem. Oh wait, wrong holiday.

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Twelve Americans and one Israeli gathered in a lovely apartment in Jerusalem as the weekend began in the holy land. Two poets, four rabbis in waiting, a computer engineer, a photographer, a teacher and a few visitors began the evening, not with the carving of a bird or the giving of thanks, but with the popping of some bubbly. The notion of this meal was not to follow the dictates of tradition but rather to create something new: five courses, each paired with a specific wine, and lemon sorbet to cleanse our palettes in between.

The first course, appetizers enjoyed before setting down at the table, included veggie antipasto and veggie chopped liver. They were accompanied by a bottle of Cava and a bottle of Brut. These were my favorite wines–cold, sparkling, the perfect start to a fascinating meal.

Everyone found their seat, finished off their Cava and moved onto the second course. In an effort to not leave tradition completely in the dark, one of the guests prepared a honey sage cornbread–in my opinion, a modern American classic. Sweet, savory, amazing. This was served with a carrot soufflé–the recipe of a guest’s aunt and the perfect retake on the sweet potato marshmellow combination that often graces Thanksgiving tables. As we were now seated at the table, the cries of "Pimp your dish" began–a chorus that followed us through the night and necessitated that the cook give the origins and secrets of his or her recipe. This course was served with Chenin Blanc.

Before moving on to course three, we were served lemon sorbet to make sure our palates were clean and prepared to best enjoy what came next. The third course included a stuffing recipe out of Long Island and a gourmet macaroni and cheese. The mac and cheese truly shamed Kraft–big shells covered in mozzarella, cheddar, and gruyere with tomato slices for color. Sauvignon Blanc, a few rounds of Johnny Appleseed, more sorbet and on to course four.

The fourth course was the real meat of the meal, minus the meat. Salmon done in a cumin rub, sour cream mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli and homemade cranberry sauce. Any other night, this would be the entire meal. On this Thanksgiving, this and some Tempranillo equaled just the fourth course.

With all of the savory food dispensed, we moved on to the best and most important course–dessert. Pumpkin cheesecake bars, chocolate pecan pie, pumpkin pie, dark chocolate truffles and Malbec to boot.

I walked in knowing only the hosts and two other people. I walked out with a handful of new friends, a full belly and real inspiration–this was not a Thanksgiving without thought or hope. This group of temporary expats really redefined the notion of Thanksgiving for me; each course was given its time, its wine and its appreciation. There were true thanks given at this meal–for the food in front of us, for friends new and old, and for the ability to celebrate the holiday despite our proximity to New England. 

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I use this example not as a vehicle to complain about life or rue my choices (Masters in Near Eastern and Judaic Studies?) or lack of Hebrew (really, even with the masters?). Instead, I wish to examine the life of the immigrant, or in my case, the pseudo-immigrant biding her time on a tourist visa. In a nutshell, I am qualified for nothing. I am not a nurse, nail artist, carpenter, or one of the other very popular categories of job possibilities. I, as many of my friends, have woven a complicated web of education, jobs and even publications that qualify for nothing outright when plucked from an English speaking work world and dropped on the corner of chutzpah and hummus.

I have been lucky in my three weeks in Israel. I have found gainful employment, I have found a magazine who will pay me to write (in English!!), and I have the ever-attractive lure of Hebrew classes three mornings a week to get me out of bed. All in all, it is enough to keep me busy and even make enough money to pay for those Hebrew classes and the bus to get there and back. I am lucky. English is my first and best language and it will carry me the world ’round – if I am willing to take whatever job I can get.

This is the source of my frustration. I am willing to take whatever job I can get as I know that without Hebrew, my choices are limited. I am frustrated that I can’t have the jobs I want. I want to work at a nonprofit and spend the daylight hours dreaming of how I can help hungry people eat and homeless people find homes. There are many things I love–writing, traveling, teaching–but mostly I love to know that I am making a difference in someone else’s life, no matter how small. I am frustrated that without Hebrew that passion of mine is stifled.

I will find a way to express it. I will look harder, I will volunteer, I will network. You always hear about engineers and doctors who come to the US and drive cabs because their qualifications no longer exist once they are an American citizen. Where do they find their meaning? Is it enough to put dinner on the table and some money in savings? How hard do you fight to do what you love even when there is no job title for it? I know the answers are not simple so I will keep searching. In the meantime, I am hoping my students learn to raise their hands when number one is imminent.

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No matter where they are or whether they know each other, Israelis greet one another as old friends and break into full conversation within minutes about whatever is relevant. If we happened to be in Vietnam, the conversation would be about which guest house was the best and least expensive. If we were in Australia, perhaps advice would be dispensed about which caravan park had the nicest kitchen or which company offered the best dives. As an American in these dialogues, I smiled, tried to understand the conversation, and then usually zoned out. I was always aware, though, that Israelis claim ownership to something English speakers and people from most other languages do not; because Hebrew is spoken by so few in the world, when you happen upon a Hebrew speaker outside of Israel, brotherhood is immediate and unquestioning.

On a particularly hot day in November in Cairns (northeastern Australia), Oded and I decided to check out the public lagoon in the center of the city. Upon arriving in Cairns, we couldn’t help but notice the lagoon, a large swimming pool type arrangement adjacent to the shore. It was open to the public and free, a perfect way for two poor travelers to waste the day. We made our way from the sandy concrete to the center of the lagoon, only waist deep in water. We swam, relaxed, floated, and inevitably heard Hebrew. Oded swam closer and with nothing more than an, “Alan, ma koreh?” we had a new friend and were cooking dinner and drinking beers in Uzi’s guest house hours later. We spent a few days with Uzi and his friends before moving on north and west. More than a month later, we walked into a backpacker in Sydney, and there sat Uzi. The reunion was that of old friends, replete with hugs, kisses and stories of where we had all been the last weeks. If Oded and Uzi were replaced in this scenario with two Americans, say Mark and Greg, this meeting would look very different or not at all. They would most likely never approach each other, and for good reasons. First, most Americans never take a trip like this and therefore would never even be in this situation. Next, English is not a rare commodity and does not serve to connect its speakers. Most importantly and the reason for this examination, is why Americans, and I venture most other nationalities, do not create the same connections as Israelis.

The answer to my question arrived on my ninth trip to Israel, a trip that less resembles a vacation and more a permanent residence. After a six month reprieve in Boston, I am once again gone from the US and have moved up and on from my backpack to a lovely apartment in Ramat HaSharon. We now live in Oded’s family’s apartment, to be exact, and one that I am now to think of as my own. It is this apartment and its surrounding area that answered my question for me. Oded’s family lives in a two level apartment with four bedrooms, two and a half baths and a considerable amount of common space. The street is lined with buildings just like this one that house apartments of roughly the same size.  Oded has spent his entire life in a similarly sized space in this exact neighborhood. The streets are lined with parks, cafes and an absurd amount of hair salons. Due to the almost always warm weather, windows are open to the street in an omnipresent theater of life. Everything from fights and family meals to television and love making are part of the daily sounds of the street. Not only can you hear, but often you can see as well. The apartments are in every way equipped for life, but I imagine they seem small after a while. The natural outgrowth of not enough privacy is a cafe culture, a place where the dramas of life are again played out in the street.

In America, or at least in my America and not that of the Lower East Side in the early twentieth century, a significant amount of Americans live in homes that are not connected to other buildings. These homes are built to keep noise, heat, and family secrets in, rather than hanging them out with the wash. For better or worse, these homes produced Americans who are quiet, reserved and keep to themselves. At least until they break free from suburban American and move into their freshmen dorm or their first apartment building and their concepts of privacy and decency are blown. But as these episodes of communal living do not last forever, and many find their way back out to the land of cul de sacs and lawn mowers, Americans maintain on some level their ability to disengage from daily interactions and the closeness created in the warm apartments and open cafes of Tel Aviv.

In conclusion, and after many months of watching my beloved greet strangers on foreign avenues around the world as if they were long lost friends, I finally understand perhaps one of the reasons that Israelis are why they are the way they are. Put aside all of the politics, the religion, the neighbors and think instead on the proximity of apartments, the climate and the ensuing culture and you find a people who are less like citizens of a nation and more like an extended family.

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The American wedding was a celebration of values, tradition, love and, of course, an open bar. With my fiancé across an ocean somewhere due north of Tel Aviv, the initial planning was left to me…and my mother. There were many things easily pinned down: save the date cards (designed using a Mac and sent electronically); the venue (a platinum LEED certified non-profit/art space); the music (DJ, no line dances, minimal slow songs); the food (locally raised, vegetarian grub); the wedding party (none – less muss, less fuss); the rabbi (friend of mine from LA, woman, awesome). But somewhere between harpists and broken glass lay the rub.

Not only do Israelis plan weddings in roughly three days, they have much less to worry about: no flights (usually), no hotels, and no welcome bags or information sheets for the weekend-long festivities because Israel is a "celebrate and sleep in your own bed" kind of country. I also excluded all the pre-wedding American Jewish cultural uniqueness from registries and wedding showers to bachelorette parties and something blue. Try explaining over Skype to your mother-in-law-to-be that it’s considered normal to sign up for things you want people to buy you and then kill trees in order to thank the people who buy you said things. The whole process of wedding planning is full of long standing traditions and rules that sometimes offer wisdom and logic and other times offer complication in multiple shades of taffeta. Fortunately, we successfully navigated this process in just four short months.

With the party planned and my fiancé actually in Boston, we had time to concentrate on what is arguably the most important part of the day–the ceremony. Once the rabbi was booked we were free to face the challenge I skimmed over earlier–this is wedding number one. Wedding number two will take place in Israel. This means looking into a ton of halacha (Jewish law) in order to make sure we can legally marry each other twice. This is much simpler and yet more complex than one would intuit. The most important thing to both my fiancé and to me is to celebrate this great event with all of those we love, not just throw a party one place and do the pomp and circumstance in another. In order to do that in Israel and be married religiously and not civilly (by a rabbi and not by a justice of the peace) we needed to make sure that we did NOT have two male witnesses sign our ketubah (wedding agreement). This means that the whole process of the rabbi, the vows, the seven blessings…none of it matters or makes anything legal until two men have signed a document saying that they witnessed the wedding. Problem solved. Our ketubah was signed during the ceremony by four close friends: three women, one man. And we will do it all again in Israel, where two men will sign our ketubah so our wedding will be legally recognized as Jewish in Israel. I have significant questions that border on complaints regarding the marriage process in Israel, but I will save that for another time.

The ceremony, at our request, was very accessible to people of all backgrounds. Our guests were a mix of ethnic and religious backgrounds and to ensure that everyone felt in the know, we not only wrote out a step by step program including questions like, "What is a Huppah and Who’s Under It?" but we made sure that the rabbi introduced and explained each piece of the ceremony both in Hebrew and English. This whole process was again new to my fiancé and his family. Weddings in Israel are generally all in Hebrew and thus require no translation or explanation. Another example includes the name stamped satin kippah that we all know all too well for them bar/bat mitzvah circuit. My mother, as any good Jewish mother would, went right out and ordered a large amount of satin kippot for our celebration. That’s another something that doesn’t happen in Israel, because who doesn’t just have their own kippot already?

After all of the conversation, editing, and translating, the American wedding was amazing and full of Jewish tradition, non-stop dancing, great food and genuinely happy people. And my biggest recommendation to any bride and translate no matter the country or culture: Croc High Heels. Trust me.

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