I’ve set out on a mission to dress more like an Israeli. Believe me, this has nothing to do with any killer sense of fashion I’ve observed here. Rather, my pursuit stems from a desire to fit in. It’s not as though I’m the awkward American sitting on the side in the equivalent of a clown suit and dunce hat. However, I have begun a focused effort to figure out the difference between my usual get up and that of the Jerusalem locals. All I’m hoping for are more opportunities to practice Hebrew around town, rather than being accurately assumed as an American based on the way I dress.
I began by purchasing a knee-length black skirt. Religious girls in Jerusalem all wear skirts. The first day I wore it out, I accidentally destroyed my shot to look Israeli by tucking a shirt into it — a look that has yet to come to Israel — and making myself an obvious American.
There were some changes I could easily make from my existing wardrobe. I noticed that hardly any Israelis wear flip-flops, despite weather that fully welcomes open-toed shoes. Thick strapped leather sandals — known as biblical sandals, or Moses sandals rather than gladiators — are the norm. I already own a pair of the most famous national shoe brand, Naot, and have made an effort to choose them over my regular choice, mold-to-your-feet Rainbows.
This weekend, I traveled up to the northern part of Israel to spend the Jewish New Year, Rosh HaShana, with my mom’s sister’s family. Saturday night I went out with my cousin Adi to a local pub. I find it ironic that such crowded hang-outs exist among the backdrop of rolling, sparsely settled mountains.
Adi and I began comparing the party (a pub that is set up for dancing) to an American dance bar. I observed that everyone was way less dressed up, as is the norm for any event in rural northern Israel. Several of the good-looking male partygoers were wearing tee shirts with the collars cut off, a popular Israeli style. I commented that I found the deep cut neckline really effeminate and unattractive. Adi was shocked, as she perceived it as very masculine and outdoorsy.
This got me thinking: There just might not be a way to change my preexisting ideas about appearances. I have lived the majority of my life in a culture with certain norms and I can’t just buy a new skirt and magically fit in.
Even if I spend the rest of my days in Israel sticking out like apple pie in a falafel stand, I appreciate that I can get away with a lot while being stereotyped as a dumb American, or even worse a rich American. Dropping one thick-accented “how old do I need to be?” gets me brushed past the line and into any 24+ club without any glance at an ID. And, probably more usefully, my status as an American excuses obnoxious behavior like asking for four free samples of different flavors at a gelato stand. If I can’t join ‘em, I’ll settle for taking advantage of ‘em.
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