There are Days (Ode to Expat Living)

It’s been two years, this month, since I made aliyah. Mostly, it was a very good decision. But there are days.

There are days when I stand in the middle of my living room, arms upraised, and declare, in my best Scarlett O’Hara accent, “Canada. I’ll go back to Canada.”

There are days that start out in the Canadian consulate for a pleasant fifteen-minute wait, where the only rude person in a fifty-foot radius is the Quebecois who complains that the Israeli security guard doesn’t speak French.

There are days that begin with an efficient Canadian government worker looking at my documents, stamping my passport renewal form and asking if there’s anything else she can do for me within three minutes of my sitting down at her desk.

There are days where I manage to completely fudge both the Israeli healthcare system and Israeli banking, and think that perhaps I’m just too much of a provincial idiot to live in a foreign country.

There are days when I tramp home through the Tel Aviv heat, sweat slicking every inch of my skin, and think to myself that even if this is the Holy Land kissed by G-d Himself with blessing, it would be nice if He would stop slobbering on me and drooling down my back every time I step outside in summer.

There are days when I can’t even look at people’s faces as I pass them, and the urge to knock over the person who seems to be INTENTIONALLY blocking me on the sidewalk gets so strong that I bite my lip and draw blood.

There are days when I realize that the person blocking me is one of my old students, arms spread wide, grin spread wider, literally bobbing up and down on the sidewalk with joy that we’ve bumped into each other.

There are days when I return to the bank and the teller takes one look at my face and refuses to do anything until I have taken several deep breathes with him and practiced some calming yoga moves in the middle of the bank, and we are both laughing.

There are days when the bank teller wishes me Shabbat shalom not once but twice in lieu of an adieu, refusing to say goodbye when he can say something that places us as part of the same tribe.

There are days when my healthcare representative calls me just because that’s a service they provide, and is thrilled that she can actually give me information. 

There are days that I sprawl on the floor of my living room under the fan, arms under my head, and declare that I'm not going anywhere. 

The ceiling fan responds, "frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."