Journey into Zionism: The Kibbutznikim

It has come to my attention that the bottoms of my feet are beginning to take on a sexy appearance not unlike that of a decaying potato, with a texture coarse like well-worn sandpaper and impenetrable like a burnt tofu burger. My reaction to this observation: a hearty fist pump and a shriek of delight.

A while back, I met this guy named Toval at a pub in Kiryat Shmona. His English wasn't the best, yet he somehow managed to teach me all about Israeli culture, including the three main types of Israeli people:

Type 1. The Haredim
Type 2. The Arsim
Type 3. The Kibbutznikim

"And which type of Israeli am I?" I asked him. ("How about Type 4, the non-Israeli," my roommate retorted when I told her about our conversation.)

"Why, you are the kibbutznik, of course," was Toval's answer. Clearly, this one knew how to sweet-talk a lady.

Anyway, I was at the SuperPharm in Eilat the other day, buying a few necessities that they don't sell at the aspaka on my kibbutz. There was this little display at the end of the lotion aisle made up of various foot creams, toe salts, pumice slabs, and other items to make your feet shiny and nice-smelling. I recalled a friend's remark from a few months ago, when she told me that obtaining a pumice stone was one of the best decisions of her life, having turned her feet into giant rose petals.

I picked up what appeared to be a stale sponge, in a shade of grayish blue that belongs on the cover of a history textbook more so than a foot-scrubbing device. "Twenty shekels for this?" I thought to myself. I hovered it over my shopping basket as I imagined how baby-soft my own feet could be after my next shower, before finally setting it back on the shelf with a smile of contentment.

See, part of living up to my dream of being a real kibbutznik is having the soles to prove it. It's not enough to wear hippie pants with mismatching, open-necked shirts, nor is it sufficient to drift into a three- or four-day showering cycle; no, no, in order to fully experience communism in its true rawness, one must walk around the premises barefoot. I feel that this aspect of kibbutz life has been in my blood since before arriving in the Holy Land, as most of my college comrades have witnessed me meandering around downtown Baltimore shoeless at 2AM on many a Friday night. Fortunately for me, however, in walking around Kibbutz Ketura without protection I am far less likely to step on a needle and contract the AIDS than I would be in Charm City.

The only problem with my newfound foot soles is that the visual appearance is a bit unpleasant. I no longer have dainty, delicate appendages, but I instead bear the rugged paws of a soiled hippie. But so what if my feet are starting to resemble elephant skin? There's no reason to file my calluses raw - in fact, I'm almost ready to give up my shoes permanently! Ironic, considering I've bought no less than seven pairs of shoes in the last nine months. Walla.