Back to Ashtanga, and A Reminder That The World is Random.

So there is an entire book dedicated to products that, had foreign languages and pronunciations been taken into consideration, would have probably been given different names. I am assuming that this Israeli B-vitamin supplement would have been called something else. Instead, I get a giggle every time I take my vitamins.

For the past few weeks, or maybe a month, I have been going to Ashtanga classes in the North of Tel Aviv, on the Namal, which is the Port. The studio is separated from the Mediterranean by maybe 30 feet of dock. When I am practicing, I either hear the sea, the dull moan that is most yoga music, or obnoxious kids running by. I try to focus on the sea. Or my breathing. I try not to focus only on Rodrigo, my teacher. He teaches in the strictest of traditions, and everyone knows how much I like structure, but he does teach Ashtanga well, his adjustments are fantastic, and he is completely gorgeous. Worth getting up early to take a class and see Rodrigo jump. I was surprised to find that he teaches in English. As his name implies, he is clearly not a native Israeli, but he speaks Hebrew. Nonetheless, he leads all his classes in English. I would have been fine either way. I know Ashtanga pretty well. My first day there, young Rodrigo (I'm guessing he's 25) asked me in a kind of snide way if I have ever taken Ashtanga before. I was happy to tell him that I have taught Ashtanga and that David Swenson himself (one of Ashtanga's Big Dogs) trained me. He made another snide remark about David to the class later, but, nonetheless, had to borrow my book, written BY David Swenson, during a different class.

Rodrigo is like an amusement park to me. He is so serious. Everyone knows I am serious about my yoga practice, but I try not to take life too seriously. Rodrigo takes everything seriously. But he is my Israeli version of Wally, from Masters Studios. I know that somewhere, beneath the surface, is a seething cauldron of hilarity waiting to bubble over. I was able to win Wally over and make him laugh, and I will do the same with Rodrigo. I have already gotten him to smile despite himself, but the laughs are slower to come. It took months with Wally. I shall have patience. Especially because Rodrigo is hot. He has a body to die for, these broad, muscular, defined shoulders that make you want to cry, and the perfect color of skin. A Latin Jew. I could have only dreamed of such a thing before.

And, to get back to yoga for a second here, by body was so happy to be back to Ashtanga that I almost cried after the first class. My spine felt better than it had in a long time, all perfectly aligned due to an adjustment from Rodrigo. Any well-trained teacher with man-strength could have done the adjustment. That it was him is a mere bonus.

So I am now mostly doing Ashtanga, and sometimes Bikram. There is a story that I meant to tell from when Ida was visiting, about the Hot Yoga class we took together. As I have described, the men in class seldom wear very much. If they are wearing the kind of running shorts with built-in underwear, they tend to tuck the shorts part up into the underwear part to make them more speedo-like. Boxer briefs, they tend to hike up at the sides. I myself will now practice wearing yoga pants and a sports bra or small yoga top, but there are limitations for me.

The day that Ida and I went, there was a man there, about my age, wearing a pair of very short boxer briefs with a vicious tiger stenciled on the ass. He was right behind me. Ida and I were unaware of the tiger until it was too late for all of us.

Bikram yoga includes 26 postures. The tenth pose involves stepping your feet apart about 3-4 feet (depending on your height), then rotating to the right, turning the feet as well, and rounding your spine down to try to touch your forehead to your knee. Then you slowly come up, turn to face forward, and then rotate to the left to do the same thing on the other side.

This was when Ida and I came faces-to-ass with the Tiger Guy. Also bear in mind that talking is not allowed in a Bikram class, and uncontrolled hilarity would definitely be frowned upon. But here we were, Ida and I, together in a yoga class for the first time in years, giddy at seeing a friendly and familiar face, and completely overtired. And the room is over 100 degrees and humid. Think Charleston in August. Or Tel Aviv in August. Or Tel Aviv now, at 9:30 at night.

But I digress.

The point is, we were long past giddy and were confronted with this man's ass, and the stenciled tiger thereupon. Having gone through most of the standing sequence, the man had developed quite a wedgie. Aside from the discomfort I felt on his behalf, I felt terrible for that poor tiger. It was the kind of captivity no wild animal should be subjected to.

It wasn't until after we got back to my house, showered, and were snacking on the couch that one of us brought it up. I knew if I had looked at her in class, we would have laughed and been scorned for our judgment. In the comfort of my apartment, it was okay. It was exactly what I needed. A good laugh with someone who understands why it is so funny. Sadly, a lot of my jokes don't translate here.
And then there is the recurring theme in my life of the Joel L. Harrison Memorial Alley-Rabbit Squad. I have not taken many pictures, since most of them are hand-and-camera shy. A few have come to know me and love me. I have named 6 of them. Above is Adolfa. I should probably say her name more quietly when I greet her, but I want her to know her name and be proud. We're taking back the name together!

Isha (EE-shah) is the closest thing a street cat comes to being "mine". I call her "Isha" because it is the Hebrew word for both 'woman' and 'wife'. But that is a whole other issue. I call her my wife because, every time I come in the gate, Isha jumps onto the stoop and meows at me until I bring food down to her. I can hear her meowing as I go up the stairs, into my apartment, back down the stairs, and as she weaves between my feet on my way to the back of the building, where I feed them. In short, she is a nag. She lets me touch her, and is particularly fond of having the top of her head scratched. Since her ear has been docked, I know she has already been spayed. She is one of my outdoor Alley-Rabbits. Then there is Jack. I wanted to name him after someone handsome, because he is a handsome cat, even though he kinda looks chubby in this picture. So I named him after Hugh Jackman. But I couldn't call him "Hugh", because it looks stupid spelled in Hebrew. Jack is a big, strong boy, and mostly wants attention instead of food. He is my boyfriend cat. A wife and boyfriend. Who says it's hard to find someone special in Tel Aviv? I consider feeding to me my mitzvah. God wouldn't have put such precious angels in my yard if I wasn't meant to take care of them. The other who are named are Sharon (sha-rohn), Mike, Georgia, Isabelle 2, and Betsit (bet-seet). Each is a story unto itself.

Soon to come: My undercover investigation of Israeli fashion, and "Gay, or French Tourist?: It's a Tough Call".