Never reveal too much to a parent — especially one as overprotective and unpredictable as my dad.
When I told him the story of how Marla and I met, the first thing he did was sign me up for an intensive course in Hebrew.
“You need to be able to get around this city,” he said. “We can’t have another incident like that one in the pizzeria.”
“But Dad,” I protested, “Marla knows Hebrew. She can translate for me.”
“Sorry honey, but you have to learn it for yourself. And you’ll need it when you start school in the fall — many of your classes will be in Hebrew.”
I stared at him in shock.
“But … but Dad, I’m only going to be here for three months. It’ll just be a waste of money.”
He laughed at that. “Let me worry about the money, Mack.”
“And what about you?” I challenged. “You don’t know any Hebrew. Are you going to take a class, too?”
“Me? Gosh no. I’m far too busy planning my curriculum for the fall semester. Tell you what, you can teach me what you learn every day. It’ll be fun.”
Yeah, really fun—like watching weeds grow!
As much as I tried to talk him out of it, no amount of whining, begging, or complaining seemed to help. His mind was made up.
So that’s how I ended up in school for the last seven weeks of summer. Me and my stupid big mouth!
Marla tried to reassure me that it wasn’t going to be so bad.
“Everyone who comes to Israel takes language classes — it’s almost like an initiation rite. My family and I all did it together. It’s called ‘Ulpan.’”
But she was wrong. It was so bad. The classroom was hot, the teacher made the class more boring than last-period geometry, and all my classmates reeked of cigarettes. Thankfully, I only had to be there in the mornings. I spent much of my time in Ulpan doodling, staring out the window, and wondering where we were going to spend our afternoon.
Marla had a summer job at a nearby day camp. Since her work ended at twelve-thirty, she was able to meet me every day after class to take me around the city — just like she’d promised.
The first thing she did was teach me how to navigate the Israeli bus system. Then she showed me the sights. She took me to downtown Jerusalem to see all the great shops and chic boutiques. She took me to the bustling Yoel Solomon Street to window-shop at all the trendy stores. She took me to Mahane Yehuda, the huge open-air food market, where we browsed and munched on free tastes of everything from sunflower seeds and homemade candy to baked goods and freshly churned peanut butter. She took me to Emek Refaim, a pretty neighbourhood packed with cafés and restaurants. She took me to Liberty Bell Park and showed me the Terry Fox Garden, which made my heart swell with pride for Canada and my stomach queasy with homesickness all at the same time. She pointed out all the posh, swanky hotels where royalty, ambassadors, and heads of state came to stay on their official visits to Jerusalem.
And then the next day she taught me how to sneak into the posh, swanky hotel pools.
“All you need is one of these to look like you belong,” she explained, pulling a pair of towels out of her beach bag.
I took one and examined it. It was thick and fluffy and soft. And embroidered in fancy print were the words, The King David Hotel.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
“I’ve got a whole bunch of them at home,” she explained. “My grandmother is rich, but cheap. Nothing gives her more pleasure in life than to get stuff for free. She stashes hotel towels in her suitcase every time she visits from Buffalo. I have towels from all the nicest hotels in Jerusalem.”
I couldn’t believe she was bragging about this!“
“So, your grandmother’s a kleptomaniac?” I asked, handing her back the stolen towel before anybody saw me holding it. She just laughed and stuffed it back into her bag.
“Don’t be so paranoid, Mack!”
Paranoid or not, the first time we snuck into a hotel pool I felt like a criminal.
“What if we get caught?” I moaned. My heart was beating a mile a minute. I’d never done anything so reckless before.
“We won’t,” Marla said, pulling me towards the lounge chairs. “Just act like you belong. And pay with shekels for anything you buy.”
I was so nervous. I chose a chair as far away from the pool as possible, pulled the brim of my hat down over my face, and started nibbling my fingernails furiously. I fully expected the police to show up and haul us off to jail. My skin was itchy under my bikini. I tugged awkwardly at the straps, and prayed we wouldn’t get caught.
Marla, on the other hand, seemed totally relaxed. She stretched out her towel, pulled out her iPod, and started sunbathing. I have to admit, after an hour I began to ease up a bit. I even took off my hat and let my face show. And at the end of the day, when I realized that nobody was going to arrest me for trespassing, I was hooked. After that, it got easier and easier every time.
In between the sights and the pools, Marla taught me how to “coffee.” Coffee, you see, is a whole cultural movement in Israel. Espresso bars and outdoor cafés are everywhere. In the early afternoon, everything slows down for a couple of hours while people flock to the coffee shops to relax and escape the heat.
Marla almost fell off her chair when I told her I’d never tasted coffee before.
“What are you talking about? Not even a sip? Are you from this planet?”
“I guess I never thought much about it.” I shrugged. My mind skipped back a couple of months to Hailey Winthrop and her story of her date with Harrison Finch. We’d all been so shocked when she’d tasted his coffee.
“Doesn’t caffeine stunt your growth?” I asked Marla.
“Um, are you planning on a career in professional basketball?”
“No,” I muttered stupidly.
Marla sighed and pushed her steaming cup into my hands. “Look, Mack, I used to be an outsider in this country too, so here’s some advice. You don’t smoke and that’s okay. But if you don’t learn to like coffee, you’ll never fit in. So drink up!”
I took a tentative sip and grimaced. It was black, burning hot, and bitter.
“Ugh! You like this stuff?” I asked, handing her back the cup.
Marla giggled. “I do, but I’ve had a lot of practice. Maybe I should have started you off with something a bit easier.”
She got me another cup and sweetened it with milk and sugar until it tasted like a hot dessert. Better, but still not as satisfying as a hot chocolate on a wintry afternoon. Despite my protests, Marla kept dragging me back into coffee shops every day.
“It’s for your own good!” she’d insist, pushing cup after cup
