Just preface this by saying: Israel is great! But I’ve had some not-so-great moments, not bad, just not great.
I wouldn’t go as far as to call them beige moments though. Everyone would agree that beige is just this bland colour that exists between mother-of-pearl and cream and doesn’t really get people excited about much, but is used on upholstery because it isn’t offensive or political.
Here, there are no beige moments. If it’s not someone in the parliament being charged with something, it’s neighbouring countries causing a ruckus about something like a lack of health care or baseless killings or something. I recon it’s about the same level of excitement as there would have been in the Wild West (without the syphilis)...
Every “mundane” chore here requires a huge amount of energy and it’s definitely not for people with a heart condition. A classic example is my run in with the post office:
I needed to find number 144, I see number 142 and 146 and then in between is what looks like an abandoned warehouse up a long driveway with some unmarked delivery trucks. I figured it’s either the post office or the HQ of a kidnapping gang.
So I walk up toward a seedy man smoking a cigarette in front of a “no smoking” sign who sends me a signal with his hand which looks like he’s apathetically turning off an invisible tap. I return the gesture. He does it again. I do it again and keep walking. I know it means “what are you doing?” but I say “what are YOU doing?” Coz that’s how I roll!
I find the office which looks as though a 7 year old had set up a lemonade stand in this warehouse. But instead of a sweet blond girl, a pregnant lady who doesn’t look happy to see me says “Nu!?” and I hand her the receipt. Upon hearing my accent she starts speaking to me in her loudest broken English articulating the silent letters as well. “YOU - RECIEPT!?” (There is a difference between speaking a language with an accent, and being deaf lady! After our chat I just might be both...).
We spend some time arguing about the package for whatever reason, and man comes out from the back to sort it out. He tries to placate me by saying “This is Israel!” as though knowing that everywhere I go is going to be the same as this is meant to comfort me... I head out, he says “Shabbat shalom achi” (Peaceful Sabbath my brother) and we part ways neither richer for the experience.
At the end of the day feeling like I’ve just taken a ride in a dryer, ironically, nothing cured my troubles like clean washing fresh out of the dryer...
After Thought: I guess if he called me “brother” I may have made a friend...
.
