Welcome to my morning commute, which is taking place about 20 minutes later than usual. I just couldn't be bothered to rush this morning, so I took a bit of extra time and decided to catch the later train. Being the first one at my stop to get on, finding a seat wasn't difficult. Unfortunately, I chose the wrong one, and by the time I realized it, it was too late to do anything. I grabbed the first seat I saw, and have spent the duration of the ride so far half sitting on the purse of the woman next to me, as she's clearly not too into being respectful of those around her, and has kept it in the space between us, where there really isn't any space at all. I'm in a rather bad mood to begin with this morning (I even had a dream last night that I was depressed, which doesn't really help when you're trying to kick-start your day), and my mood is growing blacker by the moment, as I imagine the form my revenge might take, from running fingernails (damn – too short! Hmmm, apparently not...) or keys across her leather bag to the vicious parting sentence when getting off the train. No amount of pushing on the bag seems to help, as the woman is apparently that clueless (and a rather bad dresser to boot). Oh, and did I mention that her husband inadvertently stepped on my foot after he got up? We made eye contact, and he must have noticed that I was shooting bullets out of my eyes, because I actually got an apology.
Personal space and privacy in Israel is a non-concept. Among Israelis, it just doesn't exist. You could be sitting in an almost empty movie theater, and the next patron to come in will undoubtedly come and sit right next to you. Not two or three seats down, but in the one next to yours, forcing you to move your coat and leaving you jostling for armrest space. The same goes for buses, trains, and so on. I spent one morning train ride last week standing by the door, packed in like a sardine, because the train had been so late that people who'd arrived early for the next train were able to get on as well, and when I tell you that it was a nightmare, you can safely assume that nightmare would be an understatement. Sardines probably have it better – they probably have more space in the can and they get to lay down, and given that they're also no longer living, they're probably not getting progressively more and more angry over the fact that they can't even move their hands (fins?) enough to hold their newspapers in a readable position. Nor do they have to worry about the any of the other sardines making endless personal or work-related calls on their cell phones, or having their feet stepped on by other sardines who seem not to realize that the lump under their foot is actually someone else's foot.
But I digress. Clearly I'm having a few issues these days, so please forgive the rather convoluted and incredibly bizarre sardine analogy. Where was I? Oh yes – personal space. I am not a touchy-feely person (while pregnant with the Little One, I freaked out whenever anyone besides my husband reached over to touch my stomach as though it had suddenly become public property), and tend to get a bit crazy whenever my personal space is invaded – an event that happens with a mind-boggling degree of regularity in these parts. It seems to be especially prevalent whenever public transport is involved, whether one is actually in transit or merely in an environment that lends itself to "transportational" pursuits, such as a train station. People have no qualms about standing right next to you (likethisclose), despite the vast quantities of open platform to be found, or those folks who bump into you while walking, even though you're standing still, because they can't be bothered to actually go around you, as they assume that you will move out of their way. I could go on and on, but I believe I covered these aspects of train commuting eons ago when I wrote this post.
In response to this utterly maddening phenomenon, I've been perfecting my evil glare, and in some instances, it even works. Private person that I am, though, I usually don't go farther than the glare, and tend to go the route of inner seething, hoping that the glare will get the point across without me actually having to open my mouth. Or, I do what I did this morning, whipping out the laptop on the train (instead of the Hadassah Magazine that I'd planned to read) and begin typing furiously, hoping that my seat usurper would read over my shoulder (another charming trait that is frighteningly prevalent here) and be shamed into moving her bag. Alas, it was not to be, but if nothing else, it provided me with decent blog fodder, which is, of course, always welcome.
Tomorrow morning, I'm off to Jerusalem for the day, relying on multiple forms of public transport to reach my destination at the ungodly hour of 9 am (ungodly only because it forces me to leave the house before 6 am). I can hardly wait to see what this journey's going to bring...
I want my son to love his country and to be proud of his identity, and I also want him to understand and embrace the concept of diversity. I want him to realize that exposure to different cultures provides an opportunity to learn, whether it be the exotic cultures of distant lands or different cultures existing in Israel and the US. I want him to know that he has neighbors whose holidays are different from his own, and whose cultures are just as rich and beautiful as the one in which he is being brought up. Most of all, I want him to accept these people and their differences, and to know that different does not mean bad. And if it is spiky-haired, bespectacled Mahboob who teaches him such things, then so much the better. I know that life is not Sesame Street and Sesame Street is not real, but the lessons it offers my son are the lessons he will carry with him for a lifetime, just as the original Sesame Street did for his mother.
