“I have a big favor to ask you, my friend,” the young Russian guy said. “Can you arrange for us to meet some of the American girls?” 

I was working at a kibbutz called Ein Dor, in northern Israel – just west of Galilee.

I’d finished college about a month before. When I got off the plane in Tel Aviv, the gibbous moon with Venus felt like an auspicious and appropriate omen. 

The Jizreel valley was lovely and fragrant, awash with almond orchards in bloom – there were bright pinks and whites as far as the eye could see. They must have been Jordan almonds – the famous river was nearby. 

A kibbutz is a collective community, focused mainly on agriculture – usually 500-1000 people. They began as a utopian movement, and evolved into a key part of the Jewish movement in Israel – notable as one of the few socialist experiments that has worked pretty well over time.

They’re a popular place to take a working break while traveling – typically, they have you work six hours a day, six days a week, in exchange for free room and board and a little spending money. Travelers come from all over the world to do it – it’s a cheap way to see the Holy Land.

As I walked along the Jordan River or the Sea of Galilee, I would sometimes pretend I was a character in the bible. An apostle, maybe. Here I am, the apostle Chris, walking in a holy fashion. I should slow down, maybe. Ommmm. 

It was a fruit-picking day. I was high up in a big grapefruit tree, filling crates destined for market. We’d lean a long ladder against the tree, and climb up. It was unstable and rickety, and everyone got a lot of painful scratches. Once my ladder slipped and I fell, bouncing down through the thorns and branches into the mud. The Israeli crew boss was utterly unsympathetic – he looked like a taller, meaner Moshe Dayan. A former Colonel, he was rumored to have collected human ears in the 1967 war, and I believed it. 

My family was always fond of grapefruit halves with sugar, but this day I learned to eat them like an orange. I ate seven in three hours. So good. I still eat them that way. I’m eating one right now, as a matter of fact. 

“What do you mean, Dmitri?” I asked. He was sharing my tree.

Dimitri was one of several Russian Jews on the kibbutz – he was the one who spoke the most English. Most of them didn’t speak any English or Hebrew yet, so they mostly kept to themselves. They were new arrivals – recently allowed to immigrate to Israel from the USSR. They were on the kibbutz to study Hebrew, in preparation for their new lives. They didn’t look very Jewish – they looked more like Swedes to me. 

“Well, you see, we Russians view Israel as…temporary…like a stepping stone. None of us wants to settle here permanently – we all want to move to America and get rich. The fastest way is to marry an American girl.”

“Ah, I see. Well, I might be able to help, but there’s one condition.”

“What is it?”

“Well Dimitri, I don’t want to offend you, but your group usually smells kind of, um, ripe… to the rest of us. We call it B.O. – body odor. If you want to attract American girls, you’ll all need to start showering with soap and using deodorant. Every day.”

“Every day?” He couldn’t believe it. “That seems so expensive and wasteful. Well, okay, I’ll tell my friends. From now on, we will smell like Americans, not men.” He was a pretty funny guy.   

A couple of days later, I organized a small gathering in my room, and introduced the Russians to some of the Jewish girls from the US. We all hung out for an hour or two. It went okay – no big deal. Everyone smelled fine. A few days later I saw one of the Russian guys holding hands with a chubby girl from New Jersey. They looked happy enough. 

The Russians were ridiculously grateful – over the next few days they treated me like a long-lost brother. We learned that my basic German and their Yiddish were similar enough that we could joke around a little while we worked.  

A few days later they invited me over to their room after work. All the Russian guys were there. Dimitri opened a cabinet – there were at least a dozen bottles of vodka inside. 

“Wow, that’s a lot of vodka. Where did you get it? Did you bring it from Russia?”

He laughed. “Don’t be silly. We wanted to thank you, so we all pooled our money. Gregor took the bus to Afula – there’s a liquor store there.”

I was impressed – that was a several-hour expedition. He opened a bottle, poured some shots into paper cups, and then proposed a toast to me. It sounded genuine. Heartwarming.

I really wasn’t used to hard liquor, but I swallowed my shot to be polite. It gave me a coughing fit. They all laughed. One of the guys brought out a guitar, and started singing an old Russian folk song. He was really good.

“What’s he saying?” I whispered to Dmitri.

“Oh, this is a very old song. Very tragic. A man learns his wife and his brother are lovers, so in a jealous rage he kills them both with a knife, and now he is facing execution in the morning, and he is singing his love and grief….” 

It sounded like a cross between Marty Robbins and grand opera. I was enthralled. 

I recognized the next song – it was “Those Were The Days, My Friend.” (We thought they’d never end…). Turns out it’s an old Russian folk song, too.

I got excited. On impulse, I belted out the second verse in English. They all cheered. We had more toasts, more shots. I brought in some grapefruits to squeeze – I needed a mixer. There was no food. 

Things revved up. They’d sing a Russian song, I’d sing an English one. When they learned that I knew some Beatles songs, they went crazy. They wanted to learn them all. A good time. 

I was game, and tried to keep up. I’m pretty sure I had sixteen shots before I hit the floor. 

The last thing I remember, I was sitting in the corner. Everyone was singing and laughing around me. I couldn’t stand up, or speak – I tried to form words, but only chirpy raccoon sounds came out. It was frustrating – I wanted to keep singing. In the nick of time a friend found me, dragged me back to my room, threw me in a cold shower (with my clothes on), then got me to bed. I missed dinner, and slept for 13 hours. Woke up thirsty, but okay.

Here’s what I learned. When you trade shots with the Russians, the destruction is assured, but not mutual. They have centuries more practice. Trade songs, not shots.