Yesh Kipod B'cheder

(There is a hedgehog in the room)

It's been nearly a month since I've been at the kibbutz and oh, what an interesting nearly a month it's been.
For one, I've made some really good friends as well as more than a few really strange acquaintances.
For two, I no longer work in the hotel because although I was apparently perfect for the job, I also hated the living daylights out of the job.
So after a pretty succinct and terse conversation about my options with one of the most useless human beings I've ever met (not an exaggeration; I have references and am happy to expand upon that assertion if anyone wants to hear me whine), I was moved.

First it was to the kitchen with all of Latin America, which was an absolute ball.
I got to use my Spanish and listen to Israeli radio and watch all the Chileans and Argentinians dance whenever this one commercial for some alarm company came on.
Also I know where they keep the Nutella supplies now.

But alas, they needed another person in the noy instead ("noy" is Hebrew for beautiful or something; essentially it's landscaping work) and so to the noy I went.

Most of what I do is rake and prune and lift heavy things and eat like a 16 year old boy.
We've laid down sod for a new lawn; I'm excellent at pruning, weeding and sweeping dirt back into its designated pit; and I am also the new sprinkler and irrigation specialist.
Impressive, no?

In addition to being in charge* of all of the water, I'm also the only girl I work with.
My bosses and coworkers all comment daily on my incredible ability to amass large amounts of burekas and hummus on my plate and consume them like a lady, as well as how strong I am:

I can now lift almost 2 kilos of ice cream in one hand, while telling other people what else they can bring me.

And even though we wake up around 5:00am for work at 5:15am because it's already too hot to work after lunch, and even though it's only going to get hotter, and sometimes the rest of my coworkers just call me PMS when I whine about how heavy the tree trunks are that we have to pick up...I like the work.

I joke.
(I have always been able to lift that much ice cream in one hand, and they call me PMS no matter what I whine about)
I'm really enjoying the physical work and the guys I work with are awesome.
And attractive.
Also I'm tanner than I've ever been.

Win-win-win-win-win.

*I'm not in charge of anything, but I do know the computer code that sets off the sprinklers and have been having fun pissing off all the feral cats who sleep by our house by turning the water on sporadically.
Also, we're in the fucking desert and this place is so well developed that not only is there a sprinkler system set up to irrigate the plants and date trees (one of the kibbutz's main sources of income), they even have gardens with flowers and trees for aesthetic purposes! This blows my mind on the regular.

This whole experience has been really interesting, both socially and spiritually.
In a lot of ways, I'm at camp.
Almost everyone's Jewish, they have French toast for breakfast a lot, I share clothing with everyone I know, we have Shabbat as a community, the pool and the cheder ochel (dining room) are the central meeting places, and everyone uses golf carts to get around.
At the same time, there are no counselors and very little actual structure (except for meals which are the only real scheduled activities), so it's sort of a mix between camp and college.

And of course, whenever you put people together for an extended period of time, the middle schoolers in all of us come out to play.
I've never been that good at keeping up with the drama, but luckily there was a free beer night a few weeks ago which allowed me to participate in the general balagan (Hebrew for shit show) of the kibbutz.
Nothing too incredible happened, but I can now safely and confidently say that I am able to get free shots of liquor in every country I've visited on this trip.
Also I have been shot down not once but apparently four times in one night by the same guy.
Count it!

On that note, it's time to go to the pool; 43 degrees Celcius is almost warm enough to BBQ your spleen.