foreign workers speak excellent Hebrew

Lightning strikes. Really, it does, and it may be the last of the season. There are clouds, a bright half moon, and I can taste the stale exhaust of the buses and taxis. I’ve been in the office for a little longer than I expected. Ever since I read a biography of Ralph Nader’s early advocacy days, I romanticized late night activism in a messy office. So when I heard my colleague's voicemail that my email hadn’t gone through, it seemed like a no-brainer to go back to the office just to send it through. It would be a lame reason not to get the newsletter distributed before Pesach.

Now I’m inside the building and it’s eleven minutes to eleven. I come downstairs, and I find that I’m the only one inside the building, locked inside. Thank you, creators of cell phones, I think to myself. I call Shany, one of my co-workers, and she cheerfuly stays on the line with me while I go back up to the office, scramble through drawers to find the master keys, and rush downstairs to get out before the alarm is activated.

The first key opens the first door. The second key is supposed to open the second door, but the second door is a sheet of steel and stuck. It has a skeleton keyhole that I can see through. I only have a tiny aluminum key and nowhere to put it. I’m in-between one door and the next, trapped in the foyer, starting to perspire.

I’m glad for myself that I always fill my water bottle, a ridiculous thought, since the building has running water, if I am indeed trapped. Shany says, “Well, you can sleep there tonight…it’s not a problem.” She’s joking and it’s actually pretty funny, because if an American were on the line, this would be a more serious drama.

BANG! I kick the door out. Inhale, exhale, relieved.

I walk home through the red light district of Tel Aviv. I remember Paul Simon and sing, “…a come-on from the whores of Seventh Ave. I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome I took some comfort there…”

But the whores are all indoors, and the come-ons come my way, even though I’m wearing work jeans and tie-dye, unshowered. A Russian guy asks me the time, and I fumble, not able to recall numbers in Hebrew, after such a long day. I think of the 17-year old Philippino girl at the bus stop this morning. She spoke perfect Hebrew.

Another day in Tel Aviv.