Goodbye, Arad

As I sit here on my balcony in Jerusalem, my new home, I’m beginning to feel a bit nostalgic.

I reminisce over the past three months; flashes of long days at volunteering, biking, bus rides around the country, group activities, Hebrew lessons, apartment dinners, and walks through the desert appear before me—and I realize that although it has gone so quickly, I have done so much in the small desert city of Arad.

Yes, I have traveled quite a bit already. I have partied and prayed in Jerusalem, read and relaxed on the beaches of Tel Aviv, and spent holidays visiting family across the country. But, for many reasons, some of my finest memories took place at home on Ben Yair Street. Here are some snapshots from my Arad trimester that might explain why:

It’s Friday morning, and I have no responsibility. I grab a water bottle, sketchpad, some colored pencils and my bike. I ride downhill on Ben Yair, the street I have become well acquainted with. I see the usual quirky Aradian residents; the elderly Russian couple sitting on a bench, the Ethiopian girl reading a book, and a little further, the “mustache cat,” glaring at me from inside his spot in a bush. I laugh to myself at the quirkiness of this city, knowing I’ll never find a place quite like it. After about six minutes of pedaling I’m in the desert. Suddenly I’m looking at a vast landscape of mountains and multi-colored sand. I plug in my headphones, gulp down some water, and clear away some rocks to make a place to sit down. I draw in my sketchpad, letting hours go by, for time is less significant than the flies buzzing around me. I am focused, immersed in one activity, completely and utterly at peace.

Now it’s Sunday and I am working hard at volunteering. Jake and I come inside from the backyard of the Foster home, where we’ve been pulling weeds and evening out the ground. Now we’re cutting cucumbers and tomatoes while singing to music that Alon, the owner of the home, has playing loudly in the living room. He comes into the kitchen and proceeds to make fun of our accents and our American slang, as per usual. When we’re finished preparing the Israeli salad, we take a quick break and Alon makes us some tea while I attempt to read the Israeli newspaper. Around 2 pm, the kids one-by-one start flooding in. Natalie, a twelve-year-old girl, immediately drops her backpack and runs to give me a hug. I ask her how school was, and she replies with the usual “Kef,” which means fun in Hebrew. She asks if I can help her with her English homework, and of course, I agree. It is evident, at that moment, that I am part of the family Alon and Shlomit have created at Beit Mazor.

It is November 25^th, Thanksgiving morning. My roommates and I wake up early enough to head out to the supermarket to buy the ingredients we need for the big dinner we have planned. For the main ingredients, the easiest place to go is the chain supermarket in the mall—but for the fruits and veggies, I always go to the marketplace in the downtown square. I greet the shop-owner, who now knows me by name. When I finish paying, he throws me a ripe persimmon, a fruit that is indigenous to Israel and is one of my favorites. I think about my Mother, and the persimmon tree that grew her backyard at her home in Israel, almost forty years ago. Though my arms are full with groceries and I’m pressed for time to cook, I take a moment to enjoy the sweet, juicy, and free bright orange fruit. I think to myself that the fruit is a bit like Israel—small, but packed with so much flavor and, well, juiciness. Soon after, we begin cooking; I make a rice dish with toasted pine nuts and dried cranberries (which my Mother always makes, but I took some liberties and added orange zest) as well as a string bean mushroom concoction. Five people cooking ten recipes in one kitchen is a challenge, but we somehow pull it off. Sundown approaches and we head to the roof of my friend’s apartment, where a table is immaculately set up with dozens of sweet potato, Turkey, and vegetable dishes. The aromas bring me back home to New York for a minute, until I look around me and realize my environment. We go around the table, saying what we are thankful for. I look at the fellow American on my left, a Brit on my right, and an Israeli in front of me; a table overflowing with delicious food; a family of teenagers sitting on a candle lit roof in the country we adore; and I can’t help but feel thankful for everything.

Now I am in Jerusalem, the biggest, holiest city in Israel—and within 24 hours the population of my old home to my new one multiplied by thirty-fold. Suddenly there are traffic jams, tourists, and English speakers (instead of Russian speakers) all around me. I live in an apartment building packed with Year Course kids, in a college-like dormitory setting. Hearing sirens, neighbors, and city life is still surprising and new. Of course, I will miss the silence and small town feel that existed in Arad. I will miss the kids at volunteering, being able to hop on a bike and roam through the desert, and the amazingly clear air—but I couldn’t be happier to be here. Though the transition was drastic, city life suits me. Soon I will be taking real classes, earning real credits, feeling that much closer to being a real college student. It’s hard to believe that already, one third of the trimester is done.

So, this is my formal goodbye to the quirky, peaceful, unique city of Arad. I'll truly miss you!

A potluck dinner in my apartment

Maya, myself, and Tova in a bedouin tent