For my birthday, we went to camp in a national park at the northern edge of Israel, a beautiful area right on mediterranean located in the ruins of an Arabic town from the 13th century.
I was expecting Sunday to be quiet but instead there was a nice crowd of Christian Arabs who came for a restful day at the beach. I write "nice" because I was pleasantly surprised. I still hold a prejudice of the Arabic culture, believing that the people are a tad on the grotesque side for my more sensitive soul. Not really sure why, nor how much I am influenced by way that culture is protrayed in the Western media. I just sense an easier access to violence, so I conclude that these are not nice people. However the families who sat having picnics around us were quiet and orderly. Even the male group of testosterone-pumped gym-pumped men running after each other on the beech was cute (Greek like) - they even had the curtiousy to ask us if it was ok to put a bit of music on at night. Maybe "Christian" is the key point here, I know that's what people would like to believe. But as a baptised Christian who doesn't believe anymore, I don't want to give that much credit to Jesus. I think that affluence brings better manners and that's what Israel brings to the "friendly" Arabs who ended up on this side of the territories. Reminds me of one day I sat in the train and listened to two business men talking Arabic in the seats across the aisle. It suddenly seemed to me that I was back in Switzerland listening to two business men speaking Swiss german on the train. It just seemed natural, even if there remains a current of ambivalence between the "races". Israel's not quite there - give it one or two hundred years. But based on this Sunday experience in the park, I could have been forgiven for thinking that peace had finally made it to this land.
All that to say that when I discovered that I had left the bottle opener at home, I needed to ask an Arab for help! But I was out of luck - no wine drinkers there. I returned to our table and contemplated the bottle longingly. I love wine. I was trying hard to think of novel ways to get the cork out when the father from the neighboring family came over with his two daughers and handed me a can of beer. I said, no, really, I have beer of my own. He said, with a charming, mischevious smile, that he can open the bottle without anything. I decided to entertain his idea. He wrapped the bottle in a towel and gave it a bang on the table. OK! Now I'm getting the idea, he thinks this is champaigne. I tell him it's wine. He bangs again. And again. You can see that there is a bit of foam bubbling just below the cork and he tries to make me believe that the cork is moving, but I watch it every time the bottle hits the table and I don't see it move even a fraction of a millimeter. I warn him that this is French wine; maybe the trick only works on sunburnt Israeli wine. He bangs the bottle one more time. And suddenly there is a thick pool of red spreading over the table, just like blood seeps out of a hollywoodian human who has fallen from a great height. I felt the taste of wine on my tongue drain to despair. Boy was I looking forward to that. And I'm zen. After two days of sheer hard work camping with a one-year old daughter and an almost five year old daughter who has decided that her name is Michael and that she is three years old and wants to go home every 10 minutes, after all of that, I've found complete quietness. Not even the hint of anger. Just a laugh, a hand-shake, a goodbye and the relief that it wasn't my towel that the bottle had shattered in.
Ten minutes later, his daughters came over with a half-finished bottle of Jack Daniels black-label whiskey. I'm not really a whiskey drinker, but I accept the token of good will. My first brush with a civilized Arabic bottle opener.
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