Swirling Thoughts #216 - i still can't get ice in a restaurant in israel...

Email from me to Bob late last night:
Let’s do something tomorrow. Something fun.

Bob's Reply:
Wanna get breakfast at the mall?

My Reply:
Um, well, there’s this Jerusalem Ice Festival. Maybe we can hit that first....

Bob's Reply:
Sounds great.

We arrive at the ice festival which is actually called Ir Hakerach, City of Ice. We park and notice but don’t really notice mothers bundling up their kids (on this 50°F day) with mittens, hats, and scarves. Israelis really don't like the cold.

Bob: So what is this? Mini ice sculptures?
Me: No, I think it’s life-sized stuff. Something about Jaffa Gate made out of ice.
Bob: This is Israel. There is no way they wasted enough water to make a life-sized Jaffa Gate.

We arrive at the paying kiosk. 2 adults. Maybe she didn’t notice the stroller. Except that would mean she was blind because when I asked if she spoke English and she motioned me to another kiosk window I specifically said,
Bob, you speak with her so we don’t have to move the stroller.
And I gestured to Bob. Who was standing 2 feet away with the stroller.
So maybe she noticed the stroller but she didn’t notice the baby inside….
We pay.

Now we move through the entrance line. It’s all set up for a crowd of a bajillion but there’s only me and Bob and a handful of people in front of us.

Suddenly everyone is upon us. In Hebrew and in English.
Assur l'agala! (It is forbidden to take the stroller.)

I was prepared for this. I brought the wrappy carrying thing.

Gasp!
Gasp!
Gasp!
Gasp!
There was a LOT of gasping when people saw me taking the baby out of the stroller and putting her in the wrappy thing.

Assur le’tinok! (It is forbidden for the baby!)
Assur? (Forbidden?)

As it turns out, it is not forbidden by the police, like the stroller is. But it is VERY NOT GOOD, according to everyone at the entrance, to bring in the baby.

Ice City Employee: It’s -10°C in there!

Bob (to me): What’s minus 10, anyway?
Me: I don’t know but I thought the write-up said something about 17. or maybe 27.
Bob: We don’t even know what 27 is anymore. Is that cold or hot?

Passerby: it’s MINSK in there.

Bob: MINSK? We’re from New York. How cold could it really be? These Israelis are such wimps.

We press pass the naysayers, baby wrapped, covered with a blanket. They are offering jackets to people as they enter. Bob takes a jacket. I think, “LICE! Don’t take it!” but then a blast of Siberian air whips across my face and I grab one and put it on backwards to cover the baby.

Amid a sea of disapproving stares we open the door to the actual exhibit.

One winter break we returned from Florida to something like -7°F in New York. My in-laws came to the airport loaded up with wool blankets. We threw the blankets over the kids in their strollers and I’ll never forget how cold it was when we pushed those strollers out the airport door. You couldn’t breathe.

Ir Hakerach is not as cold. But it’s definitely close. We agree to move through the exhibit quickly, which we do, stopping only to snap some photos of the (life-sized!) Jaffa Gate and the James Bond-style ice bar serving up Absolut Vodka. There are grown-ups flying down ice slides and kids running through ice tunnels. It is 4 minutes of ice magic.

We make our way out.

Bob: Wow it’s really warm outside.
Me: Balmy.

Passerby in the parking lot (in Hebrew): You really should pay more attention to your baby’s health.

Bob: What do you want to do now?
Me: Wanna get breakfast at the mall?
Bob: Sounds great.

Video on how they built it
here

Swirling Thoughts #215 – cleaning up the Blackberry for Passover

Pesach is on the horizon (less than 6 weeks!) A perfect time to clean up my sprawling Blackberry Task List. Which is really just a dumping ground for any random thought I hope to one day follow up on. Today is that day.

* Ani memaheret
When I moved to Israel I like to think I left that rapid-fire New York pace behind. But just in case, I’ve got ‘I’m in a hurry’ stored in my phone.

* Ubiquitous Axel F
I couldn’t figure out why 8 year olds were doing gymnastics to the Beverly Hills Cop theme song. And also 10 year olds doing Tae Kwon Do. And also 9 year olds doing dance. Now I get it. As it turns out, it’s Crazy Frog – Axel F (not to be confused with the original Axel Foley song from Beverly Hills Cop even though I totally confused them because it is the same exact song, just with some ‘crazy frog’ sound effects) – this crazy frog song ranks right up there with HaTikva in terms of songs you are guaranteed to hear if your child is in any school or after-school performance of any type.

* Twisty ties, the REAL Johnson’s baby lotion, my electric pencil sharpener
I can only describe this entry as ‘Things I love that come from America – reduced to 3 essentials.’

* Bobsvog
Means, literally, Bob Sponge.

* Oreo Car
There were rumors about an Oreo Car. I dismissed them as the talk of people delirious from Oreo deprivation. And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, my own eyes beheld the whimsical Oreo Car. A seemingly ordinary car with…a gigantic Oreo on the roof! Um, world, there is an Oreo Car lost in the West Bank.

* Teenager on cell phone driving erratically. On donkey.
What can I add to this?

* The sky is not even one pitch of blue
This is something Rosie said to me in a typical example of English speakers translating from Hebrew to speak English. Or of just not knowing how to speak English properly. Which, by the way, is now the ultimate insult among my kids.
You don’t even know how to speak English!
I lived in America ‘til I was 6!
Well I lived in America ‘til I was 9!

* Conspiracy Theory
First we were supposed to boycott Tnuva. Because the cottage cheese was too expensive. (Who do I talk to about organizing a boycott of new cars?) Now we’re supposed to boycott Elite & Strauss. (Somehow our socialist economy has produced an all-powerful chocolate monopoly.) I’m not sure what to make of it all. And this only complicates my understanding; I mean, is cottage cheese inherently expensive or are we actually subsidizing Newark Liberty International Airport? I ask you.




Coincidence?

Swirling Thoughts #214 - it's all still good in the aretz...

I’m just SO. VERY. TIRED.

And so there are stories to tell but I lack the energy to relay them in their full hilarity.

For starters, the story of procuring a US passport for Sarah. Which involved 100 failed attempts at photographing a 2 month old without parental appendages, shadows, and unnatural expressions.

There was the dramatic Hollywood moment where I ran toward the US Embassy in Tel Aviv, arms flailing, shouting, “I’m an American Citizen! Open the gaaaaaaate!” Because I just couldn't resist.

And there’s more stuff which I really should write about – the orange pay phones inside the embassy which only take special cards but nobody has a special card (no cell phones permitted inside the embassy). My friend once asked a shopkeeper for the special card and he asked her for her cell phone number so he could sms (text) her the special card pin. Um. Yeah.

The juxtaposition of the southern Virginia drawl of the American consulate workers with the y’alla pace of the Israelis working for the embassy is funny but not as funny as the spreadsheet we got on how it is possible for American grandparents to commute citizenship to grandchildren born in Israel. Post mortem.

Then there’s the story of how America looks through the eyes of an American who’s been living in Israel for 2 ½ years. You guys have re-usable Tropicana jugs now!

As I suspected, America is still the land of 24 ounce coffees in REALLY THICK PAPER CUPS, blueberries as far as my eye could see, and ridiculously nice store clerks.

My Target list read like a camp scavenger hunt. My best surprise find was the twisty ties my sister in law had in her junk drawer. She had maybe 300 of them. I took them all.

There’s the story of the jet lag upon returning to Israel. Which is mostly a story about Peetoosh making ridiculous demands in the middle of the night.
“I want to go OUTSIDE!”
“Um, Peetoosh, it’s 3 in the morning.”
“OUTSIDE!”

And finally there’s the story about Cellcom. Cellcom who calls me weekly but only wants to speak with Bob. About free gifts which I try to reject but they cannot accept my rejection since I am not Bob. For the record, Bob is usually right next to me, waving his hands in an “I am NOT here” gesture. Anyway, today as Bob slept off more of our collective jetlag, a Cellcom rep called me and asked where our house was. I woke up Bob.
“Um, did you ask Cellcom to send a rep here?”
“Mm hm”
“He’s outside.”

Ten minutes later I looked outside and they were talking.
One minute after that, he was gone.

“Why was the Cellcom guy here?”
“I wanted them to do something about our klita” (reception)
“But he left.”
“Yes, he left.”
“Did he do something?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t he do something?”
“Well, for the neighbor, they did something to give them klita all over the house."
"That sounds great!"
"Yes it does. But for us they wanted to do something to give us klita in just one room.”
“Just one room?”
“Just one room.”
“Mm hm.”
“So I sent him away.”
"Wow."

And so we are back. A fine visit with family and friends, and just enough smiling customer service, blueberries, and twisty ties to hold us over until next time.

And in case you were wondering, it is good to be back.

Swirling Thoughts #213 - I am thankful every day.

But in the spirit of American Thanksgiving, I’ll direct my thankful thoughts to the bounty of produce in Israel. Available to Americans preparing a Thanksgiving meal across the Atlantic (yes, we do that).

Not having stepped foot inside a supermarket in months, thanks to my husband taking over the grocery runs when he’s here (and thanks to www.mymakolet.com when he’s not), I somehow still feel qualified to comment on the seasonality of produce in the aretz. I’ve put in my fair share of time combing produce aisles (and the shuk) in search of a mango in March (no chance), figs in July (rare), and cumquats in September (close but not quite).

For the most part, everything has its season. And with hardly an imported fruit save for apples, there is only the season. Negating completely my mother-in-law’s favorite maxim, ‘everything in moderation’. More like everything in extremes. Mountains of strawberries in the winter, not a one to be found, come summer. By the time grapes and mangos arrive in the late spring it is not unusual to see shoppers euphorically kicking up their heels in the produce aisle (well, this shopper, anyway). Before cherries arrive on the scene in June (and not a one in May or July – cherries are strictly a June fruit), one could almost forget we get cherries in this country.
Mom, what’s a cherry again?
*A real question last April.*

With few exceptions, Israeli produce aisles boast gorgeous arrays of fruits and vegetables strictly according to the season. But I want to focus on the exceptions. For some reason celery is available all year round. Long after its “season”, long after it is even recognizable as celery. That it still grows is, I suppose, the reason that it remains available. That and the obvious fact that when Israeli consumers (me included) want celery, they’ll take whatever they can get. No matter that the wimpy scrawny ‘stalks’ look more like scraggly sprigs of parsley.

If you are a lover of sweet potatoes, that staple of all Thanksgiving tables, rest assured: your love is to be found in the produce aisle all year round. But stop at the bank on your way to the grocery. Evidently the Israeli demand curve for sweet potatoes is totally inelastic – like a junkie’s need for smack – Israelis will pay ANY PRICE for sweet potatoes. And so will the unwitting husband who is simply trying to please his wife by doing the grocery shopping according to her list.
Honey, you saw I got you your sweet potatoes? The ones you asked me to buy for you.
Yes, thank you so much, dear.
Ok. (silence) Just so you saw that I got them for you.(The unspoken conversations in a marriage are sometimes the best!)

If I should feel sad about the nonexistence of fresh cranberries (for some things, there is no season at all), I focus on the mountains of strawberries on the horizon. For which I happen to be, in terms of produce, most thankful.

Happy holiday.

Swirling Thoughts #212 - i'm still here

Sleep deprived but full of joy.

Our second Sabra appeared on the scene after 41 cozy weeks in utero. 41 weeks of iced coffee and Israeli breakfasts and suddenly (dejà vu) a 4+ kilo baby...Ooohwah!

Since then, like every other Israeli, we've been busy
* figuring out what to do with the bajillions of apples we overbought at 3 NIS/kilo for Rosh Hashana,
* keeping our children occupied with *enriching* activities over the 16 DAYS OF CHOFESH
* crying tears of joy over Gilad Shalit's reunion with his family.

Now, two apple cakes and 37 episodes of Spongebob Squarepants later, the kids are back in school and my little Sabra is getting ready to meet her Grandma.

And I'm getting ready to crawl into bed.

Swirling Thoughts #211 – What’s going on. From the exciting to the mundane. Or vice versa.

Netanya was fun but it was HOT
Not Dead Sea hot (100°F), not Tiberias hot (105°F), but hot (80° with 80% humidity). Especially for a pregnant lady. Nine months, remember. I was relieved to get home to the assuredness of my ceiling fan/air condition combo. Though I have to fight for it at times.

The ninth month should be renamed, “The battle over the thermostat”
As continues the battle against terror, so continues the battle over the temperature in my house. Bob tries to use the kids against me. I know he puts them up to these little shananagans.
Oh, Mommy, that FAN! It is blowing SUCH COLD AIR! I feel like I am going to DIE.
Oooh, Mommy, it’s FREEZING IN HERE!
I give them stern looks and then remind them of their bathrobes upstairs and the stash of earmuffs downstairs. And then I focus in on the real instigator.
You’re like a frail old lady, Bob. Would you like to use some of my silk scarves to warm your neck?

To be fair, he has become somewhat frail under my care
Well, not exactly frail but everyone is noticing how much weight he’s lost. The conversation goes like this:
Everyone: Wow! Bob! You’ve lost so much weight!
Bob, gesturing to me: Tell them, sweetheart. Tell them how I did it.
Me: Yeah, I stopped cooking about three months ago. He’s starving.

Ordinary is a relative term (or, “You’ve got hurricane maps, we’ve got rocket maps”)
We live in a part of Israel that many Israelis are scared to visit. Birthright tours are not allowed to come here. Though our daily life is, thank Gd, very peaceful, during the last intifada our neighbors had the very regular experience of being shot at on the main road. The same road I take to do my grocery shopping, to pick up my kids from camp, to get a cup of coffee, to go to Hebron on a whim. People from America ask if there is an armored car that can transport them on that same main road. I laugh but I get it. I live here. They are on vacation.

Last Saturday night, when it still looked very much like we’d be leaving to Ashkelon for our vacation the next morning, we decided to call the hotel just to be sure we weren’t behaving irrationally.

Hi, Holiday Inn?
Yes.
I am nine months pregnant with 5 small children. Can you explain to me where your MAMAD’s (bomb shelters) are in relation to our room and the pool area?
Sure! We have one on each floor and the main lobby area is a MAMAD.
Uh-hm. Okay! Thank you.

It sounded reasonable at the time. I didn’t give much thought to the fact that the woman who took my call LIVES there. Having 15 seconds to find a bomb shelter is part of her reality. We resolved to stay close together and avoid the beach. The only thing left to do was explain the procedure of a Color Red alarm to the kids.

Me: Kids – we’ll need to stay together at the pool.
Barbara: Mom – I heard there are rockets being fired at Ashkelon.
Becky: What’s a rocket?
Me: Um….something that makes a big boom.
Becky: I don’t want to DIE!
Me: No, no, they have terrible aim. And the army shoots them down anyway. BUT (segue!), just to be extra safe, when we hear the alarm we’ll go into a special room for ten minutes.
Becky: I am NOT going.

And so it was decided. By Becky, perhaps the only rational, albeit typically dramatic, member of the family. You live where you live but a vacation destination can easily be changed. And probably should be when rockets, pregnant women, and anxious children are involved.

In retrospect, sadly, it was a good decision for us. The Color Red alarm sounded between 2 and 10 times every single day that week in Ashkelon.

The procedure, in case you were wondering:

* If you are in a building
Immediately enter the Residential Secure Space (MAMAD), and close the steel door.
* If there is no MAMAD in the building, enter the room that is farthest from the direction from which the missile fire threat is coming, and that has the least number of external walls, windows and other openings. If there is no such room, go into the stairwell.
* Inside the secure space, sit on the floor, under the window line, against an interior wall, though not opposite the window.
* Residents of the upper floor of a building without a MAMAD must enter the stairwell and descent one flight of stairs.
* If you are outdoors
* In a built-up area: Enter the building and follow the directions for those in a building.
* In an open area: Lie down on the ground, and protect your head with your hands.
* If you are in a vehicle
* In a built-up area: Carefully stop at the side of the road, exit the vehicle, and enter the nearest building or shelter.
* In an open area: Carefully stop at the side of the road, exit the vehicle, lie down on the ground, and protect your head with your hands.
* After 10 minutes, you may exit the secure space unless otherwise instructed.

We weren’t the only ones
As it turned out, most everyone who was scheduled to vacation in the south, plus many people who live in the south, took the opportunity to vacation somewhere more north. And so, instead of squeezing into crowded bomb shelters, we squeezed in poolside. We squeezed in to the hotel breakfast. And we squeezed in to the restaurants at night. Where Bob was able to replenish his nutrients and all of us were able to enjoy a little family closeness.

Swirling Thoughts #210 - the saga continues...

Simplify
Ultimately we ended up using our own insurance company – the one we use for car insurance – to do the mandatory life insurance. Bob broke it gently to the bank insurance guy. But I don't think he took it so well.

Speaking of car insurance…
Some would take it as a sign... I understood our getting into a four car collision on the way to the lawyer’s office as a reassuring signal that our house purchase will be like everyone else’s, here in Israel. Not straight. Not easy. Not even close. We know we're lucky to have found a house!

The car we drive (drove)
So we crashed the Grandis. What are the chances that in a four car collision on Derech Hevron in Jerusalem, two of the cars will be from Efrat, two of the passengers will be pregnant women, and one of the drivers will have the name Mazal Tov? Everyone was okay, nobody yelled, the driver we hit offered me cookies to calm my nerves, and the one who hit us called me twice that day to see how I was feeling. We chatted amiably while we waited for the police. It was the most pleasant car accident imaginable.

I once had a conversation with a waitress about the difference between Hebrew and English. In her estimation, English had too many words for the same thing. The example she gave: Rotev. In English, it can refer to Sauce, Dressing, Juice, Gravy, or Vinaigrette. In Hebrew it’s all Rotev.

Shamai: Appraiser, Assessor, Valuer, Estimator, Adjustor

Enter the Shamai. Again.
So when you get into a car accident there is a claims adjustor who comes to assess the damage. In Israel he is called a Shamai. Not to be confused with the house appraiser Shamai. But (foreshadowing) there will be some confusion.

And again.
When you get a mortgage in Israel you also need to buy insurance to cover the things inside your house. Homeowners insurance, if you will, except that in Israel, someone from the insurance agency comes to your house and pre-emptively values your sofas, your gadgets, your clothing, your stuff. This ’stuff appraiser’, in our case, comes from the same insurance company as our car insurance and now our life insurance. And he’s called, you guessed it, Shamai.

The car is totaled
Not by my estimation. It drives. That’s all I need. But, evidently, there is a threshold beyond which it doesn’t pay for the insurance company to fix the car. My car teetered on the threshold for a while.

And so, you turn over the ‘totaled’ car and hope they actually pay you the seemingly too good to be true amount of shekels they mention in one of a bajillion phone conversations. Including this one, which occurred after the decision to fix the car was overturned in favor of the decision to total the car….

Hi, insurance company? I want to know if we can upgrade the week-long rental we are entitled to from a 5 seater to a 7 seater. To fit my family, you know. I will pay the difference.


You will have to speak to the middle man company who arranges for the car rental. They know you are entitled to a week long rental (because of the ‘totaling’) instead of a 3 day rental (for fixing).

Hi, middle man company? We are supposed to get a 5 seater rental for a week----


(Screaming mad) NO! We had a rental for you. You were entitled to it for 3 days and you never picked it up. Why didn’t you pick it up?


Fast forward to today
I dropped Bob at the car rental place where the middle man company assured me a 5 seater would be waiting as would the opportunity for an upgrade.

Everything is seasonal in this country. Including minivans.
No matter how Israeli Americans try to be, they are still Americans. It matters to Americans to have a car that fits every member of your family. Israelis have no such concept. They are happy to drive around in a tiny fuel efficient car that seats only part of the family at a time because, let’s face it, when is the whole family piling in the car together, anyway?

Allow me to answer that question
In the third or fourth week of August, every single Israeli family takes a vacation of some sort. The scale, location, and duration will vary but trust me on this one. They’re all on chofesh (vacation). And so, families will either split into two groups – those traveling to their vacation destination by bus and those by car – OR they will rent, for one week out of the year, a minivan large enough to seat every member of the family.

And so, like those elusive tzimmers in the north with private pools, the supply of minivan rentals all but disappears by the third week in August.

Take a look at the calendar
The timing of our crash couldn’t have been better. Or worse. The kids kept asking where we were planning to put the new baby. And into our third year of aliyah, we might just have needed that push to use our new immigrant rights which entitle us to 10% off a new vehicle purchase within the first three years of making aliyah.

But it’s also mid-August. We have a vacation coming up for which I don’t exactly see us loading into an Egged Bus. And 10% off a gagillion is still pretty close to a gagillion. (Cars are taxed at about 110% in Israel).

And even if you can wrap your brain around the ridiculous car prices here, as per everything else, nothing happens right away. The car cannot be ordered until the passports have been surrendered. For an unspecified amount of time. Maybe ten days. Maybe twenty.
Me to Chevy dealer sales guy: Um, my husband travels to New York on a regular basis. To work.
Chevy Guy: If you really need to leave the country you can always drive to the customs office in the Port of Ashdod and try to get your passport back.
Bob: So you’re telling me if I have to go to New York I should stop by the Port of Ashdod on my way to the airport?
Chevy Guy: It is possible, yes.

I plugged in our vacation dates and desired vehicle to every short-term car rental website in Israel. They all promised to call me with confirmation. None did. I waited and waited.

A week into the process (and 6 days before we depart), I received a promising sounding email. *Sounds of rejoicing in the finding of a rare, overpriced minivan*

Remember the free rental (and upgrade opportunity), for which I dropped Bob at the car rental place?

So not only was there no upgrade opportunity. There were no rentals. There were no cars at all. Bob sent me back to Efrat with the Grandis (which we were scheduled to turn over to the Shamai that day) and said he’d wait since the rental place assured him,
If you need a car, we will get you a car.
How?
Don’t worry. Just wait.

And so he waited. For our five seater. Which turned out to be a four and a half seater.

Asher: Hey mom, where’s dad?
Me: He just brought home our rental car.
Asher: Where is it?
Me: It’s in the driveway.
Asher: I didn’t see anything in the driveway.
Becky: Hey mom, is that the new car? It's pretty small!
Barbara: Yeah, mom! How will we all fit in that car?
Rosie: Wow! That car is teensy!
Me: Guys! Be happy we have a car!!!

And then the Shamai called
Perfect timing! The Grandis is at the garage. You can take it from there.
Why would I go to the garage. Why are you telling me about your car?
Who is this?
The Shamai!
Which Shamai?
I will value your stuff.
The ‘stuff’ Shamai!
Yes!


A few minutes later the phone rang again. Barbara answered in a sing-songy,
Heh-lo-ow!

Someone for you Aba.
Who is it?
He’s speaking Hebrew.
You speak Hebrew. Ask who it is.
He’s speaking really fast.
Bob was pretty sure it was the life insurance agent from the bank.
Barbara, please find out who it is.
Poor Barbara.
(In Hebrew) My father cannot speak to you unless you tell me who you are.
Aba, he says it’s about the car.

Bob takes the call.
Hmm. Yes. Really? Okay! I will be there.

Who was that?
It was the police!
What??? Why didn’t they just say so?
I don't know.
What did they want?
I need to go report the accident in person.
I thought we reported it on the spot.
I thought so too.
Do they need anything from you?
My driver’s license.
As long as it's not your passport.
And also the vehicle registration.
Ok.
We no longer have the vehicle registration.
Why not?
We no longer have the vehicle. The Shamai has everything.
Shamai!