Images from Tel Aviv University: I tried the MacDonald’s chicken sandwich, but need to be a little more desperate before I have a hamburger. One can only hope that God is not a cow, because I don’t think it will make much difference to him/her that the killing was done in a kosher way.
I’m planning a trip to the Diaspora Museum today so before I bring everyone down with that report, I thought it might be time to discuss some housekeeping issues.
Bank/post office: You know that dread everyone in the States has when they have to go in front of a customer service person and get something done, like at DMV, parking permits and the like. Well in Israel when you walk into the post office all the clerks look like my Uncle Lou and in the bank all the tellers look like my Aunt Dorothy. Initially, that’s a great comfort to me. So far, I don’t have enough experience to say whether I can get more or less out of these people, but it never feels like an adversary relationship. I’m sure there’s some racism in my attitude but since my aunts and uncles always liked me, I tend to project that feeling back to whomever is waiting on me. Maybe there is such a great difference between my fairly patient (Berkeley) attitude and the bullying that the other customers exhibit that the clerks tend to reward my attitude. It’s great always talking to a landsman.
Laundry: When I packed for the trip I made a big decision; if I assumed I would do laundry once a week, then I could get by with one suitcase. Seemed like a great idea at the time. Well today was laundry day, damn that week went quickly. So the decision had to be made to either wash clothes or buy more underwear; at least for this week laundry won out, but I can see this decision is going to get revisited on a weekly basis. I have a washer, but no dryer so like a good hausfrau I hung everything up on a clothes line with clothes pins to dry. Well not everything, I needed a shirt so I put on one that was a little damp and by the time I walked to the bus stop it had dried in the heat of the day. Pretty clever, I wonder if everyone does that.
Food: There are three foods I really don’t like to eat: tomatoes, mushrooms and olives. Guess what every sandwich and salad automatically comes with. My Hebrew is certainly not good enough to ask that they be withheld and it’s too much work to pick them off. So I’m still in the falafel/rice/pita bread stage when I eat on the street. Of course to my friends who love those items (which includes almost everyone I’ve ever gone out to eat with) this place is a culinary heaven.
Soccer: I fear I’ll learn Hebrew before I learn to love soccer. It’s on TV all the time starting with the Saudi Arabia matches and going all the way across Europe to England throughout the day and then over to South America. I watched an important game with Chelsea who was up 1-0 and in the 92nd minute (that’s 2 minutes into injury time for those who don’t know that a game is 90 minutes long) I had to pee and left the room for 10 damn seconds and of course there was a tying goal. Suddenly the game was over with the score 1-1. Some fans were screaming and some were crying, it wasn’t hard to figure out who was who. But can you imagine walking away after a game that ends 1-1 in the last 20 seconds. It’s about the most un-American sports experience that I can imagine.
Library: Finally I made a stop at the public library, which as expected was a joy. My daughter reminded me of the book Portnoy’s Complaint written by Philip Roth in 1969. That was a golden age for Jewish writers, Joseph Heller, Kurt Vonnegut, Norman Mailer, Bob Dylan, Alan Ginzburg, Barbra Streisand (well maybe she doesn’t write her own songs, but you get the idea) so I re-read the last chapter and it was as painful now as it was when I read it in 1969. Roth comes to Israel and what’s his first observation, “everyone is Jewish” from the pilot to the taxi driver. (Was my earlier blog that trite?) And the next observation was that the female soldiers were all so beautiful and fit. (Damn, was my earlier blog that transparent?) Anyway for those who don’t know the story, Roth meets and instantly falls in love with a Sabra (native born Israeli) who berates him for being a self-deprecating, jew-hating American Jew and demands that he “go back home.” (I haven’t written that in a blog yet, so Roth might be getting a bit ahead of me on that point.) I suppose I should be honored that I am channeling Philip Roth, but I would have hoped I had learned something in the last 38 years. Come to think of it, that cute Sabra is about 65 years old today, I wonder if she’s still breaking young Jewish boys’ hearts.
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