When I walked in last night after going outside for a cigarette (cigarettes never count after 3 or more beers. The carcinogens cancel each other out and they both become as healthy as blueberries and spinach. It’s weird, I know, but don’t question me.) I started to think, “if I got hit on in America as often as I do in Israel, I would be set.” Then I realized I wouldn’t be set — I would just always be uncomfortable and would never leave my house. So, sorry hot girls in America. Sorry your life is super uncomfortable all of the time and not just at parties and bars where everyone is drunk and consequently have lower standards. That must be really terrible for you.
While digging around in my giant purse for my lighter, an older grey car stopped about 10 meters (meters! God! Look how fucking cultured I am after 2.5 weeks of travel!) up the street after passing me. I saw his head poke out of the window and I pretended not to see as I muttered to myself, “this is how people get murdered.”
That exact moment someone walking along came by and tried to talk to me, giving me a compliment that a (faux, evidently) Chassidic Jew used to tried to pick me up with at a bar last week.
(side note: When I declined a drink he offered to buy me, he stared at me and told me I was afraid of commitment. What a winner. I love being psychologically analyzed by men who just cornered me in a bar and explained fucking Genesis to me for 40 minutes straight!))
No sooner had he left did I notice that same fucking grey car. This time he pulled about 5 meters ahead, stuck his head out and started repeating something in Hebrew over and over. I made the mistake of looking up, when a yellow van started pulling up behind him. He left. The guy in a yellow van said something to me. I waved him along because I figured he was a taxi.
Right before I put the cigarette out, the fucking grey car came flying around the block again. He pulled up right in front of me. He said things and I said “No Hebrew,” hoping that would be the end of it, but instead he motioned me to come over and I have no idea how to handle myself in uncomfortable situations, so I did. I figured the metal railing was barrier enough against Terrible Things.
After he said some things where most of my responses were of the no thank you and tight-lipped grin/grimace response, he motioned for me to get in his car as he pointed to the road ahead.
Internet, I want you to know that I never once considered getting in that car, but I did briefly consider consider getting into the car, because if I survived that sort of thing, I would’ve gotten a book deal… or at least a really good blog entry.
He got the hint and left. Then the same yellow van pulled up again. It wasn’t a taxi. It was a small moving van — another literal vehicle of rape. At this point I just begin to assume that any female alone at night in Haifa is probably a prostitute, because why else would this happen.
Anyway, I went inside and as I tried to take a picture of myself with my favorite sign (DR. SLUTSKY. A DENTIST. HOLY SHIT. SLUTSKY.) I started to wonder if I made the right decision, because he came around the block 3 times. 3 times. I’ve never been as dedicated to anything in my life as this guy was to trying to pick someone up. Maybe I should’ve just let him rape me, you know? Maybe he earned it.
This is how people get murdered.
