Ein li koach (I don't have the strength)

There’s a Hebrew saying Israelis use in lieu of throwing their hands up in capitulation. Ein li koach means, literally, I don’t have the strength, but colloquially it means something closer to I can’t stand to live another second under these conditions.

Just like the way I fake translated the saying above, it’s often used in a very melodramatic way. If someone has a lot of things to do, and little time in which to do them, they may whine, ein li koach.

But it’s especially when Israelis don’t feel like doing those things will they break out the ein li koach. For school kids, it’s like a disease. Wonder why your ninth grader isn’t doing her English homework? Likely she’s got a case of ein li koach.

The problem I have with the phrase is that nine times out of 10 it’s excusable. It’s as if anyone afflicted with ein li koach can just kick back relax and let the energy they’ve “lost” flow back inside them.

I found that one actually excusable case of ein li koach last Thursday and Friday, as I was in the process of moving from Chicago to D.C.

It all began last Tuesday through Thursday when I was in St. Louis visiting old Wash U friends. Some were still students there, some graduated my year but had found themselves still in the Lou. Anyway, I had to return to Chicago Thursday morning because I was moving to Washington, D.C., Friday morning.

So the scene is set, and the drama begins.

I got to the St. Louis Metrolink station Thursday morning to take the St. Louis version of the “L” to the generically named Union Station. There I was scheduled to board an 8:30 Amtrak train back to Chicago. The (first) problem (of many to come) is that Metrolink doesn’t take $20 bills, and all I have is twenties. Awesome. So I have to find a convenient store in the neighborhood to break my $20. And my train leaves for Chicago in 20 minutes.

Eventually I make it to the Metrolink and get off at the station called “Union Station.” Logical? Yes. Did I have any idea where the Amtrak hut was in relation to the mega-mall that the 1920s era Union Station has become? No.

I see a sign marked “trains” with an arrow pointing to—guess what—actual trains! And I see a track in the distance. The “trains” I found, though, were better equipped to bring the boys to the (army) bases (circa WWII) and not to bring me to my home. These trains, these tracks had not been used in about 60 years. So I had little more than 60 seconds to find my train, or I was stuck in St. Louis for the day with only 25 hours until I needed to move myself across the country.

I did what has only been attempt once before in history by a guy in St. Louis—I asked for directions. (The last time that happened Lewis and Clark found Sacagawea, whatever the hell that is.) I ran through parking lots, federal office buildings and almost into a moving car but got to the station in time—8:29!—only to be told that the train was delayed an hour and a half. Four hours later, when I was still sitting at the Amtrak station and not looking forward to my six-hour train ride, I thought, man, I really don’t have the energy for this.

By the time I got home, I had enough time to eat, shower and do laundry—but not to pack—before my going-away party. So I left the packing for later. Shouldn’t be so hard, right? In future, the order should be pack then party, not party then pack. I’ve learned my lesson, or so I thought.

(to be continued...)