// end of the world //
Fall 2016
A Taxi Ride in Israel
Tova Kamioner
It was around 16 hours since I had been home, and I now sat slouched in the front seat of the taxi service. Everyone else had been dropped off. I was left discussing marriage prospects (because, what else?) with my driver, who, with the exception of allowing an American to speak with him in Hebrew, fit almost every Israeli stereotype. We conversed in scratchy, tired voices.
“Are you married?”
“Am I… what? No, I’m not,” I said, chuckling.
“Oh, I thought you were married.”
I heard myself laugh. “Why?”
“I don’t know, I just figured you were.”
I look about sixteen. Hair uncovered, no rings on my hand, and no doting husband by my side.
“Why?” I challenged.
“Well, why not?” he shrugged.
I pulled my hair back into another ponytail. The seams on the insides of my leggings had twisted all the way around each leg; I was too tired to fix them. A carry-on backpack weighed down my lap, “Ahavat Yisrael baNishama” (“Love of Israel in the Soul,” a popular Israeli song) puff-painted on the front. I opened my mouth to nudge once more—what would make him think I was married?—then closed it and mimicked his shrug instead.
“Well, why aren’t you married?” the driver tested.
I grinned. “I mean, there are other factors at play.”
“Like what?”
For one, there’s the guy. There needs to be one. Did he think that was something that could be fixed by me?
Well, was it?
Avoid the topic.
“Religious people don’t always get married in college in America,” I began.
“Oh!” he interjected. His eyebrows shot up. “You’re religious?”
I nodded.
“Where’s your skirt?”
I looked down. My skirt had tucked underneath my bag so that only my leggings showed, so I pulled it out and straightened it. “Here, see?,” I pointed. Why did I point? I didn’t always wear skirts. Was it so hard for him to believe that I was religious if I didn’t wear the identifiably Orthodox straight black skirt? And, more to the point, why did I care?
“You wear a skirt over pants?” the driver again raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, yeah, they’re called leggings. That’s how they wear it in America.”
“That’s how they wear it in America...” he repeated. “Okay. Strange.” He kept on driving.
I pretended to be comfortable with the silence that followed, watching the Judean hills blur in the window.
“So…” the driver began again. I looked up. “You’re considered religious in America?”
I laughed. Maybe it was because my collarbone and elbows were showing, but he couldn’t let it go. “Yes.”
He nodded and continued driving. “And do you have a boyfriend?”
Nope. “Not at the moment,” I said.
“But you’ve had a boyfriend before?”
“Nope.”
“What?” he half-shouted, lifting his right hand off the wheel and waving it in the air in disbelief. “How old are you that you’ve never had a boyfriend?”
I knit my brow. “I’m twenty,” I said defensively.
“Oh, fine. Twenty. You’re fine.”
Thank you?
“And you say you’re religious,” he said, “So does that mean you’re going to be set up?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” he said, his tone accusing. I looked atthe road ahead and started to see the driver in a white button down, black Homburg hat, and flowing tzitzit.
“I’d rather meet someone,” I insisted.
“Sure,” he shrugged. The button-down faded back into his peach T-shirt, and the hat and tzitzit folded into my mind.
More silence for a minute. I adjusted my skirt again and checked my phone. I was tired. Too tired for all of this. I put my head back and closed my eyes.
“I could be your boyfriend,” the driver speaks up.
I opened my eyes and looked at him, detecting the deal breakers. He wasn’t wearing a kippah, and I approximated at least 15 years between us.
I was also mostly sure he was joking.
“I don’t think so,” I said, offering a smile. “Sorry.”
“Are you married?”
“Am I… what? No, I’m not,” I said, chuckling.
“Oh, I thought you were married.”
I heard myself laugh. “Why?”
“I don’t know, I just figured you were.”
I look about sixteen. Hair uncovered, no rings on my hand, and no doting husband by my side.
“Why?” I challenged.
“Well, why not?” he shrugged.
I pulled my hair back into another ponytail. The seams on the insides of my leggings had twisted all the way around each leg; I was too tired to fix them. A carry-on backpack weighed down my lap, “Ahavat Yisrael baNishama” (“Love of Israel in the Soul,” a popular Israeli song) puff-painted on the front. I opened my mouth to nudge once more—what would make him think I was married?—then closed it and mimicked his shrug instead.
“Well, why aren’t you married?” the driver tested.
I grinned. “I mean, there are other factors at play.”
“Like what?”
For one, there’s the guy. There needs to be one. Did he think that was something that could be fixed by me?
Well, was it?
Avoid the topic.
“Religious people don’t always get married in college in America,” I began.
“Oh!” he interjected. His eyebrows shot up. “You’re religious?”
I nodded.
“Where’s your skirt?”
I looked down. My skirt had tucked underneath my bag so that only my leggings showed, so I pulled it out and straightened it. “Here, see?,” I pointed. Why did I point? I didn’t always wear skirts. Was it so hard for him to believe that I was religious if I didn’t wear the identifiably Orthodox straight black skirt? And, more to the point, why did I care?
“You wear a skirt over pants?” the driver again raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, yeah, they’re called leggings. That’s how they wear it in America.”
“That’s how they wear it in America...” he repeated. “Okay. Strange.” He kept on driving.
I pretended to be comfortable with the silence that followed, watching the Judean hills blur in the window.
“So…” the driver began again. I looked up. “You’re considered religious in America?”
I laughed. Maybe it was because my collarbone and elbows were showing, but he couldn’t let it go. “Yes.”
He nodded and continued driving. “And do you have a boyfriend?”
Nope. “Not at the moment,” I said.
“But you’ve had a boyfriend before?”
“Nope.”
“What?” he half-shouted, lifting his right hand off the wheel and waving it in the air in disbelief. “How old are you that you’ve never had a boyfriend?”
I knit my brow. “I’m twenty,” I said defensively.
“Oh, fine. Twenty. You’re fine.”
Thank you?
“And you say you’re religious,” he said, “So does that mean you’re going to be set up?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” he said, his tone accusing. I looked atthe road ahead and started to see the driver in a white button down, black Homburg hat, and flowing tzitzit.
“I’d rather meet someone,” I insisted.
“Sure,” he shrugged. The button-down faded back into his peach T-shirt, and the hat and tzitzit folded into my mind.
More silence for a minute. I adjusted my skirt again and checked my phone. I was tired. Too tired for all of this. I put my head back and closed my eyes.
“I could be your boyfriend,” the driver speaks up.
I opened my eyes and looked at him, detecting the deal breakers. He wasn’t wearing a kippah, and I approximated at least 15 years between us.
I was also mostly sure he was joking.
“I don’t think so,” I said, offering a smile. “Sorry.”