I (like many first world immigrants in Israel) find myself baffled at times wondering why Israel behaves like a third world country. When cruising the highways or sailing on the Mediterranean looking at the skyscrapers and palm trees, one could easily mistake Israel for Miami. I regret that I can't make more time to blog, because the interactions and mentality that comprise my days are truly unbelievable.
I consider myself to be better than average in my ability to adapt to new surroundings and accept different points of view, but the unfortunate turn of events with our lovely apartment have challenged my developing inner Buddha. If I weren't about to describe events from my actual life, I would find the whole story even more entertaining. I think Larry David could use this material for an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm.
So back in November when we fell in love with our apartment, Devorah and I knew there was a somewhat serious condensation problem that the landlord had promised would be repaired. Our damage was in the bathroom back in November, and the cause was identified as stemming from the upstairs neighbor. Their repairman and insurance would be responsible to fix our bathroom ceiling. Fair enough. We were confident that our French landlord (who coincidentally my sister knew and vouched for), held a similar mentality to ours and would indeed ensure a proper repair. Right on schedule, we were notified that the repairs would begin at the end of December. Great. Wonderful.
But wait. The repairs began upstairs and all we had received was a visit from a nasty, old, grouchy, chauvinistic "installator" who Devorah let in to inspect our apartment. Within 15 seconds of meeting this person we've named "schmukface," Devorah's spot-on intuition told her that this man was not to be trusted. That his attitude and skill set would not resolve our damage. Days went by and as his work in the upstairs unit progressed, the ceiling of our apartment progressively began to resemble a sprinkler system. Water spots appeared, spread, and paint began to chip ad fall throughout the apartment.
Not only is this a horrible aesthetic problem but it has become a serious health and safety issue. So each day. we'd write the landlord with attached pictures to inform him that his apartment was becoming more and more damaged. Thinking we were just spoiled Jewish American Princesses, he began to dismiss us. The plan was to let all the water damage dry before entering our apartment for repairs. What does that mean? Ugh, leaving all the windows open for an unknown period of time while allowing paint chips to fall over my bed at night. "Ah, I don't think so." Before long, Devorah took the initiative to obtain a threatening lawyer letter which was served to our landlord. This finally got his attention. Since we had his attention, we were now able to have a productive conversation about the deteriorating conditions and our serious intentions of leaving the apartment.
Next step, invite schmukface back in to see the ongoing damage (that his repairs were causing us). Now I got to meet this "installator" who, after 10 minutes of arguing in Hebrew with, I decided to no longer converse with. This repair would not be something negotiated between us and him. Especially considering his rationale was that "ze lo kashur" (it's not connected) and that nothing could be done until the wet concrete ceiling dried. Wow, in Israel people offer the most outlandish reasons to avoid work and responsibility sometimes. Oh yeah, my ass, the rain was causing the damage. Right. Meanwhile, us three amigas downstairs are being closed in on. We've been watching the water spread like blood through veins behind the ceiling for weeks now. No more f'in around, Devorah and I gave the landlord a March 1st deadline that we will be moving into a new apartment unless we are living here with a totally repaired and sealed ceiling. And this is all after a few weeks of battling roaches. (Did I mention that we actually really like our apartment?)
Somehow we had convinced our landlord that if he does not want his apartment to become a rainforest, it is in his best interest to have his own "installator" come for an assessment. Now this man walks in our place and in two seconds speaks some reason. Looks at me like a poor, helpless baby and asks why in the world we have all of the windows open in the middle of winter and that the leaks are just spreading by the minute and this is not a human way to live. His assessment is basically that schmukface's work will need to be completely redone properly upstairs first and the whole thing will be a major operation.
My naive American mind thought logic and reason would have sufficed. No, it took a lot of pictures, emails, 1 threatening lawyer letter, a second opinion, and a deadline to get the upstairs landlord to respond. Within 24 hours, Mama Tova comes knocking on my door. In English, "Hello, I'm the landlord from upstairs, can I please come see the damages?" Looking somewhat surprised at the condition of our ceiling, she asked if her "very good installator" had seen the apartment recently.
Oh yes, had he been down multiple times already to share his negativity, deny that any of the damage was his responsibility, scream and argue with us. Not only that, but after a threatening email he was asked to come down to at least scrape off the parts of the ceiling that were actively falling on us. Begrudgingly, he did so and then insulted Devorah for the high quality plastic baggie and rag that she offered him to clean up his mess. The dude is a real charmer and yes, he was aware of the conditions.
"Well he will have to come back tonight and see the spreading damage." This is now February 2nd and I have already decided never to be alone in my house with this nasty human. So I refuse her request to let him in but agree that she can tour him around herself to see the results of all of his beautiful work. I stand quietly, watching and listening to the two of them analyze the damage. My response to her is that I have very little confidence in this "very good installator" and that I do not feel comfortable allowing him in to do repairs until speaking with my landlord.
Ahh. I probably should mention that our landlord practically lives in France so Devorah and I are stuck in this pingpong game between insurance companies, landlords, and installators.
Suddenly, this schmukface who thought "nothing is connected" and couldn't start repairs until all of the wetness had dried is ready to come in next week and fix it all up perfectly in 2 days. Here's where the sitcom can begin.
Notifying Devorah about his possible entry next week caused both of us some concern. Over the phone (because she is partially living outside the apartment because of the conditions) from Hod Hasharon Devorah wanted to have an idea of how shmuckface intended to repair something that was "not connected" and "that needed to dry." Logical. So the number Mama Tova had given me was her home number. Meanwhile she was in the upstairs apartment (where her daughter, son-in-law, and 2 small children reside) having a pow-wow with her family. Against my will, I agree to walk upstairs in my footie pajamas and bathrobe to hand the phone to mama Tova.
Not so easy. The son-in-law interjects that they would be happy to have a live conversation with Devorah but refused to engage in a conversation over the phone for fear the conversation was being recorded. Finally, Devorah convinces him to pass the phone to mama Tova (landlord in charge) who orders the mama to speak to Devorah in Hebrew. Ok, we all agree that is fair since Hebrew is the language of the country but his request was intended just to cause communication problems since she also speaks in solid English. So mama Tova precedes to raise her voice and concoct all these strange scenarios in Hebrew until Devorah is forced to hang up the phone on her. Scenarios such as... our installator barged into their apartment and poured water down the pipes to cause water damage in our apartment etc. etc.
So here I stand in my footie pajamas and bathrobe in this surreal moment like a scene out of Pulp Fiction. After being interrogted about Devorah's medical conditions, I'm told by the son-in-law that we are only causing more problems for ourselves. He stares at me like I'm a crazy spoiled American because I don't want to live in an apartment that their repairman is making a rainforest. Devorah has just hung up the phone on mama Tova and my Buddha returns. I look at them and calmly reply "this will not be our problem much longer. What will be, will be" and I exit stage right.
About 10pm after a long day at work and 4 apartment visits, our landlord is contacted in France and told of the evening events. The next logical solution.......THE TWO INSTALLATORS WILL MEET TO DISCUSS THE PLAN. Where am I? Oh yeah, the Middle East. It turns out that schmukface will be coming in this week to "repair" our place. Meanwhile, Devorah and I plan to hit the classified ads. Stay tuned to see where we will be living as of March 1st. Leave your votes here or on Facebook.
