Amy Odell – Jewcy

Blogging Birthright: Day 5, or Sojourning with Soldiers

Amy Odell — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 05:16:20 +0000

Eight Israeli soldiers join us after breakfast: Four girls and four boys. Our tour guide Offer and our counselors prepare us for their arrival ahead of time with what seems like an unnecessary lecture. It takes them about an hour to explain that they want us to integrate the Israelis into our social circle as much as possible. There should be no two Israelis sitting together on the bus, and only one Israeli is allowed in each hotel room. Okay, fine. We’re mostly friendly people anyway. Offer explains that the soldiers who are coming to join us are the cream of the crop. Every soldier wants to take a five day vacation with the Birthrighters. Why? Because it sure as hell beats the army. The soldiers that make the cut have to really earn it.

Most of the soldiers who join us are in the intelligence unit, but the two cute boys in the bunch are fighters who go undercover to find terrorists. Matan is one of the fighters, and I am not the only girl who finds him gorgeous. After some stupid “get to know the soldiers” ice breakers, we’re off for the day. To my delight, Matan wastes no time sitting next to me on the bus. His English is not great, which is quite charming, but we converse pretty easily and he’s totally adorable. I teach him a few words and phrases in English and interview him about his life. I learn that he’s “21½” and will finish his army duty in September. He says he’s not scared of his job because he doesn’t think about its dangers. He never works alone and is proud of the service he provides his country. He tells me a story about finding a car filled with enough TNT to kill 12 to 15 people.

“When you find this, you feel good,” he says, knowing he’s helped save that many lives.
Unlike his mother, who jumps out of her chair when she so much as hears Arabic being spoken, Matan is not afraid of Arabs despite the fact that they mutter nasty comments at soldiers on the street. That said, he doesn’t mingle with them and won’t patronize Arab shops or establishments. We arrive at Har Herzl, the cemetery where military servicemen and women are buried. Offer gives us a tour and the soldiers are surprisingly unmoved. One soldier points out a friend’s grave and I’m reminded of the harsh reality of life here. I can’t possibly identify with the soldiers on that level, but I do understand why they say a 20-year-old Isreali is really 40. In the army, you have no choice but to grow the fuck up. Fast. As night falls, we’re permitted free time to roam Ben Yehuda street, which seems like Jersualem’s version of Times Square, full of touristy, trinkety crap. We break off into groups and hole up in bars. I go with the cute soldiers and another girl and we enjoy beer and hookah, which hits me harder than it should because I’ve been unable to eat much on this trip (the food borders on inedible—more on that later). The outing takes on the semblance of a double date, and I enjoy lots more time to chat with Matan. As I write this in my hotel room, my last drunken, lascivious thoughts are of him. Previously: Day 4, or Falling in Love with Israel at Masada

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Blogging Birthright: Day 4, or Falling in Love with Israel at Masada

Amy Odell — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 08:48:45 +0000

We wake at 4:45 to climb Masada for sunrise. It’s a bit cloudy so the sun isn’t as spectacular as I'd hoped, but it's spectacular enough to inspire me to snap about 7,000 pictures of it. I’m supremely irked by the fact that our counselors choose the exact 30 minutes during which the sun slowly emerges into blazing glory as the perfect time to lead songs and prayers. I routinely tune them out and am one of two or three people who completely ignore their request to put cameras away at the start of the service. I just can’t help myself: Here I am, standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Dead Sea, the lowest point on Earth, and the Judean desert—the likes of which I’ve only seen in nature documentaries. The sunlight is coloring the cliff faces rich shades of red and orange, and I’m supposed to turn my back and listen to singing I don’t understand or give a shit about? I don’t think so. We spend about three hours on top of Masada. Though I can’t adjust to the beauty of these surreal surroundings, it’s our tour guide Offer’s lecture that really makes my visit memorable. He tells us the story of Masada in cliff-hanging detail (no pun intended) as he leads us through the ruins. I'm surrounded by remnants of a fabulous palace inhabited by a group of Jews called the Zealots 2,000 years ago.
Positioned at the edge of a cliff in the middle of the desert, the palace offered views of approaching enemies, a sophisticated water system, glorious balconies, and even a sauna. Life was dandy here until the Romans came and set up twelve camps at the bottom of the cliff, surrounding the Zealots, ready to conquer. The Zealots could either fight or surrender. They talked it over and reasoned if they fought, they’d lose and die. If they surrendered, they’d watch their wives get raped, be enslaved, and die. Since death was inevitable, they decided to die with dignity by committing mass suicide. They killed the women first, since the worst thing for a woman is to watch her child die. Then they killed the children, and then the men killed each other. The account is probably an inflated, idealized version of history, but I’m not really thinking about that, because it was a good-ass story and I’m in awe of it. I recognize that I will never forget Offer’s final point, partly because he asked us to remember, and partly because of the natural phenomenon he demonstrates at the last stop on the mountain. We’re overlooking the valley where many Zealots supposedly plunged to their death. We face a smooth cliffside that looks like a paintbrush has freshly streaked it with burnt oranges and grayish browns.

“I’m going to tell you a phrase in Hebrew I never want you to forget,” Offer says. He teaches us the phrase. “Now, we’re going to shout these words as loudly as we can over this valley.” We face out and shout with all our might. Even I join in. A few seconds later our words echo back per-fect-ly. It’s like a Bizarro Birthright group is shouting back at us. We do it again. And again. “It means: Masada shall never fall again,” Offer says. “I want you to remember it because it means let us never have to choose between death and death. Let Israel never have to choose between death and death.” At the end of the day, I want this place to be my “homeland” because I’m so amazed by what I've seen. Though I can’t say I feel a connection yet, I can say I’m finally thrilled and delighted to be here.

Previously: Day 3, or Judaism Vs. Feminism At The Western Wall

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Blogging Birthright: Day 3, or Judaism Vs. Feminism at the Western Wall

Amy Odell — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 03:53:11 +0000

In Europe you see 500 year-old shit. In Israel you see 2,000 year-old shit. Today we’re at such a spot: The Western Wall in Jerusalem. Our tour guide Offer calls it the place “closest to God on Earth” and “the holy of holies.” We visit the Southern Wall first, probably because it’s less crowded and allows us to have time to hold hands and sing, which Offer has us do while ascending the steps to the Southern Wall. I don’t sing because I don’t know these prayers, melodies, or any Hebrew. And I don’t even pretend or try to participate because I don’t see the point. So when prayers and singing happen, which are all in Hebrew, I zone out. After we touch the Southern Wall, we write notes to put in the Western Wall. Offer tells us it should be our greatest wish in life. Now I don’t believe this is going to affect my life but I figure it can’t hurt so I jot something down. It goes something like: Dear Wall: My greatest wish is to be as happy as possible. I hope you’re feeling well with all these people feeling you up all day. Best, Amy Yes, it’s business-like, but that’s what comes out without me thinking about it. I don’t believe in God and don’t know the wall personally so a colon seems most appropriate. I do, finally, have one surreal moment standing at the Southern Wall. (The way people talk about Israel you expect to have surreal moments all day long, but this hasn’t been the case for me.) My surreal moment occurs while hearing the Muslim prayer call, which originates from somewhere right above our heads and echoes over the whole city. I’ve never heard anything like it, and it seems so mystically appropriate to my surroundings. Finally I feel like I’m in a very foreign land, standing on a 2,000 year old fortress (or at least, the reconstructed version of it).
Offer explains the story behind the wall so nicely that I don’t even mind that I have to listen to it while standing in the rain all day. I hardly even mind that it’s biblical rather than historical, and am even thinking the pointless exercise of sticking my stupid note in the wall will be kind of fun. My note is neatly folded in my hand as I approach the Holy of Holies, and suddenly I realize I’m up against a partition. Men are on the other side. Division of the sexes always pisses me off, but noticing how much larger the men’s side is infuriates me. I immediately exit to get a better view of this appalling relic of sexism. With my view of both sides, I easily see that the men enjoy about four times as much wall as the women. They can spread out comfortably. Little boys chase pigeons in big circles and kick shit around on the ground. Meanwhile, the women huddle seven deep against their wall section. They have no room to run. No gleeful children are visible. All the other women in my group are fine with this. “That’s how it is,” they all agree. Right, that’s how it is. But it’s like that because y’all don’t give a shit, which is really sad and you should feel sorry for yourselves, I think. Religion is no excuse for sexism. This is 2008. Get with it. When everyone finishes praying, or whatever it is you do at the wall, I ask Offer about the partition. He explains that men have more space because they daven three times a week—way more than women. I ask why. He says that women are supposed to be home doing other things. They don’t need to daven because they are considered to be innately pure. Men need to make themselves pure, so they need to pray more. OK. But why shouldn’t there be equal space? Aren’t most visitors to the wall tourists, anyway? If the men really needed the extra space, wouldn’t the women’s side be comparable in crowdedness rather than looking like a refugee camp? No, these answers are not satisfying. They are bullshit.

I am more of a feminist than a Jew and refuse to approach the wall.

Previously: Day 2, or Is This Really My Homeland?

Next up: Day 4, Falling in Love with Israel at Masada

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Blogging Birthright: Day 2, or Is This Really My Homeland?

Amy Odell — Fri, 01 Feb 2008 07:22:21 +0000

It’s day two and we’re at the “Mega Event,” which is a show and dance party held for every Birthright group currently in Israel. (They come from all over: Argentina, Brazil, Australia, the UK. Not every Birthright group attends a Mega Event, but we were one of the lucky ones to be in town for this one). It’s like the Jewish version of Jesus camp and it’s freaking the shit out of me. The show itself is a mixture of propagandist speeches and wannabe Cirque du Soleil performers, like drum bangers and net crawlers. The singers are apparently famous Israelis. One looks like Fabio, and I can’t say I enjoy his Hebrew wailing. Emceed by an MTV Europe VJ, the entire show is an assault on the senses: Flashing, neon Stars of David illuminate the faces of Israeli stars as they lead the entire group in Hebrew songs. Innumerable Birthrighters follow along with the aid of transliterated captions projected onto huge screens, and everyone dances and cheers with a terrifying, ferocious passion for all things Jew.
After a while, Israel’s Minister of the Interior speaks, and it feels like he’s trying to convince us all to move here. Afterwards, Lynne Schusterman takes the stage. She’s one of Birthright’s biggest donors, and she wants us to believe that Israel is our homeland. She tells us about bringing her kids here because she wanted them to feel connected to Israel in this very way. But the purpose of this can’t be that they want us to move here after the trip, right? I certainly don’t feel like this is my homeland. And I certainly don’t feel like I want to move here. In fact I feel no connection to this place at all. I feel more connected to London, simply because I so loved drinking Guinness at picnic tables at 11:30 a.m., and cheap shopping during July sale season. Israel doesn’t have beer or shopping like that, and it looks decrepit and third worldish. The scary Hebrew variety show finally ends, and we’re invited to a dance party. Now, give me some flashing lights, good house music, a touch of video art, and a sea of hot foreign men and I’m a happy gal. We dance and mingle with aggressive, swarthy Jews for as long as we can bear, and the whole event lasts about two hours too long.
Truth be told, the dancing is a welcome distraction from how anxious and guilty the show made me feel. Two of my gal pals, Ashley and Lynn, tell me that the stage performance inspired them and that they were almost moved to tears by certain songs. The show reminded me that I’m supposed to be here to explore my Jewish identity, but that’s not why I came. I’m here simply because I love to travel and this is a free trip halfway around the world. Israeli tax dollars and money from rich people like Schusterman are being spent for me to do this, but their efforts and resources only make me feel more disconnected, because the whole religious element of this trip scares and turns me off so much. Maybe if they played hard to get I’d be more susceptible to their efforts. I feel like a fraud.

Previously: Day 1, or Orthodox Hippies and Badass Babes

Next Up: The Wall Between Us

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Blogging Birthright: Day 1, or Orthodox Hippies & Badass Babes

Amy Odell — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 09:30:49 +0000

I find a BFF at the airport, which is somewhat of a relief. Her name is Ashley, she’s from Louisiana, and she has an enviable southern lilt that makes all of her words sound like they end in “L.” She’s blond, perfectly made-up, and pretty like Britney Spears from her “Oops!… I did it Again” days. We have a lot in common: We’ve both dated Spaniards, come from cities with no discernible Jewish population, and are single but seeing guys we could take or leave. I zonk out on the plane thanks to the Ambien, and we arrive in Tel Aviv in what feels like no time. After boarding our bus (our second home for the next ten days), our Israeli tour guide introduces himself as Offer. He seems cool as fuck: A modern Orthodox guy in a knitted kipah, with a funky, spiritual thing going on. I've never encountered an Orthodox hippie like him, and I like it. “Welcome home,” he says over the mic. “Yeah right,” I think. “This is not just something we say,” he explains, as though sensing my skepticism. “This is your home. By that I mean: I could not go live in the U.S. if I wanted to. You can come live here if you want to. I have to get a green card and it takes some months. Thank God I do not want to live in the U.S.” Our first stop is Independence Hall. Before entering, we stand in a circle and play name games. I generally can’t stand this shit, but it's a good chance to get a better look at everyone in the group, which includes a married couple, three brother-sister pairs, one pair of cousins, a couple of friends, and a number of loners. There are also people—like Ashley—who had planned to come with friends who, in fear of bombs, ultimately backed out. In Independence Hall—where Israel’s declaration of Independence was signed—we listen to a lecture about how Israel was born. The Zionist undercurrents of the trip are already proving to be intense as the Israeli lecturer takes his place before a painting of Theodore Herzl and an Israeli flag. He holds up a map of Israel. The Jewish areas are orange; the Arab areas are yellow. “In some places, your country is seven miles wide,” he says. “It is not bad. You can come home and put on your jogging clothes and run across your whole country after work.” He asks the audience—composed of two Birthright groups—how many Jews live in Israel. One guy offers an answer of 7 million. Nope! That’s how many total people live in Israel. Only 5.5 million Jews live here. The other 1.5 million are Arabs. The lecturer aims his pointer at the vast Negev. “You see,” he says. “They gave us the desert. Great.”
Having previously dated and fought Israelis off at nightclubs, I’ve found them to be aggressive and pompous. Offer and our Independence Hall lecturer have already helped me to understand why they’re like that. I mean, they all have to serve in the army, which is the ultimate anti-Candy Land existence of American youth. On top of that, they always have to be on bomb alert. Speaking of which: Birthright takes safety very seriously. We are not allowed to take public transportation, and we have an armed medic with us at all times. Her name is Tzipi and she always sports a rifle. I love that our armed guard is a woman. She makes the “tough Israeli” thing seem pretty badass.

I’m writing this from the top bunk in a hostel in Jaffa. In a way, I don’t feel like I’m here, although I’m happy to be. I like these people and I’m honestly looking forward to knowing them better.

Previously: The Best Things in Life are Free?

Next up: Day 2, or Is This Really My Homeland?

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Blogging Birthright: The Best Things in Life Are Free?

Amy Odell — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 08:35:16 +0000

Tomorrow I’m embarking on my first trip to Israel, with 39 people I’ve never met. The only part of the trip I planned was my bus ride from Manhattan to Newark airport, which is about as exciting as watching two episodes of Columbo in a row. I will be unable to escape these people for ten days, and I must spend one night in a tent in the desert. But I’m okay with all of this because I'm not paying for any of it. They say the best things in life are free, right? So thank you, Birthright Israel. I’ve always wanted to be religious but never have been. I just never felt connected to religion. I don't believe in God, I don’t believe in the Bible, and I live happily this way. Judaism is my ethnic identity, culture, and heritage—not my religion. As for Zionism: It doesn’t top my list of vital issues. Case in point: I will pick up the Times and turn straight to the Election '08 page, but I have never turned straight to the “Israel [Got] Bombed Again” page. I just don’t think about it much. I signed up for this trip because I love to travel. I guess I also hope to figure out if I want religion to play a role in my life, but ultimately, I’m in this for a free trip to what I’ve heard is one of the coolest countries on Earth.
Of course, I expect this experience to be rife with attempts at brainwashing. Normally, this would turn me off, but the fact that it’s free means nothing about this trip turns me off. Besides, my brain is safeguarded by an innate membrane of skepticism—a natural defense that will be reinforced by my in-flight reading of Foreskin's Lament (at least until the Ambien my friend gave me kicks in). If I do change my mind, I want it to be deliberate rather than involuntary. Despite the knots in my stomach, my brain tells me that this trip will be fun. I love traveling, I love meeting new people, and I love not having to pay for stuff. Then again, I'm a bit of a girly diva and hope I’ll be able to handle feeling filthy for ten days (the provided packing list says “expect to be dirty”). Though I’m not open to religious propaganda, I am open to new secular experiences. If I do have to run around with greasy skin and mismatched clothes, I'll gladly let my inner-geek shine like the Hanukkah candles I thought really hard about buying this year.

Next up: Day 1, or Orthodox Hippies and Badass Babes

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Break Fast Tapas: Tortilla Espanola

Amy Odell — Fri, 21 Sep 2007 10:05:32 +0000

Tortilla Espanola is the Spanish version of an omelet. You'll find it everywhere, even in Spanish 7/11s on the highway. At its most traditional it's nothing more than potatoes, onions, eggs, a little olive oil, and salt, though you could add flavorings like cheese, zucchini, or even codfish of you're so inclined. The key is cooking the omelet evenly once everything is in the pan. Make sure you let it rest before you cut it. For breaking the fast prepare the day before and leave out. If there's any left after the break fast, store in the refrigerator.

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Break Fast Tapas: Gazpacho

Amy Odell — Fri, 21 Sep 2007 09:28:56 +0000

When I went to Spain in July, I ate gazpacho every day. In hot climes, there's nothing more refreshing for lunch. In Spain they don't serve the chunky salsa-style we typically see here. They blend it until it reaches a creamy orange color. Sometimes it's served as a drink in a big glass goblet. Sometimes it's thicker and richly flavored, meant as a dip for tortilla espanola. Sometimes it's thin and light, served as a drink in a big glass goblet. It's so easy to make the authentic varieties and you really don't have to follow a recipe. You pretty much just toss a bunch of veggies in a blender with some olive oil and stale bread crumbs. I love the thick kind, so here's how I do it:

First you'll need a chunk of stale bread. I like ciabatta. How much? Well that depends on you. If you want a thick gazpacho to dip your tortilla in use more, if you want it soupier use less or none at all. Blend it until you have a fine crumb. Put the bread crumbs in a fine mesh strainer and rinse under a faucet. After a good shower, mush them into the strainer, squeezing the excess water out like a sponge. Return the mush to the blender.

You can get creative with your veggies. I add half a yellow onion, about 3 medium vine-ripened tomatoes cut into chunks, a half a bell pepper (preferably red, but any color should do), and garlic to taste. You could add a cucumber if you had that lying around, which would make a thinner soup.

Season to taste with salt and fresh ground black pepper, perhaps a dash of cumin. Add a tablespoon or two of red wine vinegar and then drizzle in a few tablespoons of olive oil. Blend until smooth. Your gazpacho should taste light, a little frothy even. It should be orange, not red. If yours is red, you didn't add enough olive oil. So drizzle some more in and blend until it turns orange. When you've got your seasonings right, pop it in the fridge. Serve very cold.

If you're so inclined garnish with tuna, hard boiled egg, and/or ham (that's how they do it in Spain–it works surprisingly well), or a drizzle of olive oil.

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Breaking the Fast with Tapas

Amy Odell — Fri, 21 Sep 2007 05:33:30 +0000

Don't break the fast with bagels on Saturday. You can prepare a chic spread ahead of time that won't require any cooking right before you break fast. We suggest ditching the smoked fish and bagels for a spread of Spanish tapas. They're delightful in the summer and our menu uses seasonal ingredients, so try them now before the season's out. These dishes are all best prepared ahead of time. Click through for the recipes:

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Dessert Recipe: Pear and Nutmeg Upside-Down Cake

Amy Odell — Fri, 14 Sep 2007 06:41:50 +0000

In the spirit of the holiday, here's another sweet recipe. This one doesn't have honey but it's absolutely delicious and I could eat pans of it. Like, till Type I sets in. Even then I'd probably eat another pan. Make sure you use fresh grated nutmeg. This means you'll have to buy a whole nut of it and grate it like you do cheese. For this I'd suggest a microplane grater. If you don't have one of these, go buy one. (They do amazing things with parmesan cheese, too, as long as you don't scrape your knuckles off.)

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