Rewind exactly one year ago. I was packing up my 1200 square foot townhouse dividing my contents into categories: moving with me into "the sorority house," donations, moving into storage, moving to friends' homes, or leaving for my tenants. The stress and fatigue left me delirious. I don't think I would fit the criteria for a hoarder but 5 years in the same spacious home allowed for quite a bit of accumulation. The process of paring my belongings down took me months and each step of the way I cursed my American consumerism. I vividly remember wondering why I owned umteen pairs of jeans and white pants. A girl has to update her wardrobe every now and then, right? Though my parents didn't really raise me to value flashy "things" I honestly found some pleasure in my home furnishings. And with endless closet space, a basement, and garage things never felt cluttered. With a healthy American salary and Target around the corner, there is no reason to say "no," right?
"I wonder if I could not buy anything for an entire year......" I posed this challenge to myself before lugging my three suitcases on the plane bound for the Middle East. Ha. Little did I know that would be way easier than it sounded at the time. I've lived here seven months and aside from some of the absolute necessities (mattress, closet, kitchen supplies, couch etc.), I have purchased 1. slippers, 2. hat and 3. dress. I would come out with more from one trip to Target.
What is the value of being a consumer in America where supplies are endless, affordable, and the options diverse? It's so easy. It's what we are bred for. When we suffer economically, the government offers "bail outs" and encourages citizens to spend. We happily invest in keeping Corporate America alive and thriving with our dollars. I don't understand economics enough to understand what is happening in this country but I know for a fact, it is a different beast. To begin with, Israel is founded with principals of Socialism in addition to relying on a strong military presence for its survival. That means that taxes are higher but things like health care and education are less expensive. However, working within the education system in one of the richest towns in Israel leaves me confused. 40 students to a classroom, educators making minimum wage, no technology, no special education resources, no extra curricular activities, hmmm. Ok. So they mean at the university level then, right? Ummm, there are something like 30 spaces a year in the country for various Masters programs forcing students to go abroad to receive higher education and then return to the workforce. Transportation? Nope. Gas prices are some of the highest in the world (something like $8 a gallon). Buses and trains are expensive and cars cost twice as much. Rent and food then? Uggh, no so much. In popular neighborhoods, the rent is similar or higher to that of the States but with little to no amenities. Groceries also more expensive than the States. It's no surprise then, that thousands of social protesters camped out in the streets last summer begging for economic relief. I really don't get it. Are prices artificially low in America because of the scale in which we purchase? Are high prices in Israel a result of the exploitation and corruption of the Mafia here?
Needless to say, breaking away from my American consumerism was easy due to necessity. Typical Israelis don't live with the same level of over- indulgence since space and money is limited. There is no complementary bread basket and water given before your gargantuan meal at a restaurant. No free samples of perfume and lotion thrown in your bag after purchasing cosmetics. I haven't seen anyone with a backup refrigerator and freezer for their stockpile of food. Instead, I've seen educated middle class families of 5 living in small 2 bedroom apartments. I've seen parents bicycling to daycare with one kid riding on the back the other on the front. I've seen people carpooling and sharing the burden of gas prices to get around. I've seen people purchase enough groceries to prepare only 1-2 meals. At the end of the day, the result of Socialism that is most easy for me to observe in Israel is how it forces social dependence, physical proximity, and careful financial planing onto citizens. People rely on each other a lot more here. Families, friends, colleagues, and neighbors are in closer contact here; most people are concerned with survival. For the next year, I will continue to explore my connection to Caplitalism and Socialism and decide where life will take me.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Saturday, March 17, 2012
The sun will come out tomorrow
WARNING. THE FOLLOWING ENTRY CONTAINS DESCRIPTIVE CONTENT. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE EASILY GROSSED OUT.
After the most rainy winter Israel has had in a while, the sun is fighting for its summer arrival.
How apropos after being hit with some stubborn Israeli viruses which kept me in bed three times in the last month. Physically, I too am fighting for my inner fire to finally dry out the damp petri dish my body has become.
My latest digestive virus woke me up at 4am last Monday with a cold sweat and every orifice on high alert. Thinking the worst was over by 8am, I dragged my weak body onto the bus to work. Wrong move. A few hours (and a handful of crackers) later, I was back on the bus dizzy, nauseous, and sweating profusely. Unlike the respiratory bug that knocked me on my ass two weeks ago, the digestive strain requires proximity to a toilet. Ooops. The vigorous swaying of the public bus was exactly the shaking my stomach needed to hurl out anything that was left. Which is exactly what happened just as I came to my stop and projectiled into a bush. It brought back memories of when my office was next to the nurse's office at Oak Terrace and kids would be running into her office with a garbage can around this time of the year. Sometimes running without the garbage can, leaving breakfast on the floor outside my office. Good times.
So as the sun comes out and my immunity returns, I put on my Israeli armor and tackle the challenges that accompany life in this complex country. They say that the first year of immigration is the most difficult; I'd venture to say that it was at approximately month 6 when it truly began for me. Thankfully, I have my closest gal pals and canine sidekick by my side for fuel. Together, we remind ourselves what it takes to make it here. It takes persistence, strength, "chutzpa," talent, confidence, sacrifice, meaning, dedication, connection, street smarts, and at many times- the ability to kick-ass. So when I contemplate returning to the ease and comfort of America I am simply not ready. I like the challenge and as masochistic as it sounds, I think it is character building. I'm not going to lie, I yearn to spoil myself with pedicures, massages, facials, and the King Spa (of course) but unfortunately those luxuries are no longer part of my reality. The whole notion of immigration to Israel, which in Hebrew is called "Aliyah" (to ascend), suggests to raise/lift/move upward. Am I? I think I might be. Maybe? Sometimes I feel Israel makes you suffer in order to test your commitment, kind of like the rabbis try to discourage converts from joining the tribe. It's survival of the fittest in this country for sure. And if you make it in this country it will have to be for reasons other than materialism, ease, and comfort. I've been told it's kind of like living in one big dysfunctional family and at the end of the day, you can't escape your family. I'm still not sure though. In the end, will I be one of the fittest? One of the converts? Will I have ascended? I just don't know.
After the most rainy winter Israel has had in a while, the sun is fighting for its summer arrival.
How apropos after being hit with some stubborn Israeli viruses which kept me in bed three times in the last month. Physically, I too am fighting for my inner fire to finally dry out the damp petri dish my body has become.
My latest digestive virus woke me up at 4am last Monday with a cold sweat and every orifice on high alert. Thinking the worst was over by 8am, I dragged my weak body onto the bus to work. Wrong move. A few hours (and a handful of crackers) later, I was back on the bus dizzy, nauseous, and sweating profusely. Unlike the respiratory bug that knocked me on my ass two weeks ago, the digestive strain requires proximity to a toilet. Ooops. The vigorous swaying of the public bus was exactly the shaking my stomach needed to hurl out anything that was left. Which is exactly what happened just as I came to my stop and projectiled into a bush. It brought back memories of when my office was next to the nurse's office at Oak Terrace and kids would be running into her office with a garbage can around this time of the year. Sometimes running without the garbage can, leaving breakfast on the floor outside my office. Good times.
So as the sun comes out and my immunity returns, I put on my Israeli armor and tackle the challenges that accompany life in this complex country. They say that the first year of immigration is the most difficult; I'd venture to say that it was at approximately month 6 when it truly began for me. Thankfully, I have my closest gal pals and canine sidekick by my side for fuel. Together, we remind ourselves what it takes to make it here. It takes persistence, strength, "chutzpa," talent, confidence, sacrifice, meaning, dedication, connection, street smarts, and at many times- the ability to kick-ass. So when I contemplate returning to the ease and comfort of America I am simply not ready. I like the challenge and as masochistic as it sounds, I think it is character building. I'm not going to lie, I yearn to spoil myself with pedicures, massages, facials, and the King Spa (of course) but unfortunately those luxuries are no longer part of my reality. The whole notion of immigration to Israel, which in Hebrew is called "Aliyah" (to ascend), suggests to raise/lift/move upward. Am I? I think I might be. Maybe? Sometimes I feel Israel makes you suffer in order to test your commitment, kind of like the rabbis try to discourage converts from joining the tribe. It's survival of the fittest in this country for sure. And if you make it in this country it will have to be for reasons other than materialism, ease, and comfort. I've been told it's kind of like living in one big dysfunctional family and at the end of the day, you can't escape your family. I'm still not sure though. In the end, will I be one of the fittest? One of the converts? Will I have ascended? I just don't know.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
The Warrior Princess
So I hit the 6 month mark and was hit with the anxiety of my decision to sign up for another year living in the Middle East. Approval for another year leave of absence from my district assures my option to walk back into my job, house, car, and American life that I put on hold come September 2013. Wise people along the way have made statements to me such as “in Israel people are difficult just for the sake of being difficult” and “you need to know why you are here.” These statements made in passing have begun to haunt me especially last week.
I found myself sick with a vicious flu-like bug (perhaps because the temperature in my house is often colder than the temperature outside due to heat deflecting architecture) contemplating whether to be bothered to get my “doctor's note” or just use one of my two free yearly passes. After choosing the free pass, I dragged myself out of bed the following day in the rain to take my crowded bus commute to work. To the job that pays 1/3 of my American salary! At that exact moment, the words repeated themselves in my head, “why are you here?” Thankfully, as the rain dried up and my health returned I was able to remind myself of the reasons that I am here. I came to Israel because I needed to escape the automatic pilot setting my life was being run by. I really want to learn Hebrew. I really would like to meet an interesting Jewish guy to consider building a future with. I really want to find meaning beyond what “the American Dream” offers. Automatic as my life was in America, it sure was a lot easier than life in Israel. Any American here will echo my sentiment, yet each year plenty of us choose to attempt life in the Holyland. Many of us quickly choose to return to the comforts of Target, nice vehicles, spacious/closet-equipped dwellings, healthy salaries, the US dollar, customer -oriented service, dishwashers, driers, gas stoves, drive thrus, English, Trader Joes, bulk purchasing, hard working ethics, written employment contracts, the King Spa etc. Those of us who make it here need to find a way to channel our inner warrior. To remind myself that I can make it here, I decided to gather inner strength by watching “Xena, the Warrior Princess” and repeat the matra “whatever doesn't kill me will make me stronger.”
Four more months until I am reunited with family, friends, house, car, the King Spa, and the collection of reasonably priced belongings that will make the final cut back to Israel. If all goes as planned, I will be taking steps to officially become a citizen of this country (maintaining dual citizenship of course). Why? I can only explain with Devorah's metaphor that living in Israel is like having an affair with a really hot but slightly abusive lover.
Just a collection of cultural observations. You know you're in Israel/Israeli when:
-The Ministry of Interior is allowed to officially lie about where your file is for months.
-You're told your work visa application is “at the police department” for months until you go into another office and it's processed on the spot.
-When you feel like you've been microchipped and the country is tracking your grocery purchasing, bus rides, time in and out of the office, yoga classes, gas purchasing, bank and telephone transactions etc. You know you are “on the grid” at all times.
-You're practically asked to donate an organ before signing a rental lease
-Magenta is a tint option at the beauty salon.
-You develop excellent Tetris skill each time you open the refrigerator (they are miniature)
-Tenants travel with their appliances and closets (yes, I said closets).
-Placement of electrical outlets causes your apartment to look like a bowl of spaghetti.
-People you just meet offer to help you in ways that make you skeptical of their sincerity just to realize they are just “looking out for you.”
-Apartments come standard with roaches and poor plumbing.
-People look at you in a strange way and ask “why did you come here?”
-You can wear a light jacket and walk barefoot outside while the marble and concrete freezes you while indoors.
-In the winter months, there is a good chance your ceiling might leak and peel.
-You have to predict your warm showers and turn on the water boiler 20 minutes ahead of time.
-Within seconds of hearing an American speak Hebrew, over 50% of people can respond back in excellent English.
-Generations of cats live in dumpsters and you learn to distinguish the difference between cat brawls and baby cries.
-You spend what feels like an obscene amount of money on the most random items (toiletrees, ziplock baggies etc.).
-You dry all of your laundry outdoors and learn to live with crunchy towels.
-An 18 year old female boarding the bus in army fatigues and machine gun is just as likely as one boarding in religious attire covered from wrists to ankles.
-People prepare for professional meetings with yummy homemade dishes, European kisses, and constant cell phone interruptions.
-You have a 50/50 chance of connecting with an English speaker after pressing “4” for English.
-You can sail on the Mediterranean in January.
-You can hike in the dessert upon ancient ruins.
-The social norms of yelling and arguing make the whole country resemble a Jerry Springer episode.
-After earning an MD or PhD, you may still be earning minimum wage.
-The response to why straight men dominate the salon industry is “so we can have an excuse to be close to women all day”
-When professionals need to give their employer a “sick note” from the doctor for missing work
-People often travel with public transportation and grocery rollers to grocery shop.
-People often travel with public transportation and grocery rollers to grocery shop.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Oh, Israel
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.
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.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Just when you thought it was not developmentally appropriate for adults to tantrum like toddlers....
(segue to public transportation in Israel)
In fairness, I have to paint the background of public transportation commuting in Israel. Mornings generally resemble America before the Civil Rights Movement with colored foreign workers quietly holding up the back of the bus until they all shuffle off at some popular unknown stop. The religious folks pull out their smart phones and mumble aloud their morning prayers. The bus driver typically has an inflated ego and has often times nominated himself g-d, president, and C.E.O of the large vehicle. Events such as kids puking, aggressive battles over keeping the window open or closed, or having the bus break down while you wait in rain for the next one become customary. Of course, at any moment a security officer can board the bus and demand that each passenger dig around for their receipt to ensure the driver is running business appropriately. An elderly man may loose the wheel of his fully vegetable-loaded cart forcing fellow passengers to pull a quick Macgyver move to repair it. And I can only briefly mention without getting choked up, that this is where my 3 month old Sony Ericson Xperia mysteriously disappeared. Sniff Sniff. There is a basic sense of Survival of the Fittest happening at all times by each passenger. In order to survive, you must understand a few basic psychological principals:
Fight or Flight
Everyone, and I mean everyone, young and old alike has at one point felt like Rocky Balboa training for a fight. The fight to make the bus that is. The decision has been made to run behind or alongside the bus with bags flopping, hands in the air, awaiting the ultimate devastation or success of making the bus. Within milliseconds the driver holds your destiny in his hands and contemplates your fate. Fellow passengers observe and wait to see whether you will be granted entrance.
The Jungle Gym
This phenomenon is when your stuck standing on the bus and must grab onto the dangling straps from above to hang on for dear life as the bus' velocity ranges from speeding to a screeching halt and bodies sway like children hanging from monkey bars.
The Sardine Squeeze
This event occurs when the bus is already soo stuffed and the driver stops to let people off and new ones attempt to board. New passengers desperately fight to board a bus that is already beyond its capacity and their asses are just a hair away from being snipped off by the bus' closing doors. Once on board, begging to relieve the body on body pressure commences with pleas to distribute the pressure of the Sardine Squeeze throughout the bus. Those who just begged for entrance now curse the animal conditions.
Seniority Rules
There is typically an unspoken (though at times it becomes quite spoken) code of ethics governing the bus system in Israel. There are 4 coveted handicapped seats reserved for those with physical needs at the front of the bus. During times of the Sardine Squeeze or Jungle Gym those seats, among all others, are eyed by many but chosen by few for fear of violating Seniority Rules.
Once I witnessed an elderly woman verbally and physically bully and completely ridicule a young woman out of the seat to make room for her caretaker. After the shock settled, the young woman complied with the Seniority Rules and made her way to the interior guts of the bus. Most passengers ignored this somewhat typical behavior until about 30 minutes later when the young woman was preparing to exit the bus. With her voice cracking and tears in her eyes, the young woman dared to violate the code of ethics by returning the ridicule. In front of a completely packed and now totally silent bus full of passengers, the young woman looked the elderly woman straight in her eyes and dared to launch into a tirade “schooling” the elderly woman on empathy towards fellow human beings. After a few strong, relentless rebuttals the young woman managed to shut up the grumpy old beast.
Nahag Complex
Nahag (Hebrew for Driver), as I mentioned, rules with authority over his bus. Beyond all assumed power his title carries, his has complete control over how much you will be charged for your ride and whether your ride comes with a complementary individual moral lesson. For instance, the central area of Tel Aviv and the surrounding cities has developed a universal system between multiple bus carriers so that a magnetized card (Rav Cav) can be scanned and the amount deducted from a prepaid card. However, the city is zoned and depending on your point of origin and destination the fares range. After overpaying for 2 weeks, getting yelled at by drivers, loosing my magnetic powers, and getting different responses from each driver I decided to go to the central office. After a discussion in English at the office revealed the cause of confusion is basically related to the intelligence and care of the driver, I now engage in a private chat with the driver before I allow my card to be scanned. I watch to make sure he takes the few seconds to code it properly and I am on my way. While I think I have cracked the mystery of the Rav Cav, my new challenge is to crack the “Cartesia.” After the explanation I still have no clue why I need this AND the Rav Cav. The only consolation is that the office was full of Israelis bringing in their receipts asking for explanations as well.
Moral teachings of the driver typically has to do with Respect. For instance, a group of teenagers beat an older man onto the steps of the bus. They innocently boarded the bus right before they were screamed at for their poor manners. He scolded them, “How dare you board before your elder” and made them step down and wait for the man to board. Oh, and during a Sardine Squeeze, a uniformed soldier dared to speak up from the interior of the bus. “Driver, I don't think there is any more room for people.” Oh shit. Big mistake. The driver glared into his rear-view mirror and in front of everyone belts back something to the effect of “you're 18 years old and your job is to care about serving this country. I will worry about letting passengers onto my bus, ok? I worry about each passenger and you worry about each citizen of this country. How dare you!”
Monday, December 12, 2011
Supermarket Madness (Guest Blog from Devorah)
Tonight Sheree, Indi and I are about to have our first sleepover guests, from our sister and brother in spirit, Lironne and Saar. The last couple of weeks have seen epic battles to overcome dirt, roaches, mold, and the Israeli system, and our bodies are feeling it. We’re getting quite close to having the most adorable apartment in the most adorable neighborhood, with the most adorable dog, and all of that makes us feel lucky and happy every day, (at least most of the day). We decided to make a celebratory dinner, in our big-by-Israeli-standards, uh, let’s say portable oven, (though all appliances are portable here, aint they. Hey Israeli tenants, let's all make a pact together starting today, ready? One, two, three…Leave your appliances when you move!)
We went out earlier to get groceries for our little party. My application for a club card at Supersol, a necessity to make shopping significantly more affordable and steer me toward certain brands, required my teudat zehut (Israeli ID) number. So did getting a bus pass, and just about anything else I’ve done here. I’ve never felt so on the grid, but somehow more OK with Israel knowing whatever they feel they need to than I am with the dirt that Facebook, Google and the other cyber overlords can now calculate on me. (wow, some subpar grammar in that last sentence. Forgive me, my now-native-language is not English, my friends). We found these super cute mugs/bowls that we absolutely had to have. Sheree stopped for a second, to remind me that we had to check if they were dishwasher safe. You know, so they could go in her lovely dishwasher…in her townhouse in Highland Park, IL. Oh right, the dishwashers here are colorful, crappy sponges that melt in your hand are just generally much worse than American sponges, for about twice the price and a tenth of the options. Speaking of a tenth, you know what the giant, economy sized pack of paper towels has? Six small rolls. Six. That’s as big as it gets. My Target-Costco American mind can hardly comprehend this.
Mugs in cart, we went to the cheese counter, where we tasted cheese and picked our favorites. Having decided on lasagna for dinner, I asked the impatient old Israeli woman if they had any ricotta. “MAH?” (what?) Ricotta, I repeated. “MAH?!?!” Screwing on my best Israeli accent, I tried once more, “rhee-coat-tah” “OH, rhee-COAT-tah!! ZEH, yesh lanu.” (Oh, Riccota, this we have.) Thus a lesson learned – Yes, Israelis may be nice about our American accents, but that doesn’t mean they’ll go out of their way to know what we’re talking about when we don’t make the effort to clench our throats and pepper our speech with ehhhh’s. Once she supplied the rhee-coat-tah and before we could tell her if we wanted anything else, she walked away having decided we had enough cheese, and she had enough of us, for the evening. As for lasagna noodles, there was but one option, Osem. Fortunately, these noodles fit in the one of 2 sizes aluminum pans available, something I’ve grown to not assume will happen around here. We continued down the aisles, getting what we needed. We were laughing the whole time, generally enjoying the experience, and continually reminding ourselves of our growing Israeli-ness. Next time, we knew, we’d bring the small rolling bag that we had taken on the bus to Tel Aviv’s Shuk HaCarmel just a few days ago, to fill with groceries and housewares. But this time, without the roller bag and laden with heavy bags, we took advantage of the loophole available to us when in a jam – smile cutely, act like a lost, sweet American woman who just needs some kindness from a nice powerful Israeli man, and ask for what we want. We requested from the security guard that we be able to take home our plastic shopping carts to carry our groceries. A smile and some broken Hebrew can get a lot done around here, but must be used sparingly.
The nice thing here is, everyone in Israel gets how hard it is, and sometimes we all come together to get things done. Like the “Nahag Wave,” where a person runs to catch the bus, someone in the back of the bus sees it and yells “Nahag!” (driver,) and the yelled word Nahag is passed up the bus in a wave until it reaches the pretending-to-be-deaf-as-long-as-possible driver. These bus drivers are something. On the hectic and not fun day of moving into our apartment, for no apparent reason my bus pulled over as I tried to speed from Tel Aviv to Givatayim. After multiple people yelled at the driver, the most we got out of him was the word “dakah,” (minute), Several minutes later, his buddy walked onto the bus with a bag of food for him, they chatted briefly, and we were off. But that’s Israel, where the one time schedule you can be sure something won’t happen on is the one it’s supposed to happen on.
But I digress. Here we are in our apartment, the baking lasagna full of fresh-picked herbs from the garden hanging out our window, which is happily growing in the December sun. That sure makes the hard parts easy to forget. Lironne and Saar are on their way. There are the most divine French macaroons in our fridge, from the sweet Israeli girl at the fabulous French patisserie just down the street. Life is absolutely wonderful. And really hard, and sometimes completely ridiculous. Enough that the first response I get from so many Israelis when they hear of my solo aliyah is, “WHY?!” We chuckle together. But I think they know. I’m home. And we’re all in this together. And if we can relinquish some control, and most expectations, we can enjoy the crazy wild ride.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Roaches, Mold, Bat Shit Oh No!
The pains of an immigrant. Well officially I'm not an immigrant yet but I think the last month has been the shock wave that I naively thought I had evaded. Nope. This country appears to the international world as though it is a 1st world developed country, leaders in technology, the military, and innovation yet Israel has recently been reminded me that remnants of it's 3rd world past still remain.
I've developed a relationship with the entity I call “Israel” and find myself having conversations with her. For example: “come on Israel, it is not normal to have cockroaches living in your kitchen,” or “seriously Israel, why wouldn't you build closets in bedrooms?” or “Israel, installing a bathtub would really solve the whole squeegee-mold issue” and one of my favorites, “Israel, why bother with the no smoking law in pubs and bars if it doesn't really apply?” And I'm just warming up. These are just the ones most relevant to health standards.
To be positive, I LOVE my new apartment and the adorable urban neighborhood Devorah, Indi and I now call home. I have a yoga studio literally across the street, really nice parks all around to let Indi run off leash, the mall in walking distance, trendy boutiques, and cafes that are open on Saturday. Plus the benefit of quiet nights and privacy due to the silence of our graveyard neighbors.
Since I haven't decided how long I will remain in the land of my ancestors, I have embraced the concept of 2nd hand furnishings. Almost without a glitch, and with Lironne's connection, we managed to arrange movers to make 3 stops to pick up all the necessities before arriving at our new apartment to unload. But wait! The multiple phone calls ensuring that the previous tenants would 1000% be moved out by 3pm (i.e. 15:00 in Israel) resulted in our truck pulling up right behind theirs on a busy street while they were right in the middle of moving out with one elevator and an extremely narrow stairwell. Apparently, their 1:00 scheduled movers just didn't show up so they rushed to find a new one and overlapped with us. If I didn't know where I was, I would think that was a lousy excuse but then again, I can totally see the moving company stopping for a cigarette and coffee break disregarding the time and deciding to go home early. Looking back, watching myself get pissed off in Hebrew was hysterical. Emotion and thoughts have no language, sometimes the nonverbal communication can tell it all. Up until that moment, things had been running as expected cruising through the one-way streets of Tel Aviv in a big truck making U-turns and stopping traffic left and right. Since I not only had to go back and help clean out my first pad AND wake up for work the next morning, Devorah handled the rest of the unloading mission and indirectly prevented my total meltdown.
For some reason, the two single guys who were living in our apartment did a good job disguising the dust, mold, and cockroaches that we've declared war on. So much so that we have staged nightly ambushes by baiting them with just the slightest bit of food, turning off the lights, leaving the apartment and then BAM, BOOM, BANG we go Charlie's Angles on their crustaceous, gross bodies when we return. Though we have warm up exercises for both mold scrubbing and roach ambushing I swear our apartment and neighborhood are amazing. These just come standard in Israel and we are thrilled that we opted for the apartment next to the cemetery with roaches and mold versus the one with an amazing porch covered in bat shit. A girl has to have standards. I now can not only can identify bat shit but know about their shitting habits, who knew?
“Living in Israel is like having an affair with a really hot and somewhat abusive lover”-Dscrubs Matkowsky
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