I don't remember if I've mentioned this before: everyone in my family is musically talented but me. I mean, literally, everyone. Every single person I can think of that I share a single gene with plays some sort of musical instrument (or eight) to some extent. My father is a self-taught jazz and blues pianist. My mother can play various instruments - these past couple of years she's been completely obsessed with the electric base; go figure. My two younger brothers both play electric guitar and they both have bands. Itamar, the youngest, also plays classical piano. When I ask which instrument he'd give up if he could only play one (just about my best attempt at asking an intelligent question about music), he stares at me, horrified, and says he could never choose between them.

Don't get me wrong, I like music. I listen to music all the time. While I'm doing other things. There are many things I don't think I could do at all if I wasn't listening to music while I do them, such as making beads, cleaning spacers (a-ha, look how she managed to incorporate a little self-promotion into such a personal post), walking to the post office, washing dishes or sitting in airplanes. But I never just sit down and listen to music for the sake of listening to music. They all do, but I don't. I just don't. I need to be doing something else. In social situations, I don't like being told to be quiet and listen to the music - you MUST hear this! - if I must, I find myself sitting there, waiting for it to be over.

I love listening to music, but I really have no need to discuss it, before, during or afterwards. I guess I don't have that much to say. I like what I like, I don't like what I don't like, I detest what I hate and if you make me listen to it for more than two seconds my head will explode, and that's just about it. 

Everyone in my family discusses music all the time. 

"Did you hear how someone-or-other did the something-or-other with the other something-or-other?"

"Yeah, that was really something. Or other."

Family get-togethers can be tedious at times.

"So, I just got back from Australia. I had a really good trip. Actually, I fell in love with this guy and I think I'll be moving there in a few months."

"Hey, did I tell you I got a new guitar?"

"No."

"You wanna see it?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Look at that! Can you believe it?"

"Uh, yeah, wow, it... looks like a guitar."

"It's the bessssst guitar I've ever had."

"Uh-huh. Hey, Australians don't say 'ketchup'. They call it tomato sauce. They say 'ketchup' is too American. Isn't that funny?"

"Yeah, wanna hear me play my new guitar?"

"Maybe later?"

"No, you have to just listen to this one thing."

"Yeah... sure."

It's not just my immediate family. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, they've all got their instruments. Not me. I vaguely remember having piano lessons as a small child. I can't remember why they stopped. It might have been because someone realized I had no talent, realized I was not going to grow up to be the kind of person who sits around practicing things or realized I was much happier making glittery wrapping-paper dresses for my clan of handmade wooden-clothespin dolls, each of whom had a name and distinct personality.

When I was in high school I played electric bass for about a year. I loved my bass guitar. It was dark blue and sparkly, like the blue aventurine I would become acquainted with much later in life. I think I liked how cool I looked carrying it around more than I actually enjoyed playing it. Beyond never having the patience to practice my chords, I always felt like there was something I was missing. It was high school - everyone around me had a cool instrument and the next best rock band or something - and they all "got" something I just couldn't understand. Pretty soon, I gave up on trying to find it and moved on.

My cousin Alisa, born to a pianist-violinist duo, started playing the cello when she was only three years old. She's been traveling the world and playing solo in concerts ever since. She's playing at Carnegie Hall in a few days, if you happen to be in the area (but if I were to guess, I'd say its probably sold out). Ali has been visiting Tel Aviv this week, and after a completely-different-kinds-of-crazy week for both of us, we finally had some time to get together on the weekend. Today was declared International Cousin Day. We went to Old Jaffa, along with my two brothers, ate much hummus and spent some time walking around the port and the beautiful little alleys of the old city. 

Sometimes I feel like such an outsider. 

It's not that I don't feel like part of the group; I love them all and we have a lot of fun together. I'm used to the musical chit-chat - part of my life, I guess. Actually, whenever they're not discussing all the something-or-others of music, I find myself wondering if they're forcing themselves to talk about something else, just for my sake. 

"Did you know that someone-or-other is something-or-other and it sounds like something-or-other?"

I watch from the side as they excitedly share YouTube videos of themselves. I'm the observer.

Sometimes I wish I could join in the conversation, but I have only a vague idea of what they're talking about and I don't really have anything intelligent to say. As we walk through the city, I am more than happy to fall behind, happily taking photos of things I wonder if anyone else can see. "I am good at other things", I keep consoling myself. 

We went to see Alisa in concert in the evening. She's been playing with the Israeli Philharmonic all week.

Being part of the family I am part of, it is difficult to admit that classical music just doesn't do it for me. I don't relate to it (no pun intended). I just don't. I want to "get" it; I want to hear what they can hear but I don't. I've tried. 

"I want to understand it, but it's like a foreign language to me", I tried to explain to Ali last summer, as she was trying her best to find me the "right" piece of music; the one that would open my ears, draw me in and turn me into a classical-music-lover. It really is. It's like having someone talk to me in a language I don't understand. While I am sure they are saying something very interesting, all I can make out is the occasional basic expression - now it's happy, now it's sad, now it's uncontrollably excited about something-or-other.

The concert begins with a short something-or-other piece. I look at my family members seated around me and I wonder why I don't want to be here nearly as much as they do. 

The music sounds pretty... kind of like a river running through a green meadow on a sunny day. Then again, most classical music sounds to me like rivers running through green meadows (even after someone explains that the piece is about adultery, torture, heartbreak and the composer's premature death). I can hear the occasional buzzing dragonfly, its wings sparkling in the light, or a dancing water nymph or two. It's always so pastoral.

Then I experience a mini-revelation: I can't relate to this because I am a wordy, color person, and this has no words and no color. A-ha! that's it. I'd probably enjoy it if it had words (but not if it were opera; I hate opera) or if there was something colorful about it. I wonder what the stage would look like if each member of the respectably-black-clad orchestra was wearing a different color - bright, wacky colors, with big colorful hats - and I think how much fun that would be to take pictures of.

My little brother Itamar, the punk and classical music lover, glances at me in exasperation. Silently, I mouth the  word "what?" as I wonder if I am somehow doing something wrong by sitting quietly and thinking unrelated bizarre thoughts.

"Why are they talking?" he whispers.

I glance over to my left. Jonathan, my other brother, is chatting with a friend he brought to the concert. I make a Shh! sign at them. I contemplate how strange it is that I hadn't even noticed they were talking; normally this kind of thing would annoy the hell out of me. If my neighbors are talking in the hallway as I'm trying to write a blog post, I have to stop myself from stepping out there and murdering them in cold blood, but here, I had been completely oblivious to the fact that my brother was talking out loud in the middle of a classical music concert. How very strange.

I remind myself I should be listening to the music.

If I don't crane my neck I can see only a small part of the stage, because there's a tall guy sitting in front of me, so I stare at the ceiling. There's a couple of speakers hanging there. They look like a robot. He has a mouth, eyes and eyebrows and he's staring right back at me. I name him Bob. Bob the Robot.

I remind myself I should be listening to the music. There's something that sounds like a ringing bell. It sounds pretty, but I can't see what kind of instrument it is.

Then the something-or-other part is over, and Ali walks onto the stage, looking like a modern fairytale princess in a beautiful flowing red gown and glittery crystal-encrusted Manolos. The bright red streak, gliding softly across the black-and-white orchestra, grabs my attention for about five seconds. Then, once again, I try to listen to the music.

I contemplate how much better this experience would be for me, if only I had a pad of paper and my Prismacolors, or even just a pen or pencil I could doodle with. I could draw to the music. That would be fun. It would probably be frowned upon though. I find myself wondering if Ali and I could do a "jam session" collaboration thingie someday; she'd play the cello and I'd draw something. I would like that.

I close my eyes and try to imagine what the music would look like. I can see blotches of paint and delicate, precise curvy lines in muted sky blue, sunny yellow and passionate raspberry. (See, I'm good with color and words.)

And then I have to cough.

Before the concert started, a voice on a loudspeaker asked the audience to shut off their cellphones and try to refrain from coughing during the concert. My phone is off, of course, but now I have to cough. What could make you need to cough, at any given moment, more than the words "please refrain from coughing"? You are probably coughing right now, as you read this.

I try hard not to cough. I try hard not to think about not coughing. I try to listen to the music. I really have to cough.

Have you ever tried holding a cough in? I press my lips together and I feel like my face is going to explode. As I try to take deep breaths, my throat gets dry and itchy. My eyes begin to water and I feel like I'm going to suffocate. I think how embarrassing it would be if I suddenly began suffocating in the middle of the concert. I decide letting out one little cough would probably be less embarrassing. I cough. 

Then I have to cough again. I try to hold it in this time, and now I am really freaking out. I glance up at Bob in despair. "How much longer do you think we've got here, Bob?" 

Bob is of no use; he just keeps starting back at me in silence. I look around to see if there's some way I could escape the auditorium without creating a major disturbance, so I can burst into a coughing fit. There isn't. I decide to take the silent suffocation route this time.

At some point, the music stops for a few moments. I happily cough with relief, along with half the audience.

When it starts again, I really try to listen. 

Watching Ali play is very dramatic - she is completely inside the music (or the music is completely inside her - I'm not sure how these things work). You can see it in her movement and her facial expressions. 

You're not supposed to comment on the facial expressions. I have a clear childhood memory of an overheard conversation between Ali and her mother, my aunt Vivian, after a little impromptu concert for some of my grandmother's friends. "That woman over there came up to me and told me she enjoyed my facial expressions. Can you believe it?" 

"Oh my god". They both giggled, for some reason I wasn't sure I understood, and I made a mental note: never mention the facial expressions. That is one thing I know about classical music.

I remind myself I should be listening to the music.

I gaze at the members of the orchestra, moving in perfect sync, and I wonder how they feel about being orchestra members, as opposed to soloists like my cousin. Are they jealous? Do they get pissed off about not being soloists? Are they just content to be playing in the Philharmonic? Do they ever wish they didn't have to wear black? What do they do when they're not playing in the Philharmonic? What kind of people are they? How many hours a day do they have to practice? Do any of them write blogs or post on Twitter?

I feel so proud of Ali.

I remind myself I should be listening to Ali's music.

I think how strange the conductor looks, waving his stick around as if in a fit of frenzy. I imagine how funny he would look doing that in public, in any other situation. That would also be fun to take pictures of.

I check up on Bob. Bob never does anything interesting.

I feel happy I don't need to cough anymore.

I remind myself I should be listening to the music. It still sounds like green meadows. My brain just can't stay focused on it for more than a few moments at a time.

I wonder if I'd enjoy classical music more if I didn't feel like I was under so much pressure to "get it". I don't think anyone else in the auditorium was feeling that way; it's weird. I think it's supposed to do the opposite, but classical music stresses me out. It has really high expectations and I don't always know what it wants from me. It's condescending. It makes me feel stupid for not being able to fully appreciate it. 

I'm glad I went to the concert. Ali means so much to me. She is so sweet, funny and down-to-earth and I wish we could see eachother more often. She's very supportive of my glass obsession and she doesn't mind listening to my endless rambling about beads. I was glad to be in the audience, even if I wasn't "there" to the same extent everybody else was. 

It's good to step out of my comfort zone every once in a while and open up to something different. It's challenging, trying to understand what it is about it that draws everyone in my family in and leaves me on the outside. I wonder if it'll ever change, if I'll ever find myself sitting peacefully and listening to something-or-other by someone-or-other or even if I'll ever make beads to the sounds of the something-or-other on my iPod. 

Who knows, right?