Taking Your Camera on the Road

Weeks later, we are still reeling with the after effects of the Visa Dance/20 Sheqel Maximum. Brent goes to get gas and the attendant, who recognizes him now, smiles if the total is below 20 sheqels. If it is above, he will wave his hands and do a mini version of the Visa Dance in his small booth, shouting “Lo! Lo! Lo! Lo! Lo! Lo Visa!” (No! No! No! No! No Visa!) Brent insists and tells him to pick up the damn telephone to call for approval or he’ll drive out without paying an arogot (in Hebrew, of course). Eventually the man complies. With gas prices at $4 USD a gallon, staying under the five dollar maximum and traveling any distance just isn’t mutually compatible. Every 10 days it costs Brent $50 USD to fill up the tank. You can see that the 20 sheqel ($5) limit doesn’t get very far with us.

We’re not alone. Friends and co-workers of Brent are having terrible times with their out-of-country Visa cards. Brad and Tari are really frustrated because they are also using company Visa credit cards for business related expenses. After a concert we all attended, we came back to our apartment and ordered Chinese take-out over the phone. Brad wanted to pay for it, but after 10 minutes on the phone trying to get the credit card approved, I told him to give up and we’d pay cash. Everyday, the same thing. It wears on you.

The night after I sent out my Visa Dance journal story to you all, Brent came home giggling. He told me he was in Brad’s office when he got the email from me. Brad usually doesn’t have time to plow through it, as I know many of you don’t, but he started reading it, then started over out loud to Brent, who hadn’t read it. The two guys were laughing so hard! Brad kept saying, “This is EXACTLY what it is like! She is so RIGHT!” They agreed that you all are probably thinking that I am exaggerating on this, but they both want to reassure you that if anything, I am understating the stress and frustration of dealing with this stupid issue and the crazy arrogance of the Israeli shopkeepers. Both of them loved my tale of being yelled at by the shopkeeper when searching for a little hardware dohickey. Brad’s wife, Tari, has tales about being chased out of stores by yelling shopkeepers, for no reason she can understand, and being told to just shop somewhere else, too. It is crazy.

A couple weeks after the famous Visa Dance, I got a bunch of phone messages, all garbled, in Hebrew. I had no idea what they wanted, and since my voice mail message says “Leave the message only in English” and they didn’t, I thought I would try to figure out what was going on with my four words of Hebrew. I asked to speak English and all I got were screaming “lo’s” (no) and other things I’m sure I don’t want to know. After two attempts, I went downstairs and interrupted Naomi, who is still trying to plow through the final stages of her doctorate while having an exciting new love affair AND doing 56 puppet shows over the past two months. She got on the phone for me. I was stunned when she found out it was the famous store of the 90 minute Visa Dance. The LAST people I wanted to talk to for a LONG time.

It seems they credited back all the repeated charges onto my credit card, but in doing so, they wiped out their original charge, leaving me with the threat of stealing. I figured my 90 minute wait was worth at least $50 an hour, so I had been compensated for my time and suffering, but that’s just not how my moral fiber works. They insisted, through Naomi, that I come out to the stores (two cabs and a bus ride away!) And deliver the money in cash. Naomi, bless her purple soul, told them they were “full of it” and insisted they send someone out to where I lived to pick it up, yelling in Israeli style with the best of them. They hemmed and hawed and finally agreed to take the credit card number over the phone and charge it again. It took almost 45 minutes to get to this point with three phone calls. So the dance continued through the telephone lines. Amazing the levels technology has advanced us to.

I’ve complained several times, officially, to Visa International to put pressure on Visa Israel. Naomi, who was frustrated with my frustration, called Visa Israel and took them to task, with the famous Israeli yelling and talking over the top of each other, for 30 minutes only to hang up and look at me with a weary smile. “You are right. It is stupid Israeli thinking and there is indeed a 20 sheqel maximum on Visas. The only thing you can do is write to the Ministers of Tourism and Finance and complain to them.” Which I’ve been trying to do.

Just imagine all the tourists from all over the world who visit here. Especially this year with the Millennium. EVERYONE and their uncle and cousin wants to come to the Holy Land during the year 2000. Flights into Israel are booked to the hilt. If they stay within the high tourist traveled areas, they should have only minor interruptions to the pleasures of their adventure here. Leave those areas and there will be some seriously ticked off people!

Since Visa is one of the largest suppliers of credit cards in the world, cardholders are going to be coming in here ready to spend their money and find it nearly impossible. I just don’t understand. Naomi told Visa Israel that she travels all over the world using her Visa Card (from Israel no less) in Vietnam, Zimbabwe, Angola, Korea, and it is accepted without question. She told them, “These are ‘third world’ countries and they take my Visa! Here is Israel reverting to less than a third world country with this idiot policy.” When she gets going, it’s a beautiful thing to watch.

Brent and I are planning to fly to Paris for a few days to catch up with my mother on her belated honeymoon with her husband of six months. Long story short, between El Al Airlines and American Airlines here in Israel, our attempts to fly there on our frequent flyer miles got totally screwed up. I spent four hours on the phone between both the companies here in Israel, with both of them telling me, basically, if you don’t like it, go fly with someone else because they didn’t care and they certainly didn’t want my business.

Completely going out of my mind with this ridiculous yelling and screaming, from them and myself, I finally called American Airlines in the States. With almost no waiting on hold, when a woman answered the phone with the words, “American Airlines. How may I help you?” I burst into tears.

She reassured me that whatever the problem was it wasn’t worth the tears and she was sure she could help. I tried to explain that the real problem are the assholes running businesses here in Israel, and how completely wonderful it was to be greeted with such sweet words. I told her I didn’t care if she could help me or not, that just the relief of hearing a normal voice speaking kind and compassionate sounding words – that was the best thing I had heard in MONTHS and worth more than a trip to Paris.

Yes, she not only wonderfully solved our problems, but American Airlines Fed-Ex’d our airline tickets to us in two days, no expedite fees or anything, totally free of charge, thanking us every step along the way, for our business. Makes me choke up just talking about it again.

We are getting used to the aggressive, and, I have to admit, nasty business practices here, which scares me. I’m not sure it is something I want to get used to. Naomi tells me that when she visits the USA, after a few days of non-stop “thank you” and “have a nice day” comments, she wants to hit the next person who is so darn polite and appreciative of her business. And I want to smack the next ingrate shopkeeper here in Israel. What a world!

So maybe my annoying letters to the Ministers, and my continuing complains to Visa International, along with all the complaints might make a change. In the meantime, the dance goes on and the steps just keep being added on to the choreography.

Tel Aviv, Israel

Expectations and Shopping

One of my life’s biggest problems, self-imposed of course, is dealing with my expectations. In general, I don’t think they are too high, too low, or even unreasonable. In life I expect people to treat each other to the best of their ability, hopefully fairly, and that I will be just smart enough to survive this world intact until my job is done. As we’ve traveled I’ve been surprised by people exceeding my expectations. I been disappointed, too, but I chose to see that as a reminder for me to change my perspective.
Besides my personal expectations, there are many expectations that people living in the US and Canada, and even in England and France, take for granted. Among them you will find proper business practices, customer service, and manners. Unfortunately, I’ve seen them so rarely in Israel I am being to think “manners” are one of many endangered species left in Israel.

I’ve been hanging out on the Israel and Jewish forums on Compuserve. Mostly, I want to learn more about where I am. I am also learning about other people’s expectations of Israel. Many a discussion with a returning visitor begins with the words: “Israelis are rude and ill-mannered.” I’ve seen the defensive shackles raise up in response. I’ve read all kinds of “excuses” about the behavior, but rarely do I read arguments that deny the behavior. The excuses range all over the place from “A group of people who have suffered so much – of course they have a right to act that way!” to “It’s all those Russian and Romanian immigrants! They give the country a bad name.” Or the ever-popular: “Living with constant war doesn’t make friendly people.” A favorite of mine is: “If you lived with people who want to kill you all the time, you’d act this way, too.” All may be true and good justifications, but I find it interesting that even the Israelis agree that they are some of the rudest and ill-mannered people on the planet. I’ve even been told by many who were born and raised here that they love vacations so they can get out of the country and away from the Israelis, and how they can’t stand it when they travel and end up with a bunch of nasty Israelis. It doesn’t make sense to me as I don’t have a problem when I see or meet another US Citizen, except when I find them acting badly, but that isn’t a constant state of attitude for Americans. When I ask why they believe this way about their own people I’m told: “Because they’re Israelis!” I guess that’s as good a reason as anything. Interesting perspective.

In fact, the Israelis seem proud of the fact that they use the car horn in place of a screaming voice. They are proud that they can push and shove their way to the front of the line and GET AWAY WITH IT. They LOVE to scream and yell at each other, each one shouting louder and louder. The Kinneset (their Congress) airs on local TV when it’s in session. Brent and I watch the screaming matches for its entertainment value. Men and women dressed in everything from traditional business suits to blue jeans, all mixed in with Orthodox Jews with their black suits and hats adorned and long beards and curled up side locks, all yelling and waving their hands over their heads like they are flagging down an airplane. It isn’t like that all the time. Just when the Kinneset is in session.

In my family, the louder you are the more likely you are to be heard. Yelling is how we communicate. In Brent’s family, the quietest voice carried the biggest stick. His family is very strange for me, someone from a family of yellers. Maybe there is some Jewishness tucked in somewhere on my father’s side of the family? There are a couple of Jewish sounding names in our family bible. We got just about every other ethnic group mixed in there. So I’m used to yelling just to be heard.

Pushing and shoving are considered normal in Israel. Yes, a lot of people live in a very small space here. In other countries where the press of people is everywhere, I have not experienced the bruising from well-shoved elbows that I have here. In the Orient, touching in public is considered rude. Here, bashing bodies is considered normal. When walking down the sidewalk, I often feel like I’m playing chicken; who will give in first before a head-on collision. One morning I was walking quickly down an empty sidewalk, swerving on occasion to avoid the omnipresent dog poop. A woman with a stroller came out and started down the opposite side of the sidewalk to me. She went about 30 feet or so and then looked up at me. She swung her stroller right on a path directly with me, even though the sidewalk was completely clear of dog poop. I kept on walking in my narrow line, up against the parked cars, leaving the five feet of sidewalk clear to my left. She kept on heading at me. Three feet before we collided, I played the chicken and stepped aside. Her eyes never left me the whole time we walked towards each other. I stopped after I passed her, wishing I had the Hebrew words to scream what I was thinking, only to see her shift the stroller over to the other side of the sidewalk. Yes, before you ask, I did look for a reason that made her want to walk on my side of the sidewalk, and I found nothing. No dog poop, nothing. If I didn’t experience this same routine fairly regularly, I would think that she was just the strange one. But this is just so typical, and I’m the strange one who doesn’t do it to others and the one who plays the chicken most of the time.

It is standard operating policy to cut in front of people waiting in line. Especially if the “cutter” has fewer items than you. It is assumed you will allow them in front as they are spending “so little” and will pass through faster. They totally ignore the fact you’ve been waiting in the grocery line for 20 minutes as others have cut in front over and over again, and your ice cream is melted, meat defrosted, and milk spoiled. After one grocery trip where five people cut in front of me, I finally created a “line policy”. I will let ONE person in, but not more. I don’t care if I had a wonderful day and am feeling magnanimous or a horrible day and resent everyone. Brent accuses me of being unkind when he is with me and these “little events” happen, but he isn’t out there every day dealing with it. One is fine, more is a bore.

You cannot return anything in Israel. You buy it, it’s yours – forever. Customer service where the customer is always right and comes first – it just doesn’t exist here. I’ve asked my neighbor, Naomi, about this attitude and she told me that the Israelis would take advantage of it. How can you take advantage of it? If it ain’t right, still in its package, and you have the receipt, they can resell it and I can get what I need and feel good about coming back to the store as I was well-treated. There can be all kinds of rules to protect the company from abuse. Good customer service keeps the customers coming in, right?

It doesn’t matter to most businesses here. Maybe it is because similar stores are all grouped together. Maybe it is for greed. Maybe Israelis are so intelligent they could figure out a way to abuse the system. Whatever the reason, you buy it, it’s yours forever. I’ve been yelled at, insulted, pushed and shoved by store clerks and owners. I was in a very small electrical/housewares shop looking through some small clear plastic “drawers” for an electrical connector. The lady behind the counter, serving several other people, started yelling and screaming so I turned to see what the fuss was. She was screaming at me. I told her I spoke English and one of the customers explained that the lady wanted to know what I was looking for. I explained that I could find it on my own in less time than it would take to explain. I assured her I wouldn’t mess up her bins. I turned back to the bins and there was more screaming. The customer told me that the lady didn’t want the bins “messed up”. Since I’d already opened a couple of the drawers, and pieces of everything were already mixed in, I didn’t see that this was an issue, but the whole thing is so typical Israeli, what could I do? I asked the man to ask her if I could have permission to look for the item I came in for. I’d been here in before and I picked out what I needed by myself then. The man translated back that I had to tell her what it was I wanted. I asked again for permission to look myself. More yelling commenced, so I just walked out the door and into a shop 20 feet away, got the thing I wanted by myself within 45 seconds, paid cash and was out of the door in 2 minutes. The clerk there didn’t even say a word to me.

A lot of Israelis tell us that you can find anything you could ever possibly want in Israel. Unfortunately what you need is hard to find, costs 10 times what it would back home, probably doesn’t work when you get it home (and they won’t let you plug it in to test it), or they are sold out. My neighbor tells me to call the stores in advance to find out if they have what I need. Easier said than done as they often don’t speak English. Then I’m faced with the challenge that my word for what I am looking for doesn’t match their word for the same thing.

Oh, and let’s not forget the false promises. Some Israeli shopkeepers love to make sweeping comments on how much I will love the product and their shop is the only place in town to get this. Combined with their refusal, afterward, to treat me right, and their willingness to turn down my business and tell me to try another store, I find this behavior just as silly and rude. It isn’t pride, it is just this sweeping ego that cracks me up. They are similar to the infamous stereotypical used car salesmen, but different. When we refer to used car salesmen, we are usually exaggerating. When I refer to the Israelis here as used car salesman personalities, I’m under-exaggerating because they are the stereotype and MORE.

“This is the best. So put down your money and let us do business.” “I am here for you. Anything you need, let me help you. There is nothing better than a happy customer and I am here to make you happy.” “You, my lovely lady, have come to the right place and I am at your disposal.” “This is the best product in the country. Only here can you find it!” “If this is not right, you come see me and I will make everything happy for you. This is my job. My customers come first.” These comments are always made with sweeping arm and hand gestures and sounded out with elongated pronunciation. The few times I’ve believed them, they proved to be false. I’ve only had one experience where the shopkeeper continues to live up to those commitments of good customer service. I hear this lovely excuse all the time: “You think you are in America?” In one store run by Russians, I kept telling them, in Hebrew, that I didn’t need any help and the man kept pulling the ugliest clothes off the racks and putting them in my hands. I kept saying no and handing them back or not even taking them (then he would toss them at me so I had to catch them). Over and over again he cried, “Here, you want, I sell, you give me money, I take money, we do a little business and everyone happy happy happy. You give me money, I happy.” I finally took the load in my hands and tossed it over a rack and said “No thank you” very loudly and got out of there. I felt mauled. The gushing and fussing is just too much and now I’ve learned to resent it and walk out as soon as it begins.

I have learned to only reward good behavior with my money. If you treat me nice, I will return. Keep it up and you will have a good customer and I will tell others. Be bad to me, and you will NOT get my money. Hopefully others think the same and with the power of our money we will put the losers out of business. Unfortunately this bad behavior is the norm and people here are used to it and refuse to challenge it. They keep paying the people with the bad behavior.

Dealing with businesses, from retail shops to language schools, I swear that all gray hair I get while in Israel will come from the following trash-heap adventure in my next journal entry. Gray hair won’t come from worrying about whether the next scud flying from Iraq, Lebanon, or wherever will land near or on me. I am sick and tired, disgusted, and extremely frustrated with the rude and extremely unprofessional manner in which business is practiced here – at least the businesses I am forced to work with. You might think this is just another whining journal entry, but it’s more than that. It is a story truly reflective of what life is like living here. Just ask those in similar positions as Brent and I. Some of them are reading this email with you and laughing and crying because they can identify with this only too well.

Oh, yes, there is more…

The World’s Record Holder for Waiting for a Credit Card Approval

Yes, you are reading the words of the all-time record holder for “credit card approval waiting.” I hold the world’s record of one and a half hours. Those aren’t metric hours. They are full of minutes, all sixty of them, sixty seconds in each. I know cuz I watched my watch spin around SLOWLY as I suffered.

IAI (Israel Aircraft Industries) has a “mini-mall” offering everything from laundry soap and toilet paper to furniture and computers to their employees and their families. Open very limited hours, the prices are fantastic. I wish Boeing would have something like this to take advantage of their employee’s mass buying power! With a 17% tax and high import fees, the IAI stores are an escape from the expensive regular retail stores and the equivalent of a Costco or Sam’s Club, though much smaller. The "mall" is broken up into small temporary looking buildings in which are stuffed different household items. There is an electronics shop, a CD shop, a clothing shop, a household products shop with cleaning supplies, toilet paper and such, a jewelry store, a big shoe shop, and a couple of furniture shops among other odds and ends.

Without stress or argument I purchased a way too expensive VCR from the west end of one of the stores. In the middle section, with no dividing lines anywhere I can see, I wanted to buy some pots and pans, a backpack, and a few other goodies for our new apartment. I’d love to tell you what the problem at the counter was but it took me all of those minutes that slowly churned into ninety to figure it out myself and you are not getting off that easy.

They swiped my Visa and hit some buttons, same as they had done for my purchase of the VCR at the counter only a few feet away. Then the screaming began. When this happens, which unfortunately is frequently, I always feel the same thing. I want to spread my arms like a ringleader in a bad circus and announce in a deep baritone: “Ladies and Gentlemen! Let the screaming commence!” And it does. With a lot of hand waving and shaking of heads. In one of those hands is, as usual, my credit card.

In the other hand is usually the symbol we have learned to hate. We’ve witnessed it over and over again – probably a dozen times on our first day. This gesture is so common, I’m sure Brent and I do it in our sleep. The meaning is “wait.” One hand comes up with all the fingers and thumb pinched together like you are making an “o” but the fingers point straight up and the hand bobs up and down. It is accompanied with a variety of looks and usually the word “ray-gah” (like “ray” of sun with a “guh" at the end). This means wait, but it also means “don’t bother me now.” People raise their hand this way in shops, from cars, on sidewalks, we see it everywhere. We even do it. The way the hand comes up, the pinched fingers pointing to the heavens, it reminds me of the Italian move that says “screw you.” I wonder if it comes from there.

So it begins, with me not understanding a single thing, but I sit back and enjoy the show, participating occasionally, though it proceeds with little help from me anyway. Join me as I witness the dramatic “Lorelle’s Credit Card Dance,” also known as the Israeli Visa Dance. It begins with an upward sweep of a sales person’s right hand up over their head, waving my credit card from side to side, while the other hand raises up in the “ray-gah” position, like an upside down snake seeking prey. This time more than one saleswoman joins the dance and they hop from foot to foot and shake their heads from side to side to up and down. I lift my own right hand in a fist to my ear and shout and point “telephone” – I must play my part in the dance, too! They scream back at me, spit flying as they gaggle the harsh sounds of the Hebrew language at full volume, and wave the credit card back at me, as if I know what is going on, then they turn in unison to the second group of dancers across the store. The new dancers respond back with the similar arm waving and yelling, and the occasional snake “ray-gah” hand motion bobbing up and down in mid-air.

Let me give you a little history about the famous “Israeli Visa Dance.” When we first arrived, we had occasional trouble using our credit card, an American Airlines/Citibank Visa. They called it a “Tourist Visa.” This is their name for the process of turning down my card and making me pay cash. Frustrated, I called our banks in the US and they never heard of a “Tourist Visa”. Eventually, we learned a “Tourist Visa” was the Israeli word for a Visa credit card issued outside the country. Unfortunately, I’ve yet to hear the words “Tourist MasterCard.”

After several months of phone calls to credit card companies and banks, this is what I’ve learned. Retailers pay different rates to accept different “kinds” of credit cards. Some accept credit cards issued by local banks only. Or they can pay a higher rate to accept Visa cards from all over the world. Since the latter is expensive, retailers not dealing with tourists go for the cheaper rate and only accept cards from local/national banks. To get a “Tourist Visa” accepted, it takes one phone call to Visa Israel or Visa International to get the “approval” number, but few companies know how or are willing to do this, especially if there is a line of customers and the phone is in the back of the store. So they make a sweeping refusal for all “Tourist Visas” to make their job easier. One thing you learn quickly here in Israel is that a lot of business people, especially in retail sales, really don’t want to do much to get your business. You either buy from them or go down the street and trouble the next storekeeper who has the same merchandise. Easier said than done if you are the shopper.

Is there any way to tell if a store won’t take your credit card? The sign says “VISA” so you don’t know until you get to the register. When I ask, I get told “of course” and think it’s a done deal. WRONG!

So back to the yelling, waving, and Visa Dance. The next steps in the dance involves pushing through the crowds in the store and running from side to side across the store through the crowded aisles. Brent and I make it a policy to not let our credit card out of our sight. So I gracefully chase the hand waving my card back and forth across the store. After twenty minutes of this, my gracefulness has now left me in the horrid heat and humidity, sweat runs down my back and legs and my hair is drenched. I decide to stand by the register and wait. Ten minutes later I pulled out my book and started reading.

A couple weeks after the Visa Dance episode, I started having more trouble with my credit card. Places I once trusted not do the dance were now turning it down. It wasn’t clear until a day trip to Ein Gedi Spa on the Dead Sea. There is only one tourist shop for dozens of miles in all directions and I purchased a few bath products from the Dead Sea there. The lady ahead of me from my tour bus put out her credit card and it caught my eye. It was identical to mine. I pulled mine out to check that I hadn’t lost it, and sure enough, it matched hers: Citibank American Airlines Advantage card! I don’t spend time with Americans here so it was a novelty to see a matching style credit card. I thought, “I hope she doesn’t have a problem like I always do.” And she didn’t. She paid for her $200 plus order and headed for the bus. I was impressed. So I proudly put out my card for my measly $50 purchase and the clerk took a step back, put her hand up (this time in a halt position) and told me that they don’t take “Tourist Visas.” Dumbstruck, I explained that she just took the identical card from the lady ahead of me. Was there something wrong with me? Am I some kind of magnet for trouble? Don’t answer that!

The clerk explained that the woman had a MasterCard version and they have no problem with those. Only Visas. Go figure! Very nicely they explained that about 10 days ago Visa Israel put a new “limit” on how much would be allowed for out-of-the-country Visa credit cards. Hold onto your hats! In the US and Canada there are often "minimums" on how much you can charge to your credit card so the retailer can cover the credit card expenses. It is often $10 or $20 USD. Now, in Israel, you CANNOT use your Visa for any amount OVER 20 sheqels which comes to FIVE DOLLARS.

Yes, you read this correctly. There is a new FIVE DOLLAR MAXIMUM on Visas. So if you spend 19 sheqels, you are okay. Spent 21 sheqels and you are refused. It is either cash or a different card. Want to pay with MASTERCARD??? A $500 limit or whatever. Is this crazy! So if you spent less than this $5 amount, there isn’t a problem. But spend more than $5 and the merchant has to call for a verbal authorization, and most merchants won’t do it as it is too time consuming, takes the clerk away from the counter, slows down sales, and they are just Israeli business people who don’t give a rip for the customer most of the time.

Next day found me on the phone to all parties concerned. The final story is that Visa International knew nothing about this. The limit was set by Visa Israel, for reasons I’ve yet to find out. I got as far as the office of the people who are supposed to set the limits but no one spoke English. Visa International says they will try to put pressure on Visa Israel to find out what the score is, but who knows. Meanwhile, here we are with several Visas and no MasterCard!

Back to the Visa Dance. As I am reading my book, I casually lift my eyes to check on, oh, yes – there goes my credit card doing the dance away from me….oh, here it is coming back again….and there it goes…here it comes…more yelling and arm waving….there it goes…..and as soon as a clerk catches my eye, her hand comes up in that bobbing snake motion again. Yeah, yeah, yeah…not much else I can do. I’m sick of the dance. I finally ask them if I can just leave my credit card here while they figure it all out so I can get spend my cash on more shopping before the shops close and I’ll come back before they close. Absolutely NOT they manage to tell me. Oh, so I’m speaking Spanish to someone who only speaks a little of it, but I make my point since none of them speak any English and I don’t speak Russian, French, or Hebrew. What a group we make!

Ace Hardware is great here in Israel. It isn’t so much a taste of home, but it has housewares and tools all in one place, making the process of shopping much easier. While everyone has been really helpful, I have to go through the Visa Dance every time. Last week I shopped there and was ready for the Visa dance. When the clerk handed me back my card, no questions asked, I about fainted. I asked, in my horrible Hebrish (or Engbrew), if everything was okay. She got all nervous and yelled at her supervisor. Now everyone but me was confused and I quickly decided to just go with it and started shouting, “Bay-say-der, Bay-say-der!” which is an “okay, it’s alright, everything is fine” catch-all phrase. I took my stuff and got out of there – SAFE! No Visa Dance! Score: ONE for Lorelle – Israel 95,403,876. At least I finally got a score for my part of the dance.

I’ve gotten so used to doing battle, it was bizarre not to participate in the dance. This whole thing is strange because Israel is one of the most computer-connected-up places I’ve ever been in. They have more technological advancements in use than even in the US. EVERYONE has a cell phone and/or PDA, and bar code scanning is everywhere, even in some of the strangest places like the markets in old Jerusalem where you have to compete with the donkeys up the narrow alleyways. So the ease of access to credit card approvals should be the least of anyone’s worries. But it is the biggest stressor of our life here.

At the 30 minute mark in the dance, I tracked down my card in the back office, filled with smokers. I asked to borrow a phone (made hand signals and they got it in one) and called Brent. He was out of the office so I left a message warning them that if they heard a murder being reported on the news at IAI, it would be me killing someone. I’m sure it got translated to Brent in an interesting way as most of the people he works with speak fair English, but not perfectly. But I was far past caring by that time.

Okay, it is now ninety minutes into the Visa Dance. My patience is exhausted and I’m ready to seize my card and leave after telling them to go do something creative with different parts of their anatomy – when finally someone who looks like they know the dance better than anyone else in the room steps to the middle of the counter area with a stack of receipts and my card. Through the mixture of Spanish, Hebrew, and English, it seems that in all the yelling and confusion, the clerk charged my account three times. They now felt it was all fixed and presented me with a stack of slips to sign. I made a mental note to check the statement to make sure it was indeed fixed. What a nightmare.

I went into another shop and paid cash for some socks for Brent. The clerk wanted to know, in broken English, why my face was so red and overheated. I told her my credit card was not wanted here and that I was sick of the BS (I used the full word which, as I’ve told you in the past, means nothing here but it’s use made me feel MUCH better.). She smiled and tried to make me laugh, and it helped, a little. Downstairs from there is the “grocery” store with non-perishable items. I had more problems, this time with shopping carts and smokers, so when a hand came down on my shoulder inside the store, I wanted to punch the hell out of whoever it was. It was Brent. One look at him and I started crying hysterically. He wrapped me up in his arms and just held on until I quieted down. He never told me to stop crying, or that it would be alright. He knows I don’t go for that false crap. He held me tightly and told me over and over that he loved me and let me cry it out.

I recovered, but my angst about going out shopping, even for groceries, is now to the level where I wait until we are a day or two past due on even the most basic stuff, playing the procrastination game, before I finally psych myself up and head out the door. How I wish I could shop on the Internet from here!

And you think you got it hard!

Tel Aviv, Israel

I’m trying to find words to express how it felt to sit on the bed among the remains of our eight empty suitcases. Even though much of our life storage, odd bits and pieces, is spread across the USA, the remains just evacuated from our luggage is the only stuff that counts now. It’s here and it’s ours. And it ain’t much, though Brent still swears we brought too much. I sift through what managed to make it here and I want to cry.

Some of what we did manage to haul through the skies and across the ocean is critical to the success of our life here. Yes, I did manage to get in all my deodorant – enough for a year. Allergic to deodorants, this is important stuff. You got to have your priorities, and finding deodorant that doesn’t turn my arm pits into an itchy rash – well, let’s just admit that in this case deodorant becomes a priority. Especially in this heat. I’ve got toothpaste, aspirin, and basic medical stuff…of the things I had to leave behind may not be easily or ever found here.

We were told that we could find EVERYTHING we would ever want and need in Israel. After all, they puffed up their chests, it is a technologically advanced, civilized, modern country. We drive cars not camels now! What did your parents tell you about believing everything you read and hear? Suckers, that’s what we are, suckers. While I anticipated many of the things we would need, replacing the things we left behind is turning into WORK!

Two days after we arrived, I emptied our clothing out of the suitcases and onto the bed (Not easy with eight suitcases in a hotel room so small we had to crawl off the end of the bed to get out of it, and then crawl over more suitcases to get to the bathroom…trust me, I could hardly fit my Toyota in this room if it were a garage! Our trailer is bigger than our hotel room!). I put away a few pair of Brent’s pants and shirts and underwear, and then tackled my few items: three skirts, three pants, one pair of shorts, a couple of t-shirts, five bras (I knew it would be hard to find replacements for these!), and – what is this? ONE PAIR OF UNDERWEAR!

That’s right. Count them up. I’m wearing one, one is hanging in the bathroom drying, and there is only one pair to put in the drawer. There is something wrong here. I dug through Brent’s underwear. One, two, three, four…as there should be, there are eight pairs of underwear for him. All Hanes briefs, the only kind he will wear. But me, I only have three pair of underwear. I dug through the suitcases, books, computer disks, papers, camera gear. Yep, only three pair. Brent was in charge of counting out the clothing, all the underwear, socks, pants, t-shirts, etc. So where the hell are my underwear? I have arrived in Israel with three pair of underwear. Just great. Just freakin’ great!

Of course, Israel has underwear. It’s a modern, civilized country and underwear is a basic necessity. There are lingerie and underwear shops all over the place. I’ve peered into their windows with envy at the little lacy goodies designed to tempt a man into fits of ecstacy and erotism. The delicate see-through sexy things that I will never be able to wear…yes, I’ve lusted. So surely I can come up with some granny-style underwear for my fat body. Not a problem.

Problem. First, just about everyone here that I see on the streets is size minus one anorexia. Their stomachs are concave with hips jutting out like goal posts. Not only do their thighs not rub together, you can park a car between them. In the two days I’d been here, exploring all over the city, I’d yet to see someone even half my size. So of course, I can’t find any underwear in my size. Frustrated, I wash them out every night, continuing the hunt during my daily explorations.

I’m not alone in my frustration of not finding things and not understanding the language. A few days later, we discovered a HUGE grocery store in the Azrieli shopping mall right near the highway. After shopping in little expensive kiosks for some basics, this was American nirvana. The lanes were wide with bright florescent lights reflecting off the many tin cans and colorful boxes of CHOICES in food. The fruits and vegetables weren’t as wonderful as those I found in the market, but the rest of the basic requirements in food, housewares, and toiletries were sparkling in the light of modern convenience and commerce. Brent and I decided to thoroughly explore the household cleaning aisle for Lorelle had screwed up in her shopping experiments, and Brent was here to save the translation-day.

Due to the excessive smoking in all the restaurants, we had trouble finding non-smoking restaurants, confined to eating outside and challenging any smoker who dared to light up near us. Combined with Brent being exhausted when he got to the hotel each night, I started buying food in the market and at the delis and bringing it home. Therefore we needed to wash our little plastic dishes, spoons, and forks to reuse them the next day. I had bought a very small bottle of what I thought was dish soap. It was right next to the large bottles of Palmolive and Fantastic, featuring sparkling dishes on their labels. And this one featured a sparkling kitchen sink, and was half the size and price.

Washing dishes one night, Brent complained about the dish soap not lathering. I told him I got it because it was small and cheaper than the others. “But it doesn’t make a lather. I don’t feel like the dishes are getting clean.”

He picked up the bottle and then started laughing. I wasn’t sure if he was laughing at the bottle or at me, but I soon found out who the target was. “This is toilet cleaner!”

Sure enough, the “kitchen sink” was actually a toilet bowl. Oh, well, it still cleans. Disinfects, too. So we used the advantage of this huge grocery store to teach Lorelle about the difference between toilet bowl cleaners and dish soap. Oh, yeah!

After the quick lesson and purchase of a Palmolive dish soap, we turned down the dairy aisle to look for some cheese and yoghurt. A woman stepped back from the refrigerated shelves and shouted out in abrasive New England American, “Can someone here help me find some cottage cheese!”

She turned around and confronted me, some yoghurt looking containers in her hands. “Do you speak English? I’m going crazy here looking for cottage cheese. Where the hell is the cottage cheese?”

Calmly, I told her, “Yes, I speak English, and I have no clue what any of this means.”

She cried, “Oh, my god, you’re an American!” and hugged me. We laughed, instantly empathizing with the struggle to survive in a language and place so totally foreign. A man behind us tapped the woman on the shoulder and offered help to find the cottage cheese. After locating the item, she turned back to me, her face as red as her curly hair, and announced how wonderful it was to not only find another American, but also a fellow redhead. Instantly, Risa Blair and I became sisters in the defiance of Israel. We exchanged phone numbers and were in contact a few days later. Sharing horror stories of our couple of weeks in the country, she decided to join me in my desperate search for underwear. Okay, it was also an excuse to just go shopping and exploring.

Risa is a college professor teaching computer sciences. She is on “loan” from her university in Vermont to teach at a “sister” university in Tel Aviv. Her brash New England style puts off many Israelis, but I love her tell-it-like-it-is refreshing attitude. After almost two years in conservative North Carolina, it is amazingly wonderful to connect with such a breath of energetic fresh air. Only here for three months, her husband, Gordy, came over to help her out, acting like an assistant, cook, and bottle-washer. A locksmith by passion and trade, start talking locks with Gordy and hours will pass by as you learn everything and anything about locks. It’s wonderful to meet anyone so passionate about what they do.

Risa struggles against the lazy attitude of the Israeli staff of the university and her students. They clearly want to learn but their enthusiasm is at best, dull. She is obviously the fire in the hole and they are the black hole sucking her energy. Our outings become releases from the frustrations of her work.

Another female friend I’ve made is the wife of one of Brent’s co-workers, Here on the same contract from the states, Betty came over for a couple of months. A wonderful “southern-style gal”, she reminds me of the elegant older women friends I left behind in North Carolina. She has a wild streak to her, but she puts up a strong conservative front.

What a combination in these two new friends. Here I am in the “holy land” with a New England jew who wasn’t raised religious, and a Mormon. Ask Risa something about Judaism and the odds are that you will get a shrug. She knows bits and pieces but not much in the details. Betty is very open to talk about her beliefs and the way the Mormon Church works, admitting that she led a “rough” life before she found the church which saved her life. One of the oldest faiths but non-practicing, and the other of one of the newest faiths, and very dedicated to her faith. What a wonderful combo!

So, with the fantastic sewing machine here (old but perfect condition) I am anxious to start some creative work, but there are some things I need first. For example, interfacing and elastic bands are under a dollar at WalMart and easy to get. Here, it is really complicated. First, I have to find the sewing notions. I look in the English phone book under sewing and find machines and repairs. The English phone book was created for the tourists, a thriving business here making up the majority of income for the country. Since the phone book caters to tourists, mostly tourist oriented items are listed. So the section advertising hotels, taxis, and souvenir shops is HUGE. The sections advertising electrical repair, plumbing, and day-to-day business and needs is small and almost non-existent. A nice but ineffective helper for someone staying more than a month. But I try.

I crawl through the cross-referencing index in the front of the phone book, a fairly useless but desperately needed tool, and find that sewing notions are referenced under “Fashion Accessories and Notions.” Under that category, I use the great technique taught me by our landlord and slide my finger down the list to find the most common street mentioned. Kfar G’ladi is the most common street, also known as Giladi or G’l’di or whatever spelling they come up with, overcompensating for the lack of vowels in the language. As I mentioned before, Tel Aviv has a great way of grouping similar stores together. Gathering up Betty, we set off on a path of discovery. I wish I could admit it was just a trip to the fabric/notions store, or even a trip to WalMart, but it is a voyage into the unknown and indecipherable.

Within a block we were convinced luck was with us. There were lace and thread shops. Feels right, but then, we’re never quite sure. The shop fronts are basically a small window next to a door. The window is filled with the potential wares inside. They may or may not be showing off what I need, so I have to go inside to find out. The window displays are coated with dust from years, if not decades, of unchanging exhibition. I’ve learned that passing through the doors could be an adventure of color and magic, a brightly lit shop filled with everything in the planet arrayed along the walls and counters. Or it could mean opening the creaking metal door into a dark and dank place where light comes from a naked bulb overhead and I hit a grimy counter and intimidating troll who guards the gate of all treasures beyond the gate of shadows. Everything is stored in the netherworld reaches of the back of the store and I have to find a way of communicating exactly what I want, which will, upon comprehension (potential comprehension), send the toll of a shopkeeper into the dark eerie depths of the netherworld to retrieve what could, or could not, be what I need. Each time I open a door, fear creeps up my neck and tickles at the back of my hair. I’m hear in Israel for the adventure, but there are times when too much adventure is just too much. I’m not so sure that shopping should be that adventuresome.

We finally happen upon a shop with elastic and ribbons in the window, laden with dust, and we feel confident that this might be it. Trying to find the words to explain what I needed, I had learned that “gummy” is Hebrew for elastic. That will only get me so far as I haven’t a clue how to explain non-rolling or anti-rolling elastic. As I get better at sewing, even though I’m still at the straight line stage, I’m learning to use what is good not just what is cheap. Everything we’ve looked at has been cheap and of a poor quality. Having already learned this lesson making pants in the states at my sewing class in Greensboro, I knew I would be miserable with an elastic waistband rolling and twisting up. But shopping here in Israel, a land where almost everything be shipped in that isn’t easily made here, elastic is one of those many things that gets judged on its availability rather than quality. I just don’t have the choices. It is either buy cheap and what they have or go without.

I debated over cheap and available, never finding better, and having it mailed to me from the states (hey, mom, can you send me some 99 cent non-roll elastic? Sure it will only cost $20 to mail it but I’m desperate!). I asked the shop keeper how much and he informed me that the “gummy” is only 15 shekels (USD $3.50). Willing to test it, but not invest in it, I asked for a meter. Confusion reigned. After much flapping of arms and spouting of words I struggled to understand, and a lot of me saying “Lo avanti” (I don’t understand), he struggled to explain that the whole roll of “gummy” was 15 shekels and they can’t cut it. Ah, but the whole roll is 25 meters long. UGH! No matter what the price, what in the world was I going to do with 25 meters of cheap elastic? That adds up to about 16 pairs of pants! So I declined. Better to get it from my mother. The interfacing was the same way. They would sell me 20 meters for a really cheap price but I only needed a half meter. I use this for reinforcing buttons and collars, something that doesn’t require much. So I walked out my hands empty.

We hunted the whole street, finding only a couple of “sewing notion” shops but a lot of other things. We came to a great conclusion. Instead of sewing notions, if anyone needs any hair clips, rhinestones, purses, cheap elastic, ribbons or any other fashion accessories, I know where to get some in Tel Aviv. We found the fashion accessory street.

So I keep hunting. Everything is like this. What should only take a few minutes to find and get becomes weeks and weeks of hunting through dozens of shops to find the simplest of things, like underwear that fits. I’ve been hunting desperately for a cookie sheet for Brent. I finally, after almost two months, find one. I’m ecstatic. I surprise Brent with it and he runs immediately to the oven, and the cookie sheet half of an inch too wide. “We could have slanted cookies,” he admits, trying to make a typical disappointment more entertaining. We used to get a lot of laughs over this kind of thing, but now it happens so frequently, it is boring and frustrating. Returning things here is a nightmare. It just ain’t done, and when it does get done, it took more time and effort than it was worth.

My lovely neighbor, Naomi, has been giving a lot of thought as to why I am so frustrated and stressed out here. After all, I am wearing my stress not only in my body posture, but my face has broken out, I’ve been having rashes scattered across my body, I’m gaining weight – let’s face it, I’m a mess. Trying to help me, she explained the choices you can use to get help. “First, you must warn them you’re going to speak English so their heads can kick into the different language part of their brain. Be patient.”

Hey, I traveled all over the country living and working out of a fifth wheel trailer. I lived in Greensboro, North Carolina, for a year where the most commonly heard phrase is “Well, I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout that.” I know patience. I live patience. I hate patience, but I’m experienced. See, it is written into my resume: Very patient person; borderline insane with patience.

She then suggests that I start with a story. I like this idea. Adding a vote for sympathy, she acts out my part in the conversation of commerce. “I need your help. I have no where else to turn but to you. [tears start here] I am trying to sew on this old machine in my apartment. I am from the United States and I just don’t understand how to find what I am looking for and I know you can help me. I need some elastic for my dress.” And so on. So I try it. Unfortunately I try it first on someone who speaks only four words of English so my story doesn’t get me very far. It just adds to the confusion. At this stage I’m willing to try anything.

“Then try to be very graphic in your descriptions.” Oh, I got that one down. I draw pictures. I do finger puppets. I am great at coming up with physical body movements and expressions to make my point. Chopping, slicing, and even shredding I got down. Those are easy. But trying to help Risa explain what athlete’s foot lotion is to people who barely speak English, especially when it is something that seems to rarely occurs here, well, it’s tough. My explanation led to dry skin lotion, foot deodorant, and mosquito repellant. No athlete’s foot stuff. Some things are just too hard to get across.

I told her that language differences are only the small part of my stress level. I can live with the rudeness, blaming it on Tarzan English. I can understand their frustration with me. I know I’m frustrated enough for twelve people. But she is determined to help me live a less stressful life, so I will keep you up-to-date with our success.

There are just some days when I find myself wanting to sit down and cry. It can get really hard to fight off the anger and depression that hovers over my shoulder. So far, I’m okay. Brent keeps me smiling. To be honest, all I have to do is look out our huge garage door windows, hear the sounds of foreign speech rising up from the park below me, the echos of the junk collector calling out indecipherable shouts as he rides through the narrow streets battling the honking cars, combined with the hacking cough of smokers, sniff the unusual scent of dry, hot, dusty, polluted air accented with the warm hint of dog shit and the disgusting stench of cigarettes, and I know I am a long way from home in a very exciting place.

But gee, I sure wish there was a WalMart nearby.

PS: Risa and I finally found some underwear for me. Giving up on finding anything my size, she suggested I look at men’s underwear. After all, they are comfortable on men and they have all those extra parts to fit into them. We don’t have the parts, so they should be even more comfortable for us. So we started hunting through the men’s underwear and sure enough found a XXXL pair of brief-like cotton shorts. Their XXX is the same size as a US extra-large, but it still intimidates me. But honestly, these are really comfortable. Sure, there is that extra fabric in front, but I like how they go down the thigh a little bit. That added protection keeps my thighs from rubbing together in the sweaty heat. I could grow to like these. See, even changing to strange and different can bring joy. But at last, after two months of three pair of underwear, I can take an underwear-washing day off.

Tel Aviv, Israel

In consulting with friends about going to Israel, we heard a lot of commentary. I wish I had a dime for everyone who assured me everyone in Israel spoke English and that every THING was in English. I’d be really rich right now.

Many speak English, enough to help them get by with whatever they are doing. A bus driver knows words like pass, ticket, bus, stop, wait, and things appropriate for riding on the bus. Well, most things. It took me four tries on four different buses to finally get it across to a bus driver that I wanted an all-day pass. Now that I have one, I hold it up and point to a new one, no words being spoken other than thank you (“toe-dah”). At McDonalds, most of them know McChicken, McBurger and other Mcs they have on their menu. In shops, they know most of the words for the most popular things shopped for, but then there is a more serious problem I face almost every day. This is the problem of looking for something we take for granted but they’ve never heard of.

One such problem was our search for a top sheet. Our landlords bought new sheets, towels and tons of things we needed. In European style, the sheet set consists of a bottom fitted sheet and a duvet cover. No top sheet. The duvet cover (quilt/comforter cover) is really two flat sheets sewn together to form an envelope into which you slide a duvet/quilt. Now, it is VERY hot here. At night it is 90F and this is only fall. It’s too hot for more than a sheet. The duvet cover consisting of two sheets is too warm for us. We wanted a single, flat top sheet, just something light to cover us enough, but not to make us sweat.

They don’t have them here. No where. Well, almost no where. I hunted everywhere. I tried explaining this concept over and over, even talking to people who speak beautiful and fluent English only to be told, “Why do you need that? We don’t have that. No one would use it.”

Undaunted, the hunt begins. So commences one more time in my life when I wish for the millionth time, “Why can’t things be simple!!!” Yes, I explain for the hundredth time, I need a flat sheet. Not a duvet or fitted sheet – yes, I know they come as a set. I just want a top sheet.

“Top shit? Vhat is top shit?”

“Not shit, SHEEET. I need a SHEEEEET, top SHEEET.”

“Vhat I seed. Top shit. Vhat iz top shit?”

“It is a flat sheet, like the fitted sheet without elastic.” I even learned the Hebrew word for elastic: goomy. “Lo goomy.” (No elastic.)

“Why you need some think like dat? We have no think like dat.”

“Can you tell me where to find flat sheets? Yes, I understand that you don’t know about such things. How do you sleep in this heat? Yes, I understand you are wearing a sweater right now while I have sweat pouring down my face. You sleep in your night clothes. Well, we don’t. We sleep nude and I want a sheet. Yes, I understand. You don’t have a sheet.”

After all this interrogation, I start to not give a sheet that they don’t have a sheet.

I finally asked about waterbed sheets. Bingo! The lady rushed over to a shelf WAY DOWN IN THE BACK CORNER, brought up a package, wiped the inch of dust off, and handed it to me.

“Flat sheet,” she explained. “Waterbed.”

Cool. It’s not a “top sheet” but a “flat sheet”. This she understands. Go figure. But it finally worked. So I bought the largest one I could find. Brent likes King Size sheets even on a double bed, but again, their sizes are different here and even though it was the largest, it barely covers the bed. Brent’s feet stick out if we pull the sheet up to our chests. Until we can find something else, we will live with it.

In much of the world, like Italy, Spain, France, Africa, and even Canada, when you read the signs, menus, and even the phone book, you can at least recognize the words, and with a dictionary, you can figure it out pretty well. Let me describe Hebrew this way. Hebrew, I believe, is really a secret code for spies. I’m sorry, but there is absolutely no connection between Hebrew letters and Latin. Zip. Zero.

Now, there are other languages in the world with a non-Latin based lettering system, and I’m in no position of expertise to condemn or even praise the language. As a foreigner unprepared for the language, I am going bonkers trying to shop and replace the things we had to leave behind without being able to recognize ANYTHING. To me, it is a secret code.

I spent hours looking for a store that had been referred to me. I had the name written in English and in Hebrew. I wandered around trying to find something in the letters familiar and failed. I’ve only been here a few weeks, so forgive me, oh, citizens of Israel. I’m just a lame tourist come to stay for a while. Luckily, most of the people here are former immigrants themselves and understand the struggle to learn the language. A few inquiries leads me to the store, only to find out that is isn’t what I wanted in the first place. Obviously my communications skills need more work than just with the language barrier.

Hebrew sounds horrible. There is a lot of spitting, throat clearing, and grinding of the vocal cords. I recently found out that many of the sounds we hear are actually based on accents. The huge number of immigrants from Germany, Poland, and Russia brought with them their accents with these sounds. Those people with a few generations of speaking Hebrew have a much softer speech, though there are a few gagging cat sounds that are in the language on purpose. Like other ancient languages, Hebrew may be millenniums old, having died many times over, but it is now a living, shifting, and evolving language. Though revived as a language not even 100 years ago, it still continues to be threatened. One of my new friend’s college-aged daughters told me, enviously, that I was so lucky to have English as my first language. She told me all the young people struggle desperately to read, write and speak English in order to get ahead in the business world. It also makes it easier for many of them to leave Israel. What young teenager doesn’t want to have adventures out in the world. I could teach them a few things about life on the road and adventure…but I digress.

Luckily, the street names are in Hebrew with English written underneath, but no one has yet decided upon a kind of universal policy on the translation of Hebrew into English. The main street near our apartment is Ibn Gabriol, Iben Gavrol, Ivn Gvirol, and other concoctions, and they change from block to block. Part of this problem comes from the fact that the Hebrew alphabet has no vowels. It is all consonants. For example if I was to write my name it would be “lrl vnfsn”. Brent becomes “brnt vnfsn”. They also don’t have double letters. I kind of like my name in Hebrew. Lorelle VanFossen is pretty long. Writing it “lrl vnfsn” might actually qualify me for a vanity license plate in the states. Something to remember.

There are some serious assumptions in the language which makes it even more interesting. Brent came back to the hotel after his second day at work really frustrated. His personal studies into Hebrew have put him WAY ahead f me. But he ran across something that day that had him stymied. In Hebrew, the following words are spelled EXACTLY the same but pronounced differently. In Hebrew, they would be spelled “MLN”. I will include their definitions and you will see wherein some of the confusion lies:

Ma’lon – Hotel
Mi’lon – Dictionary
Meh’lon – Melon

It is up to readers to comprehend the context in which the story is being told. If they are discussing fruit, the odds of the “mln” being a dictionary or hotel are slim. But dictionary and hotel MIGHT be used in the same paragraph. Okay, so you might want to go to the store in the hotel to buy a dictionary and melon. What are the odds? Some great leaps of assumption must be taken in reading the language.

The evening the job offer came in, we were at the local bookstore to buy a book on learning to speak Hebrew. While I was negotiating the contract, buying power converters, organizing the trailer for storage, packing necessities to bring to Israel, Brent was learning Hebrew with a vengeance, ready to impress everyone there and here. Already getting into simple conversations after a couple of weeks in the country, he is frequently complimented on his wonderful accent. Me? I’m up to numbers and starting to turn to the alphabet. I learned numbers by getting the basics and then practicing by reading license plates (which are all numbers in Israel) out loud. I am now almost fluent with my extensive use of only six words.

We’ve had problems lately finding a parking place. They are doing road construction, tearing up the streets around our apartment for some purpose we’re not sure of, closing our apartment parking lot. Brent comes home late and has to find parking on the street, no easy feat. It can take 10 minutes to an hour to get a spot. When it opens you have to wedge yourself into these skinny streets and even skinnier parking spots.

The street signs, of course, are all in Hebrew, or featuring some kind of symbols, some recognizable, some not even close. Parking signs aren’t the nice circle with a slash through a “P”, they are spelled out in Hebrew. One of our favorite signs is a big bright yellow sign in the park outside our apartment, about 4 feet tall and 2 feet wide, with a lot of rules in Hebrew. We can’t understand it, but we get the point as it also includes a three foot high silhouette of a dog squatting, with a little poop below him in the appropriate position, and a big red X over the poop, which actually makes it look like a cockroach. It’s just one of the many signs in the city that delight and confuse us.

One night Brent came home really frustrated, raging on about finding a parking spot. He finally admitted he found a spot but it was under “a sign that said shit in Hebrew.” I asked if he had parked under a sign in the park below USA, the one with the dog. He laughed and laughed, and it lightened the moment, until the next night and the next and the next.

One of his buddies at work lived in the states for several years, and speaks fairly good English. During lunch, his friend asked Brent, “What kind of beer is that?”
Thinking the man was talking about his drink, Brent told him it wasn’t beer but soda. He thought it would be odd to sell beer in the employees’ lunch room, but what did he know.

“No! Beerd. Beerd. What kind of beer-dah is that?”

Brent recently grew his beard back (YEAHHHHH!!) and so he stroked his chin and asked, “Beard? Hair on my face?” Like Brent would have to explain what kind of beard he was growing…the hairy kind? The kind on his face and not his legs? This wasn’t making any sense.

Frustrated, his friend started flapping his arms and shouting, “No! Beer-dah! Beer-dah. Like goes through sky!”

“Oh, BIRD!!”

They laughed and laughed and the friend admitted that in English, the biggest trouble he has is with the “r” sound. Bird, beer, beard, these vowel sounds are really hard for him. Brent spent time with him practicing the difference between car and care. Brent’s friends at work all tell him to slow down on learning Hebrew as they want to practice their English. Brent has started rewriting most of their paperwork sent to the states, returning the favor of learning Hebrew from them.

Me, I’m still struggling, being busy with getting us to Israel, finding an apartment, getting groceries, buying rugs, top sheets, and other goodies to replace what was left behind (like my underwear!!!!) and adding what we need now. So I have only learned what I need to, and what I learn by watching the children’s shows on television.

Yes, you read that right. I was watching children’s shows on the local televison. We only got two channels in the hotel. I think Israel has three national channels, but we got only two of them. And nothing else. Waiting for Brent to come back from work, I turned on the television to find something inane called “Teletubbies”. Adults dressed up in soft padded body suits, heads round like an astronaut’s helmet, dance around and say little one or two word phrases, squealing and burbling all over verdant hills. Everything looks artificial except for a rabbit or two that pops up occasionally. The single colored inhabitants of this child-like world are giggling little goof balls, but I thought that I would have a good chance to learn Hebrew by watching. After all, I’m just a baby in the language, too.

I found out that the show aired daily, in the half hour before Brent arrived. So I timed my day to watch the show while waiting for him. The first day, the little purple, blue, and whatever colored creatures jumped up and down and said a word every time they jumped up. Brent came home, I hugged him, and announced that I had learned a new word in Hebrew. Trying to encourage me as much as possible, he listened carefully as I jumped and said the word.

“And the word means…”

“It means JUMP!”

His face wrinkled up with a confused smirk. “It means ‘friends’.”

Now I was confused. “But they said the word when they jumped.”

“Who jumped?”

“The teletubbies.”

“The who?”

“On the television. It’s a children’s show. I thought I could learn Hebrew that way.”

He smiled, a little condescending but lovingly, and admitted that I might just learn some words that way.

The next day, I told him that I had learned the word for “hug”. He told me it was the word for “jump”. Screw the teletubbies.

Hitting his “learn to speak Hebrew” books, I practiced some basic words, getting the numbers and a few things down. A few days later, I ordered my first meal in Hebrew. Boy, I was proud of myself…for about 3 minutes.

Coming home late one night after a visit up north, we stopped for dinner at a McDonalds. Brent actually hates McDonalds in the states, but says they aren’t that bad here. Go figure. While standing in line, I checked with Brent that the number six was “sheesh” so that I could order the McMeal number “sheesh”. I got to the counter, looked up at the sign and told the girl “sheesh”. She said something in Hebrew, which I thought was asking for my drink order, since it normally progresses in that order. I informed her that I wanted a “Fanta” which is orange soda. Brent ordered his McMeal flawlessly and we waited. She brought out Brent’s burger, drink and fries, then my drink. Then another orange drink, which I thought went to someone else, so I put it on the tray next to ours. Then another orange and I put that on the other tray. And another, and another. Finally she looked at us and said in English, “That’s all.” I told her, in English, that we were still waiting for my McChicken and fries. She looked startled and said in perfect English, “I didn’t hear you order that. You ordered six Fantas.” So much for my first try at ordering food in Hebrew. Hey, I live and learn and try not to repeat these things. At least not too often. They must keep their amusement value, you know. Have to keep you, oh dear friend, amused by our sufferings.

Two more language stories, but these are not about our experiences here in Israel, but language agonies suffered by two of Brent’s new co-workers.

The first man arrived in Israel over thirty years ago, among a wave of Russian immigrants consisting of mostly intellectuals and professionals. He learned basic Hebrew for six months and then was conscripted into the army, as is every man and woman between 18 and 45 years of age. A year later, he spotted a fellow boot camp buddy across a crowded bus. They yelled hellos to each other and the other asked Boris where he ended up after boot camp. Boris shouted across the crowd that he had been put in the “takh-to-nim” group. The whole bus giggled, some actually guffawing. Boris was stunned, and then realized that he had told the friend, and the bus, that instead of being in the infantry, he was in the “ladies’ underwear”. “Toe-takh-nim” means “infantry”, “takh-to-nim” means “underwear”. A slip of the enunciation and there you go.

The other, younger man, had worked on airplanes in the US for several years, bringing his family with him from Israel. He got a call one day from his son’s teacher requesting a conference. She explained that his eight year old son may have to be removed from the school as he had been repeatedly punished for foul language. Shocked, as he and his family are very religious, he asked for more specifics. Humming and hawing, the teacher finally admitted that the boy was swearing, saying “oh, shit” all the time. The father laughed and did the best job he could explaining that the English slang had come into Hebrew a long time ago and, well, basically since that was what English speakers said when they stubbed their toes or dropped something, it came to be known in Hebrew as “oops” with no relationship or awareness of its original “vulgar” context. The boy was only saying “oops” as he had always done, and his family and friends had always done, for many generations. See what a lovely influence our language has on other languages?

Our “okays”, derogatory terms, and other technological terms have come right into the language, with some changes. Digital is known as diggy-tal but we get the idea. Think of how other languages have blended into ours, including Hebrew and Yiddish! Many of us “schlep” things around (carry/drag) and Bette Midler and Sophie Tucker helped the phrase, “kiss my mezzuzah” become something slang when it really represents the kissing of the mezzuzah, a small glass, wood, or metal “tube” attached to outside door frame of a home or business in Israel. Inside the tube is a blessing of the home and by kissing your fingers and touching the mezzuzah and then touching your mouth again, you are blessing the home and the people inside of it, as well as confirming your belief that your religious values do not come and go as you enter or leave but stay with you always. It’s more complex, but that’s the idea. And we make the phrase something nasty. So it goes both ways.

Not that it still doesn’t confuse the heck out of us a lot of the time. I’m sure we’ll have more language smanguage stories as we go on living in this very strange and distant land.

Tel Aviv, Israel

First impressions of Tel Aviv: crowded, busy, traffic, dirty, smokey, young people, cell phones, noise, noise, smoke, dirty, noise, and more smoke. There are street cafes everywhere displaying ice cream, pastries, falafels, coffees, teas, sandwiches, salads, everything of every smell, color, size and shape. Everywhere you look you will see young people, some not even legal to drive, others nearing thirty, dressed in totally American clothes, more often looking like they just stepped off the back streets of New York, all in greys, black and white, mostly black. Skimpy and tight is the fashion statement of Tel Aviv, and maybe elsewhere in much of Israel where the constraints of ultra orthodox and conservatism have loosened. I can tell that thong underwear is popular among the young women of Israel; can’t help it, but everyone can see the outline through their incredibly tight black stretch pants, often stretched further than the physical capabilities of the fabric and tighter than any fashion designer ever wished. Belly buttons, cleavage, bare backs, arms and shoulders abound, the rest barely covered in tight black polyester, nylon and other synthetics. Cotton is rarely found on anyone except the well-draped Arab woman.

Let me describe the typical Israeli. According to some research Brent stumbled on, the average age of a citizen of Israel is 18. According to my visual research, the dress size is 0 or 1 (okay, maybe size 2 or 3 in the US). You will find young people everywhere in the streets, usually walking in shoes with huge souls topping three to six inches from the ground, totally inappropriate for the uneven, brick-lined sidewalks. The hair will be either long and flowing straight about the shoulders, or chopped incredibly short sticking out all over, for both males and females. One arm will be bent up, a cell phone to one ear, the other arm will swing front to back in concert with the fast walk in clunky shoes, a cigarette locked between the first two fingers. A deeply inhaled smoke is achieved exactly as performed in the old black and white movies, the arm swung out, then up to the lips, elbow extended outward, pinky finger straight up like sipping tea, the hair swung back away from the face and the cigarette entering the mouth in a very sexual, phallic fashion, as if kissing the cigarette and sucking the life out of it.

This scene is so typical Israeli, I about fell down in the streets the other day when I passed a group of children, not much older than 10, adorned in the latest sports and MTV t-shirts and baggy pants with Nike or Adidas tennis shoes, backs adorned with Jansport back-packs, on their way home. One of the pack had separated himself and was walking behind them, cell phone to his ear, his other hand swinging in the same fashion, crossing the hips in front and swinging around in behind the back, just missing the requisite cigarette, but the fingers in position to eventually hold one. Already he was in training for the day he would go against his parents to join the rest of the crowd. Then again, maybe he is imitating his parents. It is so horrible, and yet hysterical, to see all of this. You can tell by the dress code that going against their parents’ wishes and really working hard to look and act like a unique individual is standard youth behavior here, as in much of the Western World. The odd thing is that they all go about it in the exact same way, making them one of many instead of unique. Smoking used to be such anti-social behavior. The children act like anti-establishment behavior is the reason behind their actions here in Israel, a very conservative and Orthodox Jewish state illusion presented to the rest of the world. But since everyone is doing it, it makes them just one of millions instead of an individual. Guess this is what makes a fad; everyone thinking they are being an individualist but they are just one of the crowd of everyone doing the same thing.

There is much to whine about in Tel Aviv, and throughout Israel, when held up to the great American White Light. I hate doing that, but using words and not images to explain this place to you, I’m trapped by such comparisons. In a recent newspaper editorial in the Jerusalem Post (English), the writer embraced the notion that with so many Americans coming to Israel, you would think that they would spread good American notions around. Instead Israelis quickly embrace the negative parts of the US: the yelling, pollution, materialistic cravings and obsessions, the horrible driving habits and horn honking, as well as the better-than-you attitude. The writer wished Americans would influence Israelis to embrace the higher standards of life like flexibility, compassion, consideration, passion, conservation, open smiles on the streets, hugging, and acceptance of diversity. When I look at the citizens of the USA, I don’t see many of those things, but I grew up expecting them to be there. Maybe that is the illusion the US presents to the world. In Israel, competing for space on the extremely narrow road ways makes it hard not to furiously honk your horn and jam yourself in-between the cars, after all everyone else does. At least here they use their blinkers, unlike most of the drivers in the USA.

After I’ve been here a little longer I will see the method behind the madness, but this journal entry is about my surface judgements and first impressions.

Everyone litters here. Walk behind these young people, cell phone in one hand and cigarette swinging in the other, and watch trash just spill from their fingers. Candy bar wrappers, cigarette butts, soda bottles, whatever they consume is dropped in their wake, flipping around like dead leaves on the ground from the slight breeze off the ocean or from passing cars. Behind them come the middle aged and elderly street cleaners dragging a trash bucket on wheels to sweep up the debris.

When I say everyone litters, I also mean everyTHING. Nature’s "law of the dog" holds true here. We’ve commented on this law before. The natural law of physics that states that the smaller the vehicle or house the larger the dog, and vise versa. The odds are that the bigger the mansion you live in, the more likely you are to own a "chi-wah-wah." The homes here are very small, mostly apartments and condos many in tall buildings with tiny elevators. In keeping with the "law of the dog", the dogs who make their homes with the citizens of Tel Aviv are HUGE. I’ve yet to see anything smaller than an Irish settler.

There are no poop-and-scoop laws here. If there are, they are certainly not respected. Sidewalks are fair game and you best watch your step. The logs and puddles left behind are equal to the size of the pooch that left them. Between target practice walking on the sidewalks, you have to watch out for the cats. Cats are everywhere in Israel. A few make it into Tel Aviv homes as pets. Most roam the streets dependent upon the kindness of little old ladies and generous trash bins.

On a personal note, the prevalence of cats here doesn’t bother Brent and I. We talked about it and all of these cats are just that: cats. Toshi was never "just a cat" to me or Brent. He was our child, our little cuddly baby, and we suffer the loss of our child, not the loss of a "pet". The night is a concert of cat and dog fight choruses. We both ache inside when cats and/or dogs start fighting with all the appropriate sound effects as it brings back the horror of our loss and stabs us deeply. Over time, since this is a common sound in Israel, we should slowly become desensitized to the sounds.

Like most cities, Tel Aviv is going strong 24 hours a day. Some businesses and people keep hours similar to those found in many parts of Europe, including siesta time. Businesses open about 9 or 10 in the morning, with others opening at noon. Most stay open until after 8 pm with many open until 10 pm. The hours are in military time, as is much of the world. I’m having fun trying to figure out that 15:36 is 3:36 PM. Some people still refer to AM/PM hours but all businesses are in military time so a business can be open from 9:00 – 13:00 and 16:30 to 21:00. Most nightclubs stay open all night, with most nightly entertainment beginning between 8PM and 10PM. Tel Aviv is very open to all forms of entertainment for every lifestyle, want, and desire, a kind of Sodom and Gomorrah.

People live and work on the streets. They are out in droves, going from place to place, eating ice creams, sitting in street cafes for hours on end, and talking to a friend on the cell phone while that friend stands 10 feet away. I don’t know who all these young people are talking to, but someone has to be sitting at home waiting for the phone to ring. The rest of them are all talking to each other. Spending time with an Israeli means spending time with their cell phone. They LOVE to dial a number the moment they get into a car, chatting on the phone while driving with one hand through the insanely crowded streets.

Phones just don’t "ring" here. They have a whole variety of sounds from classical tunes to Looney Tunes. Some sparkle with sound, a few will beep, but I haven’t heard any "rings". You will see people on their cell phones in bookstores, restaurants, on the streets, hanging out windows, in grocery stores, and shopping for clothes. Everywhere. The hottest thing of late is to have small earphones and microphones attached to the cell phone so you can walk and talk, carrying the phone in your hand, waving it around as you talk into the microphone. I’ve heard of people talking to themselves, but this is very strange. I’ve heard that a cell phone can be cheaper than having a regular phone in your home here. It must be as there are so many of them. We feel a little left out without one.

Well, that is a first glimpse into our view of Israel. Sure, it ain’t the USA, but then it shouldn’t be. Part of Israel is like New York City, Seattle, Los Angeles, and in a few places it is even like Johnson City, Texas, or Greensboro, North Carolina. The only exception is the transportation system. Be it rail, bus or walking, access to everything is incredibly easy. The US is definitely lacking in this area. Many similar businesses are next to each other, so when I need to find fabric, it is mostly found within a three or four block area of the city. I needed a shower curtain and found eight "bathroom" and kitchen stores all within a few blocks. This makes hunting for things easy as I can just ask for something and be sent to a place where there are many choices. It saves driving all over town for one thing. Why drive when a bus or your feet are easier. Parking is nearly impossible, so use your feet. It’s easy and there is a bus going everywhere every 10 to 20 minutes from everywhere else in the city. Everything else is walking distance.

So my new song is "I left my feet in Tel Aviv, high on a hill they call to me….."

Tel Aviv, Israel

What was supposed to be about two leisurely weeks in Oklahoma ended up lasting only five days. I thought I had prepared most of our luggage for Israel, except for the computer and clothing, and that it was ready to put into suitcases and go. I also thought I had enough suitcases. After all, wasn’t it enough that we made it to Tulsa on three new tires and more headaches than should be legal. Couldn’t one thing go right and easy? Of course not. You are reading about the VanFossens, in particular the Lorelle and Brent VanFossens, where everyday is non-stop obnoxious adventure and agony.

After several trips to buy more suitcases (finally finding a great deal on huge duffle bags for $20 each and buying four of them), and running last minute errands and must-haves (thank goodness WalMart is open 24 hours a day), let me sum up the packing job from hell like this: we left Brent’s parents with a humongous mess to clean up and put away for us. And I mean HUMONGOUS!

I hardly slept the first couple of days, and not at all the last two days. It definitely a great method for curing any jet lag ills in advance. We cleaned out the trailer and re-packed it for storage, finally getting it to the storage facility late the night before we got on the airplane. We also put the car in storage (his parents will probably sell it for us in a few months, once we get a handle on how long the job will last) and kept the truck out so they could drive us to the airport in it. We had THAT much luggage.

After storing the trailer and car, we got back about 11PM and started the final packing. I really believed it would be all done in three hours and we could catch a little sleep before heading to the airport for out 8:30AM flight. Ha!

At first the packing went fantastically. I packed the bags and Brent weighed the first one. Limited to 70 pounds per bag, you can imagine our frustration when the first bag tipped the scale at 150 pounds. The second about the same. So stuff came out. A lot of stuff. We tried again. Not even close. Screaming into the late night with frustration, his parents long gone to bed, we finally dumped everything out of all the suitcases and started with the bare essentials. What was most important?

Brent’s books were a priority. They took up much of two suitcases, spreading their weight across. They were so heavy that only a few could meet the weight restrictions. These books are about six inches THICK. So we had huge suitcases with four books in each, or so it seemed.

Next priority was film and camera gear. Spread across the books, that filled up three suitcases, all right at the top of the weight limit. We were only allowed four suitcases between the two of us and had planned on six. We still had our clothing and toiletries to go. We ended up with eight, using an old battered suitcase of mine at the last minute out of pure desperateness.

Out came tons of things I bought in preparation for the trip: toothpaste, cotton balls, shampoo, lots of toiletries and household items. These are VERY expensive in Israel. Out came tons of my papers and files, much of my work, since Brent’s work had priority, and most of my work is on the computers, so I can do without some of it….okay, I will suffer. In the end, we left out things that we desperately needed, but will have to either replace or live without.

We packed the last bag up at 6:30AM. We took showers at the speed of light and skipped all thought of breakfast. Brent and his father hauled the suitcases out to the truck and Brent weight-lifted them into the back of the truck. Placed around the trailer hitch, the eight huge suitcases barely fit. Gathering his parents up into the truck, we apologized all the way to the airport. The mess we left behind is something no one should do to another human being, ever. Clearly Brent’s parents are no ordinary human beings. They took it totally in stride and reassured us over and over that it was okay, not to worry. Clearly they hadn’t looked into the living room before leaving the house. They are not only saints, they should be honored as martyrs. There was almost no inch in their home that wasn’t littered with our remains.

We paid $540 for the extra luggage (within budget for reimbursement, oh YEAH!) and got onto the plane without a problem. Once on the plane, both Brent and I fell apart. With over 28 hours without sleep, and realizing that we were not only leaving home behind, but family and friends for who knows how long, tears were long and hard on the flight to Houston. We just held each other and let the pain flood all over us. Pain we had held back and stuffed down over the past six weeks of insanity.

Only once in my life before, and never for Brent, has so much agony and pain filled our lives, way beyond just normal stress. Starting with Grandmother VanFossen earlier in the summer, and then continuing with a vengeance with the loss of my dear friend in Greensboro, Fred Warren, then Toshi’s horrible murder – Brent and I lost six incredibly important people in our lives in six weeks. We managed to fly home to Tulsa for a weekend after Grandmother Matthew’s stroke early in September. We got to say goodbye before losing her a week later. The pain of coming back to Tulsa without both grandmothers there was very difficult. Being totally adopted by both grandmothers was very special for me, having none of my own growing up. It was extremely tough for Brent. His family is closely knit, they all support and encourage each other so much, it is amazing and wonderful to be a small part of. Added to the agony was the loss of two of my own family relatives, an aunt and a dear family friend, more family than friend. All of this added up to more pain than we could deal with, so we stuffed it down during the mad rush of weeks before boarding the plane.

The agony of loss was like flood water behind a dam. There were already big cracks in the dam and once we got on the plane, the dam broke. I don’t think we shared a dry eye between us during the flight to Houston.

We transferred easily in Houston to fly to New York, our senses numbed by the lack of sleep and the crying jag. Brent slept a little, but I couldn’t. My eyes were glued open. My whole body and soul hurt. It was the kind of dried up, numb suffering I hope to never experience again. By the time we got to New York, I had a raging headache and the numbness was gone. It was replaced by pain. Everything hurt. We got on the 777 to fly non-stop to Tel Aviv and I immediately took a pain pill and totally crashed. Brent couldn’t wake me up for nothing and he was really worried. I woke up two hours later, headache free. I asked Brent where we were in the flight and he told me we were still in New York. The plane hadn’t left the ground yet due to delays in getting an open runway. Typical VanFossen adventure. We hadn’t left the United States and I was now semi-rested and totally awake.

The flight was long: eleven hours, and very turbulent. There were a few sick people, and I was almost one. The 777 is a slick plane with a flat screen monitor in the back of every seat with a variety of channels for movies, television shows, radio, and even computer games. Coolest was a map that showed where we were at all times. We saw ourselves flying up and over Greenland, then Ireland and England, and down through Europe, with a slight jog around Bosnia (got to respect that air space, you know), and then across the Mediterranean to Israel.

Landing in Israel I felt like I had stepped back in time, but to a funny time. Instead of being met by a long corridor swung out from the airport terminal, we had to descend the stairs out in the open air, which was hot and humid, even early in the morning. The humidity reminded me of Mexico, as did the dusty smell in the air combined with airline fuel and grease. Blue outfitted staff ushered us onto a bus, leading us to who-knows-where. We stood tightly against each other, camera and computer bags in our hands, as the bus wove around the airport to the main terminal. I was dazed by the number of people all reaching for their cell phones before they were even off the plane. I’ve never seen so many cell phones. In the states they are growing in popularity but they are still expensive. Here, it seemed like every third person in the tram had a phone to their ear.

We shuffled off the tram and followed the crowd up some stairs into a building labeled “Welcome to Israel” in English, Hebrew, and other languages. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light inside, they felt dry and pinched, and my throat started to feel scratchy and sore like I had been screaming. We stumbled around until we found a small glowing red-buttoned electronic sign overhead pointing us to the passport control booth for non-citizens. We were among maybe eight standing in line, so it moved quickly. As we passed down the line, I started feeling a little sick. I dismissed it as exhaustion, not having slept in over 36 hours save for the two unconscious hours on the tarmac in New York. The woman behind the counter and glass window gave us each two pieces of paper with instructions to keep the white one with our passports and to give the other one to security. Brent and I stumbled around the booth, not understanding her instructions but following the crowd. A woman and man dressed in light blue security outfits, guns around their waists, took one paper from each of us and passed us through. We weren’t sure what that was about, but we figured out that we had a lot to learn and this was just one more mystery for us to solve later. After we’d had some sleep.

I started feeling sicker, finding it more difficult to breath, but again dismissed it. The world started weaving and swirling around me and I fought to maintain control over my body. Sleep will come soon, I told myself. Soon.

Moving to pick up one of our suitcases, I manoeuver around a large woman who turns to confront me, cigarette hanging out of her face. I step backwards, shocked, waving my hands in front of my face to push the hideous smoke away. She gives me an ugly look and turns back towards the revolving luggage. Horrified, I can’t help but see the enormous sign hanging over the carousel in the clear international symbol of “no smoking”, and here she is smoking away. I realize through my blurry eyes that she is among the many who are smoking, also ignoring the sign that is almost the size of my Toyota. I cover my face with my shirt and dart back to Brent in a panic.

He points to the no smoking sign and shakes his head, not believing me. Then he sees the smokers all around him. We are so dazed we never even smelt it, but I don’t have to smell it to have an allergic reaction. We moved the carts to the side away from the crowd and he fetched the monster cases.

With two carts, we were able to load up our eight suitcases. Through the mask of my shirt covering my nose and mouth, I glanced around and found that we actually had one of the smaller loads heading out the door. We followed the crowd and passed through customs where three uniformed men sat on metal examination tables, also smoking cigarettes, and lightly scanning the exiting crowd. Obviously once you had passed through security to get to Israel, your suitcases weren’t worth inspecting. No problem here. We pushed through the doors, following the signs, and out into the corridor to look for our agent, soon to match a face with the voice on the phone.

The job contractor, Yigal, stood among the crowds, a sign saying “VANFOSSEN” in his hand. While we watched, two little Romanian men groaned and moaned as they piled up our luggage in the back of their small Toyota truck. Yigal directed us to his sedan. We pulled out onto the highway and I yanked Brent close and whispered, “Whatever you do, don’t look behind us.” Then we careened through highways and narrow roads, trying not to watch our luggage swaying in the truck behind USA, to our hotel one block from the sea.

We had made it. We were in Israel. We needed to sleep. Desperately. Beyond desperately. Our first six hours in Israel were spent sleeping in a very small room surrounded by eight huge suitcases with only a small path to the bathroom. But we’re here.

Tulsa, Oklahoma