"Why do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"Overreact."
"For your information, I do not overreact. Mom overreacts, especially when it comes to me coming home after my curfew. Oh, yeah, you wouldn't know anything about that because you're never there," I say sarcastically.
Silence.
"Then why don't you come live with me for a while," he challenges.
Me, live with him? "Do you have a girlfriend?" I ask. I want him to say no because I have plans for him and Mom. It'll be easier if he's not attached.
"No. Do you have a boyfriend?"
Now wait one second. When did it turn around to him asking me the questions? "Maybe."
"Amy, when are you going to learn to trust me? I'm not the enemy, you know."
"Then tell me what a moshav is."
"A moshav is a close-knit community. It's similar to a kibbutz, but everyone owns their own property and farmland. The money isn't shared or pooled together."
Still sounds like a commune to me.
"I hope we're not staying there for long," I say. "I need to take a shower at the hotel and unpack. I have stuff probably melting in this heat--"
"We're not staying at a hotel," he says.
Now I'm going to overreact.
"What?" I say really loudly.
"We'll be staying with your aunt, uncle, cousins, and Sofia." He pauses. I know what's coming next, I do. But I'm not mentally prepared for it when he adds, "At the moshav."
"Let's set the record straight, Ron. I'm an ail-American girl with red, white, and blue blood running through these veins. I do not stay at places called moshavs. Unless I've signed up for the Girl Scouts, which I didn't. I need amenities. Amenities! Do you know what those are?"
"Yes. But don't expect many where we're going. Last time I visited, only one family on the moshav had electricity and it wasn't mine."
I open the glove compartment.
"What are you doing?" Ron asks.
"Looking for a map so I know which direction to go when I escape from the moshav" I say.
He chuckles.
"Ha, ha, funny, funny. I bet you won't be laughing when you wake up one morning and find I've gone back to civilization."
Ron pats my knee with his hand. "I was just kidding, Amy. They have electricity."
Kidding? Ron was kidding with me?
"I knew you were joking. Do you actually think I'm that gullible?"
He doesn't answer, but I know he knows the truth by the quirky way his mouth is moving.
"Will you at least give me the keys to your car so I can drive myself to a mall?"
"Sorry. Driving age here is eighteen."
"What!"
"I'll take you wherever you want to go. Don't worry. Besides, if you get lost you won't know how to get back."
Good, I think to myself. Getting lost sounds like a great idea.
I sigh and look out the window. On one side of the car is the Mediterranean Sea and on the other side are mountains with houses built into them. If I was in a better mood
I might even think the scenery is beautiful, but I'm cranky and tired and my butt is numb.
I start doing my butt exercises. I was watching a late night talk show a couple of years ago when some action star, maybe Steven Seagal or Antonio Banderas, was talking about how they do butt exercises while in the car.
Just tighten, then release. Tighten. Release. Tighten. Release. I'm "feeling it burn," but after ten minutes my butt cheeks start to quiver on the tighten part and I stop.
By now we've taken a turn away from the sea and all around us are small trees in rows.
"What are those?" I ask.
"Olive trees."
"I hate olives."
"I love them."
Figures. "I hope you're not one of those pit-spitters."
"Huh?"
"You know, those people who spit out the pit right in front of other people at the table. That's totally gross."
He doesn't answer. I would bet my grandmother's underpants Ron is a pit-spitter.
"What kind of food do you like?" he asks. "I'm sure I can get it for you."
"Sushi."
"You mean raw fish?" he asks, wincing.
"Yep."
I used to hate it. When Mom first had me try it I gagged and spit it out (into my napkin, very discreetly I might add, unlike gross pit-spitters). Mom loves sushi. I guess it's like alcohol. You want to puke the first time you have it, but then it grows on you and you like it. It's probably why they say there's a thin line between love and hate. Now I don't just like sushi, I crave it. Ron obviously needs to be introduced to sushi with a professional sushi-eater like me.
We're now driving through the mountains on an extremely curvy road and I'm getting nauseous. The last time I noticed civilization was about fifteen minutes ago.
We wind our way down one mountain and stop at the road leading to another one. I read a sign with the words MOSHAV MENORA in English and some words in Hebrew on it.
Ron takes the road to Moshav Menora. Now the place looks like Switzerland, with grassy hills surrounding us on all sides.
He stops at a scenic rest stop built into the mountain.
"This is it?" I ask.
He turns to me and takes the key out of the ignition. "This is the Golan Heights, a very special and beautiful place. Let's go see the view."