My Misplaced Mojo

I went to the beach about a week ago, and not one single man approached me or tried to pick me up. When I was here in October, and when I first started going after I moved here, I had Israeli men all over me, and I practically had to swat them away like mosquitos.

But last week, I was sitting in a chair, listening to music, looking at the Mediterranean, and not one man (or boy) approached me. I specifically mention 'boy' because, shortly after I moved here, a 21 year-old boy came up to me on the beach. He brought his friend, who spoke some English. He kept asking me--through his friend--to walk with him to the water. I asked him back--again, through his friend--why, since we couldn't communicate. The truth is, I knew why.

Evidently, Israeli men get some hot action in the sea from tourists. There are small rock islands, man-made, to keep the surf from getting too rough for swimmers. You see them, about 20 meters long, with maybe 70 or 80 meters between them. I am told that Israeli men, with their brown skin and charming accents, are like Sirens, luring women to their fate on the far side of this little islands. Fortunately, I am neither stupid, easy, or a pedophile (I'm sorry, but he looked like a child to me). So I stayed on my towel, wished him a happy birthday (his friend explained that his birthday was the reason for his afternoon drunkenness), and put my headphones back on. I'm sure a few meters up the beach he was able to find an unsuspecting--and, probably, younger--tourist to oblige him.

Back to me, in my chair, by myself, with not one man approaching me. I was wondering if maybe I had put on weight, if I was looking too old. I was actually affected by this lack of unwanted attention. I became paranoid about being unattractive to undesirable men. I walked home with a blow to my self-esteem and a sunburn from hell.

I went to the beach again yesterday. I needed to even out the spots that blistered and peeled (and yes, Mom, Lisa, and everyone else, I am using a much stronger sunscreen now, even when I go out to walk anywhere) from last week. While I was on my back, I was listening to my iPod again, relaxing, looking at the sea, and resting. Still no men. Even as I re-applied sunscreen, the International call-of-distress/pick-up-invitation, I was like a disease. Young men walked by me, glancing and moving on. I thought "I'm old".

Then I flipped onto my belly, took out my book, and started reading. Within 10 minutes, a man in his 20s, handsome, tall, good body, walked up to me and said hello. I said hello back. He asked, in a very thick accent, how I was doing. I said fine, thanks. Then he asked: "You are a tourist here?"

A-HA!

My book is in English. Prior to that, I actually blended with the locals because I managed to rent a chair (12 shekels a day) and order drinks (Diet Coke and a water) without help. As soon as I sent up the red flare that is the book "Choke", by Chuck Palahniuk (not for the feint of heart, FYI), I was immediately in a young Israeli's missile-lock, so to speak.

I responded in Hebrew that I live here. He asked "In a hotel?".

You gotta love his persistence. He really, really wanted me to be a slutty tourist.

I told him, in Hebrew, "No, I live in Tel Aviv. I am Israeli and American".

He soon gave up. His Siren Song wouldn't work on this sailor. The sad part is, he is a beautiful man. Had I not known his dirty secret about hunting fresh meat on the beaches, I would have liked him if we met at a cafe or something. Better that I know the secret.

But the really, really good part is, I haven't lost my mojo. I still have men looking at me on the streets (Israeli men are champion gawkers), in shops, at the flower shop as they buy bouquets for their wives (they are also champions at infidelity, I'm told). I have just lost that look of a tourist, of a new person, of an easy target. I can function enough in Hebrew that, in only 3 months, I have weeded out a huge number of trashy men. Yay, me!

Except for the part where I shouldn't have to look for external validation. I'm in therapy. It's a process.

But I digress.

I have, recently, gone into shops and had entire conversations with people, and they didn't know that I don't speak Hebrew. I ordered my latte, or my sandwich, or asked directions, all in Hebrew. They understood me, but certainly could tell I am not a native speaker. Nonetheless, they responded in Hebrew and I understood.

I try to learn one useful conversational phrase a day (in addition to the grammatical stuff). Yesterday, it was how to ask "What's up?". At last, some slang. Today, I learned some colorful words from Billie, who owns the flower shop across the street. She was on the phone, firing a delivery person for a valid reason. I understood some of it, and was able to fill in the rest. I will ask her Sunday afternoon what some of the rest really means.

I do most of my practice at Cafe Hillel, where I can be found studying almost every afternoon. The managers there, or maybe owners (it might be a franchise thing, not sure), are brothers. Barak ("lightning" in Hebrew, and pronounced very differently than first name of the Democrat running for President of the US, he was quick to point out) helps me with words or phrases I don't understand. He helped me with "What's up?" and "ashtray". He also helps me by being dangerously handsome and there to offer me my drug of choice--caffeine--every day except Shabat.

Anyway, crisis of faith over. Mojo intact. And the best part is, no one can tell that I'm new anymore.

I am fully American Israeli. I can even say "son of a bitch" in Hebrew. And I have.