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October 2000 Issue

Making A Splash

By Loolwa Khazzoom

I pushed through the revolving doors of the King David Hotel, forgetting every Hebrew word I ever knew, and becoming The American Tourist. I strode confidently toward the large outdoor pool, ready to start my summer exercise program in Israel.

The $5 duffel bag on my back, however, and the full set of cyclist clothes on my body seemed to tip off the pool guard. "Are you a guest here?" he asked.

"No, but my parents are," I said. "What is their name?" he asked. Think tribes, Loolwa. "Levy," I answered.

He walked over to scan the list of hotel guests. They have a frickin' list of hotel guests at the pool?! "No Levy is listed here," he said. "They're checking in tonight," I persisted. "They told me to meet them here."

He didn't buy it for a minute. "Well, you'll have to meet them in the lounge." "OK," I said chipperly and strode away. How could there be not one Levy in a hotel full of Jews???

I passed the front desk and paused, spotting a list of hotel guests. Goldberg, room 507. Shatz, room 306. Both were checked in for a few more days.

None of the desk clerks had noticed me. I got the attention of one of them and asked to borrow a pen. I jotted down the information, returned the pen, and left the hotel. With my new technique, I approached the Sheraton.

"Excuse me," I said in Innocent English, "My friend called and said she is checking in with her parents this week, but I don't know when. Can you see if they're here yet?" He asked for the last name. "Goldberg," I said. He checked the roster. "We have many Goldbergs," he said. "What's the first name?"

"Well, my friend's name is Galit, but it's probably under her father's name. I don't remember it. Can you read me a few names? Maybe I'll recognize it." "Sarah, Chaim, Eliezer..." He read the full list. "No, I don't recognize any of those names." "OK, well, can I have a card, and I'll call you later in the week?" "Sure," he said, and handed me a card. I took it, turned on my heel, and walked in the direction I hoped was towards the pool.

Yowza! This pool was phenomenal, replete with waterfalls and a front row view of Jaffa Gate and the Old City wall. The King David pool looked like a dump in comparison.

As I sat down and took in the scene, the lifeguard approached me, speaking in Hebrew.

"Are you a guest here?" he asked. "No, but my aunt is," I said. This time I was ready with a name. "OK, that's fine," he replied. All that work for nothing!

The lifeguard sat down, introduced himself as Tsachi, and asked my name. For much of my childhood I struggled with Iraqi-Israeli family members trying to change my name to Lilly so nobody would suspect my Iraqi roots. I finally got them to leave me alone when I started calling all of them Alex.

"Lilly," I replied, laughing inside. "Lilly Goldberg."

When I left the pool, I asked Tsachi for another towel for my hair. He gave me a white bath sheet, one of those plush full-body towels I always covet in bed & bath stores. It far surpassed the little blue YMCA towel I had ripped off the week before, the one that barely covered my butt. So I stuffed it in the duffel bag, to add to my collection.

That evening, I recounted my accomplishments to my friend Avi, an Indian-Israeli guy. "Loolwa, you thief!" he laughed. "What are you doing? You're proving all the Ashkenazi stereotypes of Mizrahim!" "What can I do?" I smirked. "I'm Mizrahi. It's in my blood."

A week later, I called to see if my "aunt" was still at my favorite hotel. She wasn't. I thanked the clerk and hung up. Late that night, when the clerk shift would have changed, I called again with my "Galit" routine. Elias Goldberg became my new ticket to the pool (a.k.a., my Aunt Sarah's husband), and I returned for a swim the next day.

After a few rounds, keeping up with the high turnover rate of relatives at five star hotels proved to be more stressful than fun. I decided to cash in on my YMCA membership and go the legitimate route (although I did steal another towel).

I had been avoiding the Y because I hated the pool. There were no floating dividers between the lanes, nobody paid attention to the lanes anyhow, and swimming hours were split into annoyingly short segments of women only, men only, and co-ed. As a result, a swimming workout was equivalent to 45 minutes of splashing around in an obstacle course.

I was the only woman under 60 and the only one doing laps. Everyone else was treading water and talking or doing super-slow breath strokes in jagged lines and circles throughout the pool.

These women were damned if anyone was going to introduce a new routine. After one or two of my laps, an old woman banished me from "her" side of the pool. Avoiding conflict, I tried swimming along a narrow strip on the right side, but the same thing happened over there. I moved to a clear space in the middle and again was given hell.

"Look," I said, stopping to tread water and pushing my goggles to my forehead, "I tried swimming on the left side, I tried swimming on the right. I just need one narrow place to swim."

"Well, why in my space? Swim in someone else's space!" she argued.

And then, in typical Israeli style, the whole pool joined the argument. "You're swimming too fast!" one woman piped up. "I'm not swimming too fast!" I countered. "I'm just swimming laps." "We don't do that here," another woman chipped in. The arguments continued as I decided to just get back to business, amidst the clamor of discontent.

I chose the last strip of clear water available and began swimming back and forth. Old Lady #3, the one with whom I argued, swam in a deliberate L shape, going straight until she neared me, then quickly cutting over to get in my way. The whole situation was absurd; I just laughed and accepted it, dodging her each time. And somehow, I got in all my swimming for the day.

As I left, the friendly lifeguard advised me to come back during co-ed swim. "These ladies don't swim," he said. "They see it as a social hour. Co-ed swim has more serious swimmers." I thanked the lifeguard and returned for that time slot, later in the week.

But as the only woman in co-ed swim, I found that even the "serious swimmers" did all they could to get in my way, swimming at angles forcing me against the wall.

Maybe I'd take hell from old ladies, but male domination always rubs me the wrong way. Not only did I verbally instruct the men on the boundaries of their swimming space, but also I enforced my territory through butterfly strokes that landed threateningly near their eyeballs. I got my little strip of water, alright, and my summer exercise program continued.

Loolwa Khazzoom ( www.loolwa.com) is a published author whose essays have been featured in anthologies and countless periodicals. She is a self-defense instructor, a feminist activist, a Jewish multicultural educator, and a musician.

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