French men, eh. What to do! So charming. I think it's the way they kiss each other g'bye, on both cheeks. They are also rather pretty. There are a ton of French men in Israel, which means my French is improving in leaps and bounds while my Hebrew grammar is all awry. If only I'd paid better attention in French GCSE instead of experimenting with how long it takes, on average, to get thrown out of class every Monday morning.

My mum rang me earlier to say shabbat shalom, asked all the usual questions, had a nice family catch up. Then she asked me if I was happy - as if she wasn't sure. It hadn't occurred to me that my parents might actually wonder if I was happy here. Even though every day as an Olah I encounter obstacles, frustrations and really, really weird people, I haven't regretted my decision for a second.

Well, it's official. I'm an Israeli citizen - I have an ID card, the longed-for Teudat Zehut; I can vote in the next election, I have immigrant rights, can buy a car tax-free, get 6 months of free Ulpan, and come to terms with everything it means to be an Israeli. I'm already becoming skilled in elbowing, shrieking "ani rishona!", tapping my foot impatiently and interfering in other peoples' business. I've negotiated the Post Office, the Ministries of Absorption and Interior, opened a bank account, acquired Health Insurance and eaten my first Kosher McDonalds' as a citizen of medinat Yisrael. And now the really tough stuff begins.
There are 25 years of cultural references to catch up on. There are political parties to read up on, weigh up and discuss, but just one to choose. There are decisions to be made, like whether to serve my National Service or skip it and only semi-integrate like so many other Olim will do this year. I am an Olah Chadashah - a new immigrant. I live in Jerusalem, ir Hakodesh.

I have had conversations with female taxi drivers as to how to bring Moshiach, I have been taught new phrases in Hebrew with cab drivers that are so excited you're an Olah Chadashah they practically drive you to their home and throw you your own personal party. My religious level has been questioned by a driver or two, and another turned up his music for me so loudly that I went temporarily deaf. I have attended a brit milah in Geula, the heart of Charedi-ness, and gone to the Dublin pub for a drink. I have walked through the Shouk on erev Shabbat, taking in the sounds and smells and elbows in the ribs, the brilliant mix of kipot and female head-coverings. I have bought rugelach from Marzipan and sheets for my dorm room from a lady who invited me to call her "if i need anything at all. Israel is for all the Jews. Welcome home."

Last night I made my first visit as an Olah to the Kotel. When I was more religious, I would cling to my siddur, walk slowly across the plaza, sit down and and start to make my way through Tehillim, gradually getting physically closer to the wall, to where He can hear me better. I've become distanced from Him. Last night, I ran to the wall and buried my face in it, amongst the notes written to him in so many languages. I hid my face and said Thank You. How lucky am I, how blessed, to have made it here. To have had a dream that I was able to realise! How often does that happen? I said thank you for my wonderful family, who helped me to get here, and for the friendships that so often overwhelm me. I cried tears of gratitude. This is my HOME. I live here, I live in Israel! I have made Aliyah - I am home, at last.