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Once upon a time, there was a little girl whose mother wouldn't let her read Where the Wild Things Are.
Once upon a time, there was a woman whose husband wouldn't allow her to see the movie Where the Wild Things Are.
Once upon a time, there was a person who had people in her life who loved her dearly and knew how easily her imagination could be led into troublesome areas and therefore kept her corralled from the world of wild things.
Until she encountered Tzippy in a shuk in Israel, somewhere between an olive cart and the fish monger.
I was the type of child who closed herself into wardrobes, opened my door each day hoping to see a magic tollbooth or looked for rabbit holes. I didn't just want to join storybook characters in their worlds; I wanted to be a character in my own world. I would ride my bike three streets over and sit inside the tangle of bushes someone had planted in the center of the cul-de-sac and wait for the ground to open so I could fall into my adventure.
Therefore, you could hardly blame my mother in wanting to spare herself late night visits from me while she tried to watch Dallas by closing off one of those possible worlds; especially one with nightmare potential in the form of monsters gnashing their teeth. While we had the book in the school library and I saw it at friend's houses, Maurice Sendak's drawings never darkened the corners of my bookshelf.
On the first night, after being served a sad meal of asparagus soup, my roommates bonding without me down the hall, I sat alone in my hotel room and cried. I was halfway across the world, jet lagged and alone. I made a collect call home and my sister answered, somewhat confused as to how I could be this homesick under 24 hours from when we last saw each other at the airport. It is hard to be away from home and know that life is continuing comfortably on without you when you are stuck in a land you don't really yet understand.
Towards the end of the trip, after I had hooked up with a not-yet-baking Duff Goldman of Ace of Cakes (as well as...cough...a few other boys on the trip...cough), survived Masada, and snorkeled in the pouring rain in Eilat, I had built up enough swagger to tell my new friends that I was going to haggle in Shuk Ha'Carmel. I set my sights on a copy of Where the Wild Things Are--Eretz Y'tzoori Ha'pehreh--the perfect book to sum up my false bravado leaving for the trip, what I encountered once I reached my destination, and how that love drove me back home.
I walked by the table and looked at the book for a moment, thumbing through the pages and holding it casually from my fingertips as if I couldn't tell whether I wanted to buy it or chuck it at the stall owner like a discus. "Kamah?" I inquired about the price.
When he told me the number, even though it was incredibly inexpensive for a picture book, I blew my bangs up in mock surprise and dropped the book back on the table. I walked away from the stall. Step one.
The man called out to me several questions and I ignored him, waving my hand over my shoulder. Step two.
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