In Hebrew, there is apparently no word for cleavage.
I learned this as I sat in the backseat of Y’s cousin’s car. We were driving to get a pre-Passover lunch: giant bowls of hummus. We’re doing hummus wrong, America. It’s not just a dip, it’s a meal.
Anyway, Y and his cousin were having a perfectly innocent conversation that took a turn when Y, for some reason, mentioned cleavage.
His cousin, who I guarantee was familiar with the concept of cleavage — he’s a 23 year old guy — was confused. “What is cleavage?” he asked. Stuck in the backseat, I listened as Y explained cleavage and expounded on it until he felt his cousin was adequately familiar with the term and all its various uses. After, oh, ten minutes of discussing cleavage, Y was satisfied.
A few days later, we took a day trip to Jerusalem with this cousin and his girlfriend.
At one point, the girlfriend was telling the story of an embarrassing moment while waitressing.
“I was carrying a platter of food, and as I reached across this woman, I accidentally spilled the platter all over her….” she paused, at a loss for words, gesturing across her chest.
“CLEAVAGE!” said Y’s cousin proudly.
Some people travel to foreign countries to heal the sick. Some travel to bring religion and hope.
We brought the meaning of cleavage.
On that note, here are some pictures of one of the holiest cities in the world.