Just Call Me Cavalli

The adventure for my Mediterranean knight continues as I wait for a dark man on a white horse to come and whisper sweet “Ehhhh’s” into my ear.

The tumultuous Tel Aviv dating tale steamed forward this past weekend with a story that I know would upset any of my proverbial sorority sisters.

A few friends and I headed to the local sketchy club to attempt to awkwardly dance to some deep house music. Why do Israelis all get their giggles from trance and techno? Israel’s obsession with India really needs to pass. If I have to endure any more “Shanti” people, I’ll shanti myself.

When I yelled something to my friend, a man standing a few feet away decided to repeat what I had just said back. I guess he thought the fact that he was “speaking” English would make me giggle and drop my panties. Safe to say he made six mistakes in the seven words that he repeated back—a true linguist.

As he approached and began speaking to me, I broke out in Hebrew—something that always surprises them and gives me great satisfaction. When you know Hebrew, you are not just some dumb tourist, it gives you a few more notches of respect in the eyes of Israeli men. I said a few notches, none of which ever equal full respect.

When I recently asked an Israeli male companion why Sabras have such little respect for American girls, he answered “Emmmmm, you know, Taglit.” Enough said, Shlomo. Enough said. Man, 10 days of solider-related fun really ruins it for the rest of us. Who knew Masada made people so randy?

A few days later Yaron*, the man from our late night dancing called. He asked if I wanted to meet up for a beer. I accepted.

Well , he talked. . . a lot, and mostly about himself. He kept checking his phone, texting, sending selfies, and recording voice notes as he offered his apologies but was going out later and needed to solidify plans.

After the sixth voice note sent, I had enough, and told him that if he was in such a rush we should just get the bill. He insisted everything was fine and continued to talk about his fabulous self.

He was 32 and an aspiring clothing designer. So far, he just made T shirts out of his garage but I’m pretty sure he asked people to call him Roberto Cavali.

When he finally did ask me a question, my answer was abruptly cut off. Mid-sentence he declared “I have a kid.” Boom there it was. Welcome to Israel.

He explained that a few years back he and a close female companion decided to have a baby. She was 37 and itching to have a child. With no romantic prospects on her horizon, Yaron agreed to lend a helping, er, hand.

So that’s what women here are resorting to for the total lack of men? “Hello, El Al, yes, one return ticket to America please. And I will be returning with a whole lot more baggage than I arrived with.”

Well, he certainly wasn’t shy about including the fact that she conceived through good old fashioned intercourse—and fast. “It didn’t take long, hardy Yemenite sperm,” he proudly declared with a huge grin. Sperm, similar to the phrase “Let’s split the bill”, is just one of those phrases you’d prefer not to hear on a first date.

Where did it all go so very wrong? I was just a nice Jewish girl from Queens until Nefesh B’ Nefesh got their hooks into me with all their propaganda. I thought life was just going to be me sitting on the beach playing matkot while being fed Bamba by a hot Israeli man named Dudu. False. Advertising.

Just as I thought things had reached their awkward crescendo on the date front, out came the pictures. Here I was, on a first date, more than slightly flustered, sitting across from a man wearing pants a few sizes too tight, flipping through his iPhone gallery showing me pictures of his toddler.

I got the bill as he declared he’s meeting his friends to “swing by a club.” Yeah, go swing. Hope you break both your legs on the landing.

In typical good first date etiquette, I reached for my wallet and took out my credit card. I put it down with no objection on his part. “Thanks, I’ll get the tip,” he said. What the fuc***. For the love of god, serenity now!

As he walked me down the block, he tried to grab my hand, presumably wanting a kiss. It took all the strength I had not to karate chop his hand off of my arm. Instead, I pushed it away gave him a hug goodbye, and walked away as fast as my legs could carry me.

So there I was, 70 shekels poorer and a little more familiar with the capabilities of Yemenite sperm. You can call me a lot of names, but stepmom won’t be one of them.

About the Author
A born and raised Forest Hills, New York native, the pursuit of warmth and adventure brought me to the tone-deaf and seriously volume enhanced land of Israel. While some assume the volume of my hair just comes from overpriced product, it's simply where I store my creativity.
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