Falafels and Zohans: A Year in Israel

A visit from home…

Apologies for the long break. It had something to do with housing a small clan of rambunctious residents, otherwise known as my family, for a week.  Their visit was not one I was particularly charged up for, partly because it came slap bang on the fourth night I’d worked until 1am at previously described Mexican hell-hole, and partly because, well it would I thought, as always, transpire to become more of a takeover.  I had already emigrated from my double room to the little single one, as requested. I had cleared cupboard space and hidden any offensive items, also as requested, and knew I was not fully prepared for the 168 hours ahead of me.  Don’t get me wrong, I do love them. I just can’t live in the same 20 square metres as them for longer than a day.

It began almost instantly.  I returned from work in the early hours, luckily to a still-empty house and flung myself into the shower to wash the grimy, sticky remnants of nachos and beer off of me.  But before I could get too comfortable for the last time in a while, I heard the troop on the stairway.
‘Ahhhhh…feel the heat Ang’. My father, the eternal Israeli.
‘Don’t talk to me about the heat! I can hardly breathe it’s so humid. She better have the air conditioning on in there. And she better have fitted the mattress protectors I gave her…’ My mother, the eternal Brit.
‘I’m first in the loo everyone, its mine I bagsyed it.’ My little sister, the eternal toilet-travel phobic.
As I opened the door, I toyed with the idea of bolting down the stairs, out of the front door and onto the beach to sleep like a nomad for the week.

‘Estoosh! How are you?’ Oh God the family pet names.  Before I could begin to answer, my Mother had already dissolved past me to ‘oooh’ and ‘ahhh’ at the space around us. But as I hugged my little sis I realised it wasn’t all bad.  However, then my Dad came at me from my/his room with the door handle that had long fallen off.
‘What’s happened here?’ Oh Jesus… 

After I had survived all the various interrogations and explained myself to the panel of judges - ‘This tea cloth is lying here because I lay out the wet cups that don’t fit into the drying tray, on it’, ‘The door handle fell off because, like the ceiling that caved in previously, its an old block and the lady upstairs is always stomping around’, and lastly, ‘the shower curtain I threw – I don’t want to be washing next to something that was used by the ex-owner for 10 years. Plus it was bright green and brown at the bottom’ – the week actually did not turn out too badly.

For the first time, my parents actually seemed to understand that they wake up at an ungodly hour and quite decently snuck out to buy furniture / paint / food early on to leave me and my sister, who poor love was stuck sleeping in the lounge, in peace. 
Although I was experiencing the after-effects of too many night shifts, there was nothing stirring aforementioned sis from her 12 hour slumber, but it was a nice change to be with someone that doesn’t hurry us out of the door like most of my friends and who is in fact, far lazier than me (sorry tamtoosh). In her defence I’ll say she’s at the age where she’s growing so needs all the sleep she can get…

My parents also did not as in previous years, dictate our daily schedule to us. So many holidays had been spent marching to various family friends houses, where we were forced to small talk and eat watermelon (a staple part of the Israeli diet) or being taken to other ‘interesting’ places (often cemeteries of famous Israeli figures). If ever we were hungry, my Dad’s incredible sixth sense would kick in, and in a mere few steps we were at another of the only places to eat on the agenda: the falafel kiosk.
But things were suddenly different. There were none, or very little demands made of us; if anything my parents seemed to value their own time much more.  Now they were asking us what our plans for the day were. Bliss!

My sister and I took full use of it and spent the entire first day on the beach. Granted, she did look like she’d contracted a mild form of skin cancer by the end of it but all in all a great day was had by all.  Feeling extremely guilty for not nagging her to apply sun cream throughout the day, as our mother would have done, I took her on a shopping splurge more than once during the week and also lied her way in to a good few bars and clubs.  The days worked out well - when we finally did see our parents, we appreciated their company and swapped stories over evening meals that ranged all the way from salads to seafood - and not a chickpea in sight.

Maybe the reason they’ve started to really appreciate their own time and hobbies and not feel they have to involve us in everything, stems from the fact they have had less of us under their feet in recent years, when my middle sister and I were living at University. Or maybe it’s because we’ve put up such a good fight in previous years, they can’t be bothered with the headache of trying anymore. Whatever the reasons, something had definitely revolutionised my parents for the better since the last time I holidayed with them.

Yes, there were a few invasions from their friends wanting to see the flat and a few too-early phone conversations that reverberated around the walls, and I also hated them for bringing home another pack of chocolates or pastries each day; both foodstuffs I have cut down on drastically since being here, which isn’t so difficult as I’m away from our house in London which is also so full of junk, it ends up a staple part of your diet.  But they always meant well and it was much easier to compromise knowing that they wouldn’t hound us 24-7 or treat us like ten year olds anymore.
Plus the flat looks fantastic. Their early morning trips to Ikea and DIY skills really paid off and they decked it out with colours and furniture that compliment a look I had already started to create, but had had no money to complete.

They left yesterday; a shame as the 168 hours felt like 48 and I’m already counting down the days until they next decide to ‘takeover’, but at least I get my room back.
And I’m taking all the pastries and rubbish to the homeless guy who always perches on the corner of my street, although I’m prepared for him to turn his nose up at them too….