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Falling in Love With Rehovot: The Heart
By Erin Israel
In the last two weeks in Rehovot, I found a great hidden cafe, Cafe shel Sarit, shaded with bougainvilla vines; a French bakery I’ve never been to, right around the corner from the Russian market where I go all the time; and ads for yoga classes near where we live.
Would I like another month, here, to sample the new finds and to visit places I haven’t been to, yet (like Latrun and Abu Ghosh)? Well, yes. And no. Some days, more yes than no.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I had planned to remain wholly unattached to Rehovot.
But I really like having a handful of great cafes nearby, where the waitresses know me and J., and know exactly what we’ll have. I like taking the train to Tel Aviv, but not living smack-dab in it. I like the Institute campus, and its four million acres of lawn. I like subsidized lunch (and the view) from New Charlie’s. I like 88 FM. I like wandering around the shouk. I like the clatter of palm tree leaves, all over town. I like Eyal’s pastry shop. I really like the Book Club.
Argh! I’m a local! How did that happen?
Well, I’m not that local, I suppose. I don’t really speak the language, and there are large sections of town that I’ve never seen; namely, the neighborhood east of the Karl Berg Russian market, where I wandered around on Tuesday night, trying desperately to find the apartment where the Book Club meeting was to take place. The [Weizmann] Institute-issued map (like everything else they issue) was well-intentioned but in bad need of an update: streets that looked normal on the map were closed off or nonexistent.
Eventually, I found the address and rode up to the apartment with a tired businessman who leaned against the wall of the elevator and practically fell out when it arrived at his floor.
Nearly all of the Book Club’s regular members were there, and I realized how much I’ll miss the group. Before Christmas, I’d dropped off some books at a member’s apartment and talked with her, for a while. I think I must have complained that the social portion of the club, in which people graze on snacks and catch up with each other, was too short.
“Well, I didn’t join the Book Club to socialize,” she said, perched on an armchair. “I only joined it for the books. I don’t need it for the friends.”
I stared at her, stung. “Well, I DO!” I thought.
The Book Club is made up of native English speakers, most of whom made aliyah from the U.S. or Canada; there are also two South African members.
There’s Ramona, the no-nonsense organizer, with a background in editing engineering journals and an M.A. in French literature, who commutes to Tel Aviv to take courses from the Institut Francais.
There’s Amira, Tuesday night’s hostess, who dresses classically, and who was not afraid to tell the club that she liked The Da Vinci Code.
There’s Jody, the former professor of biology, who writes her reviews on index cards and who invited us over for coffee, when she and her husband were planning a trip Prague, last fall.
There’s Norma, the only Orthodox member in the Club, who winters in Florida and has the best tan of us all.
There’s Sid, the former chemistry professor, who writes his reviews in fine, tiny script, in a spiral notebook.
There’s Lily, with whom I went to the Book Festival in Jerusalem, last year, and who invited me over for coffee and to view her family’s quilts; if we had been in school together, I’m convinced we would have been best friends.
There’s Rose, from South Africa, who has a beautiful, lilting accent, and wears delicate clothing with small embroidered flowers.
There’s Sam, also from South Africa, the most laconic member of all, who speaks in a gentle, measured way, and who never takes more than one book–if that. If Moses wore Birkenstocks, he’d be the very image of him. The last meeting was at his house, and when someone brought out a book titled The River of Angry Dogs, Sam’s giant dog rose his head from under the coffee table and gave a soulful bark.
There’s redheaded Mindy, outspoken and with precise, quick reviews; she mothers the group in an efficient way.
There’s Mariah, who lived on a kibbutz and whose cousin in Canada is an Honest-to-God Famous Author who dedicated a book to her, which she brought to the club and over which we all swooned; her reviews would be at home in any graduate-level literature class, but they are often so thorough that they make the rest of the club squirm for a commercial break.
I love them. I hope they’ll forgive me when I write a book about them.
At this last meeting on Tuesday night, I gave my ad-lib reviews (writing them out makes me feel too much like I’m in grad school, again) and finished, but forgot to say thanks for the memories and good times, even though it was foremost in my thoughts. After everyone else had finished giving their reviews, Ramona produced a book on Israel that the club had bought for me, with their best wishes and a list of everyone’s addresses. “Don’t forget us,” the card urged.
It’s rather bad form to cry on a book, but I’m sure they understood.
In the last two weeks in Rehovot, I found a great hidden cafe, Cafe shel Sarit, shaded with bougainvilla vines; a French bakery I’ve never been to, right around the corner from the Russian market where I go all the time; and ads for yoga classes near where we live.
Would I like another month, here, to sample the new finds and to visit places I haven’t been to, yet (like Latrun and Abu Ghosh)? Well, yes. And no. Some days, more yes than no.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I had planned to remain wholly unattached to Rehovot.
But I really like having a handful of great cafes nearby, where the waitresses know me and J., and know exactly what we’ll have. I like taking the train to Tel Aviv, but not living smack-dab in it. I like the Institute campus, and its four million acres of lawn. I like subsidized lunch (and the view) from New Charlie’s. I like 88 FM. I like wandering around the shouk. I like the clatter of palm tree leaves, all over town. I like Eyal’s pastry shop. I really like the Book Club.
Argh! I’m a local! How did that happen?
Well, I’m not that local, I suppose. I don’t really speak the language, and there are large sections of town that I’ve never seen; namely, the neighborhood east of the Karl Berg Russian market, where I wandered around on Tuesday night, trying desperately to find the apartment where the Book Club meeting was to take place. The [Weizmann] Institute-issued map (like everything else they issue) was well-intentioned but in bad need of an update: streets that looked normal on the map were closed off or nonexistent.
Eventually, I found the address and rode up to the apartment with a tired businessman who leaned against the wall of the elevator and practically fell out when it arrived at his floor.
Nearly all of the Book Club’s regular members were there, and I realized how much I’ll miss the group. Before Christmas, I’d dropped off some books at a member’s apartment and talked with her, for a while. I think I must have complained that the social portion of the club, in which people graze on snacks and catch up with each other, was too short.
“Well, I didn’t join the Book Club to socialize,” she said, perched on an armchair. “I only joined it for the books. I don’t need it for the friends.”
I stared at her, stung. “Well, I DO!” I thought.
The Book Club is made up of native English speakers, most of whom made aliyah from the U.S. or Canada; there are also two South African members.
There’s Ramona, the no-nonsense organizer, with a background in editing engineering journals and an M.A. in French literature, who commutes to Tel Aviv to take courses from the Institut Francais.
There’s Amira, Tuesday night’s hostess, who dresses classically, and who was not afraid to tell the club that she liked The Da Vinci Code.
There’s Jody, the former professor of biology, who writes her reviews on index cards and who invited us over for coffee, when she and her husband were planning a trip Prague, last fall.
There’s Norma, the only Orthodox member in the Club, who winters in Florida and has the best tan of us all.
There’s Sid, the former chemistry professor, who writes his reviews in fine, tiny script, in a spiral notebook.
There’s Lily, with whom I went to the Book Festival in Jerusalem, last year, and who invited me over for coffee and to view her family’s quilts; if we had been in school together, I’m convinced we would have been best friends.
There’s Rose, from South Africa, who has a beautiful, lilting accent, and wears delicate clothing with small embroidered flowers.
There’s Sam, also from South Africa, the most laconic member of all, who speaks in a gentle, measured way, and who never takes more than one book–if that. If Moses wore Birkenstocks, he’d be the very image of him. The last meeting was at his house, and when someone brought out a book titled The River of Angry Dogs, Sam’s giant dog rose his head from under the coffee table and gave a soulful bark.
There’s redheaded Mindy, outspoken and with precise, quick reviews; she mothers the group in an efficient way.
There’s Mariah, who lived on a kibbutz and whose cousin in Canada is an Honest-to-God Famous Author who dedicated a book to her, which she brought to the club and over which we all swooned; her reviews would be at home in any graduate-level literature class, but they are often so thorough that they make the rest of the club squirm for a commercial break.
I love them. I hope they’ll forgive me when I write a book about them.
At this last meeting on Tuesday night, I gave my ad-lib reviews (writing them out makes me feel too much like I’m in grad school, again) and finished, but forgot to say thanks for the memories and good times, even though it was foremost in my thoughts. After everyone else had finished giving their reviews, Ramona produced a book on Israel that the club had bought for me, with their best wishes and a list of everyone’s addresses. “Don’t forget us,” the card urged.
It’s rather bad form to cry on a book, but I’m sure they understood.
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