I know you want to hear about yoga...

...but I have to write about my experience today at Misrad HaPnim (The Ministry of the Interior), to get my permanent Israeli ID.

When a new immigrant (me) gets off the plane at Ben-Gurion Airport, they are brought immediately to a miniature version of Misrad HaPnim, which is in a room that is not unlike I imagine the waiting room at a prison might be like. There is an uncomfortable couch, bad coffee, and cranky people who force you to be photographed for your temporary ID after a 12-hour flight. I tried to explain to the woman who was making my temporary ID what "dirty pool" is in America. Since you have probably read about the flight, you know what I must have looked like. Imagine that famous mug shot of Nick Nolte after he was pulled over for drunk driving, only with crazy BLACK hair instead of crazy blonde hair.

But I digress.

Then, the olah (new immigrant) must make arrangements to go to the real Misrad HaPnim nearest to where they will be living. Since I live in the middle of Tel Aviv, it is walking distance, and today was a lovely day. I wore my yoga clothes, in case I got out in time to walk straight to class from there. I was carrying a very large bag that contained: 3 years worth of paperwork (I was advised to bring everything), my purse, a towel, a change of clothes (I was going straight from yoga to visit a friend), a book to read while I was waiting, a hair product, and deodorant. I was also carrying a yoga mat in a mat bag.

If you think security is tight at the airport, try getting into the Ministry of the Interior in Israel. With two bags, one of which was huge and full of random shit.

Anyway, I arrived 15 minutes before it was due to open, since I didn't want to wait in a long line. When I arrived, I laughed to myself. There were at least 75 people waiting ahead of me. Most of them appeared to be quite cranky. I watched one man in a kippa (yarmulke, Jewish Beanie, whatever you want to call it) shouting--loudly--at someone who worked there. I didn't understand what he was saying, as he was yelling in Hebrew, but I got the gist of it. Even in Israel, an asshole is an asshole. And he was at the front of the line. The rest of us were either watching, sighing impatiently and loudly, or talking on cell phones. Such is bureaucracy. I didn't really expect the miracle of being first in line, and, once they opened, the line moved fairly quickly anyway.

**Note to self, however: next time, I will either bring a person in a wheelchair or a baby in a stroller--they had to go in through a different way, and got to jump ahead of the rest of us.

I was given the number 827, and shown where to sit, and where to look for my number to come up. In Hebrew. I'm guessing that was what he said, anyway. He could have been calling me a stupid American, but I doubt it. They love us in this country. And besides, now I'm an Israeli.

I amused myself looking at the vast array of hot Israeli men. I feel like a kid in a candy store here. Hot men are EVERYWHERE. But that is for another posting. Altogether, I was only there for about an hour or so, and I had plenty of time to pick up my laundry, go back to my apartment, and love on my kitties for a few minutes before I went to yoga.

Tomorrow, the Misrad HaKlita (Ministry of Absorption)--again, I hear those words and think of the marching hammers in The Wall--is closed, so I have to wait until Wednesday to go. I want to be there when they open at 8.

Maybe the lines won't be long because Thursday is also Holocaust Remembrance Day. At 10:00, a siren will go off for one minute. Everyone stops what they are doing, whether they are working or eating or driving, and stands up. People even get out of their cars and they all stand for a minute of silence to remember the six million Jews who were killed by the Nazis. I think it will be lovely and moving, and I will probably sob like a child. My apartment is right up the street from Rabin Square, where Yitzhak Rabin was murdered at a peace rally on November 4, 1995. There is a memorial there that makes my chest feel tight every time I walk by, which is fairly often.

Bureaucratic bullshit can't come close to eclipsing the constant reminders I get that I am supposed to be here. This is where I am meant to be.

But still, next time I go to the Ministry of the Interior, I'm borrowing someone's baby.