A Very Jewcy Christmas - Part 2 (EcoME...Almost)

When we met at the bus station the next evening, Johnny informed me of a slight change in plans. We were first headed to the PRV house for a party. And while I’m still unclear as to what that actually stands for, I was informed that it is a community of Non-Violent Communication peacemakers connected to an intentional community in Portugal. While I was more enthused about getting to the village than I was about the party (and had already capped out my spontaneity quota for the week), I guess if you’re going to dive in for a weekend at an eco-village, why not dip your toes in at an intentional community first? That, and my fearless leader was the only one who knew where we were going; so I let go of my preferences, embraced the opportunity, and hopped on the bus.

Upon entering the massive suburban home, a man in a sequined masquerade mask was welcoming everyone and showing slides from the group’s time in Tamara, the community in Portugal. As the applause faded, another host ushered us into the kitchen where I found carrot sticks and spelt bread and chai tea, and a chocolate cake being already devoured by the guys we’d walked in with moments earlier. I made small talk by asking how they knew everyone here. “Mostly from the outdoor fairy society,” he replied. I looked around, and noticed that the host’s mask was not a unique identifier, but rather lost in a sea of crowns, boas, and jewels adorning the men who were chatting, petting one another, and flitting around the room.

This was a farewell party as the home was to be demolished for condos. Markers lined the baseboards and beautiful drawings of children, skylines, and anarchy symbols were sketched across the walls. The clothing, the contact dancing, the peaceful rebellion through art, the familiar musk of patchouli and unfrequently washed body – it all reminded me of Asheville. I felt a strange equilibrium between the comfort of home and total isolation amidst these Hebrew-speaking hippies. Every time social anxiety resurfaced, I did a lap around the house – not so much like a terrier, but more like a slow and methodical search for familiarity and connection. If none were immediately available, I returned to the dance floor and submitted my seclusion to silent exchanges and Journey.

Having been misinformed that this party was on the way to EcoME, Johnny and I had brought our stuff to spend the night, which meant that a new challenge was emerging. It was 12pm and there was no sign of the party slowing down. I asked the host where I might be sleeping, and he showed me a room just off of the dance floor, currently packed with couples. He grimaced, “ It may be a while,” he said. Finding no other alternative, I returned again to the dance floor. After a conversation or two and just about as much sweaty patchouli as I could handle, I was on the verge of desperation for a bed, floor space, a nook. At the precise moment at which I looked panic in the eye, a gong sounded. A circle formed silently and swelled as couples flounced down the stairs together and emerged from various rooms. The leader, having removed his mask and now wearing a giant boa, said a prayer, blessed the space, and bid everyone goodnight. And within half an hour, the house was settled.

The next morning, Johnny decided to stay and sort some communication issues out with his lady friend. They called over “The Flaming One” (although, I wasn’t sure whether that was a complimentary nickname or not; and moreover, I couldn’t see how that title distinguished him much from the others, so I will refer to him as young Michael Jackson), who gave me very specific directions about how to go directly back where we’d come from and get on a bus to EcoME. I did exactly as I was told. I returned to the bus station and got in line…sort of. The woman at the end was either not in line, or her bubble of personal space was exceeding the Israeli norm. My former self watched as a mental and cultural metamorphosis took place: like a mermaid whose human time was up, watching the scales replace her smooth skin and her legs melt together, I pushed ahead of the woman and closer to the ticket booth. “Uh, excuse me, I am in line,” she informed me in an excessively exasperated tone. We rolled our eyes at each other – she, unknowingly judging how rude Israelis are, and I, judging how entitled and spatially gluttonous Americans can be. But my former self  rebuffed the emergence of its new, pushier version  and recaptured its rightful place in my consciousness. I stepped back feeling a bit disoriented.

I finally got to the window, “Almog? Almon, maybe? Near the Dead Sea.” I found my bus and took a seat at the front so I could keep my eyes peeled for revolutionaries digging in the dirt. The bus lurched and paused through Jerusalem traffic and began to race towards the desert as the highway opened up. The beige buildings dissolved into sand as enormous orange dunes jutted from the earth, rounded by wind or a seasoned potter’s hands, and sliced in half like the Red Sea to make way for safe travel across their basin. I got off the bus at the Café Café, just as young Michael Jackson had instructed me to do; I crossed the road cattycorner to the camel parked out front; passed through the welcoming line of palm trees, and pushed open the gate to EcoME.