This is a nation of shruggers, it is the answer given to many questions…
She looked disgusted, as if I’d admitted to a taste for rat, or beetroot, or something.
I ask if there’s anything that connects us, the new immigrants. ‘We didn’t fit in at home?’ says Megan, in that way that makes statements sound like questions.
It is my first day at the ulpan, and the first time I spend with people in a common cause since I arrived in November, three months earlier, unless you count queuing at the Ministry of the Interior, that is.
We may be the definition of rootless cosmopolitans, citizens of the world.
Shlomit says that she can’t help it, but she is a little bit racist. It had to be today, of course, everyone is thinking about it, that’s what it’s for. Then, to excuse herself, I suppose, to let herself off the hook she has put herself on, that everyone is a little bit racist.
She looks behind her, as if to remind everyone of something, and flicks her hair, like a pony flicks its mane.