I was eighteen. My status was “legal”, my curfew non-existent, my beverage of choice was tequila (or whiskey if it was bought for me, or champagne if it was one of my weekly birthdays). My extra-curricular activities consisted of napping, dancing and eating french fries too late at night. I was in Israel and my parents were in New York.
It was September of 2008, and I had embarked on a year-long journey to Israel on a volunteer program. Upon my arrival at the airport, I was greeted by a woman who within one breath both introduced herself as “Meital” and barked for me to get in line. Each of us were handed an ancient brick of a cell phone whose only capabilities were basic phone calls and black and white texting, our volunteer placement information and the keys to our apartments. Our only rules were to attend our volunteer jobs on time daily, keep our apartment presentable and to be present for one weekly meeting with our fellow roommates. OOOther than that we were simply advised “don’t do stupid.” “Stupid,” as it was referred to, included but was not limited to: sitting in the front seat of a cab when traveling alone and blacking out. So, essentially, we were a group of six hundred eighteen year-olds,,, abroad, far from our parents, with no curfew and license to drink.
Each night was a declaration of our freedom. People drank too much, conducted themselves poorly and were lucky enough to have friends whom were willing to drag them home. As the novelty of going out every night began to wear off we began to limit our nights out to Thursday nights because (at least for the ladies) while the novelty of drinking every night and waking up early to go to work lost its’ sheen, a strapping Israeli man in his army uniform did not. Thursday night marked the start of the weekend for Israeli soldiers and so did it mark the start of the American girls’ weekend. Clubs and bars were filled with extremely attractive men, only made more attractive by their well-fitted green uniforms.
Thursday meant waking up at 7 a.m., volunteering until 4 p.m., napping until 8 p.m., only to wake up when most people head to sleep to shower and dress for the night ahead. Alternating Thursdays meant it was my birthday and my roommate Pemme’s too. We were both redheads and it occurred to us early on that redheads were so rare over there that people would naturally assume that we were twins. And so, we were. On such Thursday’s when it was our “birthday” we’d tell the bar owner who would bring over two champagne bottles on the house “for the twins!” What made these Thursdays even more comical was that this bar was the bar we started at every Thursday night. So, this bar owner in the span of one year celebrated at least ten birthdays with “the twins.”
It was only a matter of time before a young Israeli soldier fresh off base would approach the young American girls at the bar, buying us drinks and dragging us onto the dance floor. We would almost always exchange names but often neither of us would make an effort to remember them since neither of us intended to hang out again. The guys were always super excited to practice their English and would quote movies like American Pie as if on repeat. They would ask the same five questions, one of which would usually be “Is college in America really like in the movies?”
I recall one encounter in particular, because it marked my first real kiss and because a bizarre conversation ensued. I had gone out with four friends that night to a new club in Tel Aviv hoping to dance the night away with an attractive soldier. Instead, I got a slightly shorter, skinnier version of the attractive soldier I had been hoping for but he was a soldier nonetheless and I decided he would do. He pulled me toward him, screaming his name over the music—“I’m Noam!” Following our introduction he proceeded to pull me towards the couches lining the walls and gestured for me to sit down. Now, we were going to talk. Our chat went like this:
Noam: Tell me something interesting about yourself!
Me: I don’t know, you tell me something interesting about you first!
Noam: I have five cats!
Me: Cool!
Noam: Can I get your number?!
Me: No! Here, type yours!
Noam typed his number then handed me back my phone as if to test my memory, seeing if I had remembered his name. Thankfully, I had, and confidently typed his name “Navy Noam” into my contact list—where it was forever immortalized.
In January of 2009 after over a week of air strikes, the Israeli army finally crossed the border into Gaza and war was finally being declared against Hamas. While our parents in America were panicked for our safety, all I could think was whether one of the soldiers being reported dead today was one of the men who had bought me a drink on a Thursday. I was struck by how these soldiers, our same age, were not just guys who came out to have fun with American girls but men, who at the age of eighteen were handed a rifle and uniform. I quickly realized what I had already known but had yet to process.
Sitting in the lobby of our hostel, our ears burning from the news—I sat there. I took out my ancient brick of a cell phone and opened my “Contacts”. As I scrolled down the list to call my parents, “Navy Noam”, who was immortalized in my cell phone, reminded me of both his and my own mortality.
