The Following reflection is not intended as an ethnocentric response to being in a different county. Just the opposite: it is meant to help me process the differences I am experiencing as a Vancouverite in Tel Aviv and keep me from making ethnocentric judgements. Keep this in mind if you find yourself scoffing at my observations, eh?
Let me start by claiming my own English language deficencies. I do not know the English word for what I call a "flipper." No, I don't mean a swimming fin; I mean the instrument which is used in cooking, to "flip" eggs, or what-have-you. You see, I have a frying pan that has the cheap teflon lining in it. I can't use metal instruments, for fear of scratching my only frying pan; so, I need a plastic flipper. I cannot find one; but it is not for a lack of looking or asking. I did find one, let me be fair to this country - I did locate a plastic flipper in a designer kitchen store. The price was $50 CDN, which made me scoff out loud. People looked at me and I even attracted a salesman but I managed to dodge the whole deal and exit the store without mishap or spending that kind of cash...as if I ever would!
So, I have checked out different grocery stores, electrical-gadget stores, the Israeli equivalent to "dollar" stores, which are also mostly just collections of "stuff." And I can't find a flipper anywhere. People at Zochrot regularly ask me if I have everything I need and I have tried to say, "everything but a table and a flipper." A flipper? they ask. I end up pulling my right hand out, away, from my left, trying to mime the shape of a flipper. That never works. Then I make the motions of a flipper flipping eggs, or something, with my left hand doing the action and my right hand pretending to be the pan. It usually ends up in laughter, rather than enlighenment. I have been told by people who do understand that of course I can find a flipper here in Tel Aviv. Yeah, whatever...I have looked. I have ended up buying a spatula, which I am paranoid of melting because it is so cheap-looking. The result is that I am using more butter in my pan to prevent sticking and so far I have not been able to make an easy-over egg; everything turns up scrambled. I use forks or fingers for flipping grilled cheese and I have learned to adapt. Hah! Adapt to not having a plastic flipper, what kind of guy am I?
Another shocking adjustment for me was movie theatre seating. Out of feelings of total lonliness I have ended up at the movies twice. The first to see the remake of The Longest Yard and the second time to see the creepy Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. The movies here are played in English, with Hebrew subtitles, so it is my little English sanctuary. AndyBoy in Denmark taught me about going to the movies for an English sanctuary. Thank you AndyBoy.... Anyway, last weekend, I was at Charlie... and I went in and found a nice seat in the last row. There was hardly anyone else in the theatre when I went in. Oh, I might mention that the screen size is VERY small - like five feet high by eight feet wide....in both theatres I went to...it must be standard here. So, I sat down in the middle seat of the last row. Not two minutes had gone by when this couple came in and sat right beside me. Now, I know that I am a cute guy, with my bushy beard and all that, but I was really perturbed that they would sit RIGHT beside me. I sat there for maybe five more minutes, inwardly panicking over how I could move over without conveying some kind insult. Finally, I came up with my plan: I would move over a seat, then stretch my legs out to communicate I need the space. Whether it was important, or not, for me to stretch, they didn't look at me funny or even seem to notice. In fact, the girl, who was sitting beside me, stretched out, herself.
After a couple of minutes of feeling at peace again, in my own space, this older couple came into the theatre and made a bee-line to where I was sitting. The looked rather upset and were consulting their tickets for some kind of clue. When they started speaking their gibberish to me, it dawned on me that maybe there would be assigned seating in the movie theatre. That certainly is not the case in Canada.... Anyway, as this older couple were blabbing on to me about something, I turned to the girl who had been sitting beside me and asked her if she spoke English. Yes, she responded. Is there assigned seating here? I asked. She affirmed there was. I quickly moved out of the seat so that the still blabbing-on old people could have their precious seats. There still was hardly anyone in the theatre.... I hauled out my ticket, which is actually a computer print-out strip of paper, from my pocket and showed it to the girl, explaining that I am a dumb tourist and cannot read or understand Hebrew. She pointed at three numbers. One said 6, and two said 7. She said to me that I was supposed to sit in row seven, seat seven. I asked what the six was for, but there was no answer given: she was back cooing at her bespecled boyfriend. I walked out to the aisle, found row seven, counted out the seats and, Oh Man, seat seven was between two hugely fat men. Forget it, I said to myself; I will sit on the aisle seat in row seven so that I can move if I need to. People started pouring in steadily, the whole time I was nervous that I was going to be confronted by the row 7, seat 1 registered sitter - then I would have to move again. I started to laugh at myself for having my heart race everytime someone new came into the theatre, me thinking that I might be in their seat.
Another middle-aged couple came down the steps, eyeing up where I was sitting and started speaking to me in Hebrew. I stood up and said "Anglit?" and the lady said "where are seats two and three." I pointed to the two seats beside me and felt badly because in seat "3" there was a girl sitting. The couple unleashed some Hebrew words at this girl, who moved somewhere else and I began to move, myself, because they had such mean tones in their voice. The man said to me, "No, you stay." Gulp. Okay. I sat back down, hoping that the owner of the seat woudlnt' come. Luckily he / she never did.
The movie was creepy, which I was expecting because of press reviews. And right in the middle of it, it stopped and the lights came up. I sat there for a second wondering if the projector had broken, and with the people all heading for the exits, I asked the folks beside me if this was an intermission. Good guess. They told me it was how the theatre's concession made its money. How long? I asked. Who knows? they answered. After ten minutes, it resumed.
Here's another one: three weeks ago i went to Bezeq, the phone and Internet company, to pick up my modem. I had my backpack looked into (which I am used to now) and was asked if I carried any weapons (which I am also used to now). I went in and discovered it was the take-a-number deal. I did so and sat down, waiting for my number to flash across the screen. When it was getting near my number, I was all nervous and not wanting to mess things up. I sat upright, still sweating from the humidity, and held my ticket in my hand - checking the number every ten seconds to make sure it hadn't changed on me. When the number just before mine was flashed, I saw the girl who owned the ticket start for the counter. There was this hugely obese man who had a really good walking speed going on and he physically pushed this girl out of the way and sat down at the counter. I was wide-eyed and watched and waited to see him get kicked out or scolded or SOMETHING. The girl who he had cut off looked mildly embarrassed and mosied off somewhere. I was too busy watching the budder to see what happened to her. The lady at the counter didn't blink an eye. She served him, even though she saw, herself, that he was a budder. And I watched very carefully to see that he wasn't staff or something - some kind of normal explanation. But, no, he went through the same process as everyone else I was watching and as me when it was finally my turn. He signed his paper, took his modem and waddled on out of there. I couldn't believe it.
The other day, when Eitan Reich and I were standing in a mom / pop diner, waiting to order our lunch, some dude came in, walked straight past us and up to the cash register, trying to get the restauranteer to pay attention to him. I nudged Eitan and asked what was going on. He replied that buddy didn't even have eyes to see us, but if the owner didn't recognise us first he would say something. We did get our service before the budder this time. While we were eating I asked Eitan if that was common and he affirmed that people just don't care about anyone else - thinking that they are more important. I asked why no one does anything about it and he told me that people like to fight here, so punches would be thrown if confrontation was made. I told him about the movie seating order and he was surprised to find out that, in Canada, it was general seating. He said that if things were general seating here, there would be fistfights all over the place.
Another one: after work, yesterday, I went to the beach to go for a swim. I was laying on my towel, reading my book, when I felt sand being kicked at me. I looked up with a scowl on my face to see a whole train of people walking really close to me, totally oblivious to my 220lb frame, stepping as liberally as a little kid in a rain-puddle. I tried to make non-verbal communication, like covering my face, to communicate that they were really sticking it to me, but they obviously didn't care. I was covered in sand.
I have also learned that there is a whole different standard of customer service here. I have stood around waiting to be recognised for several minutes a couple of times. I know they see me, but they are busy doing something like talking to their co-worker to bother asking me what I want or if I want to patronise their establishment. In my mind I am yelling at them that I am about to spend money at their place and they should want to take my money...but I just stand there, feeling like a dumb-ass. I have also noticed that in order to get service in restaurants, I have to flag down a server. They don't just assume that because I am there I want to eat or partake of their wares - it's like they need to be specifically heralded just to bring me a menu or to ask if I want anything. I have been assurred by my friends in Zochrot that it is perfectly normal and that customer service here, is a totally different concept than in Canada or in the States. I guess so. Yet tipping is still 10-15 percent. How does that work?
The following is an observation made purely out of my own germaphobia. I have noticed with everyone that I have eaten humous with that they will put their flatbread right on the table. Any table. And the ones I have sat at usually are sticky and germy. Buy, sure enough, my lunch partners will put their flatbread smack on the table and not seem to care at all. Meanwhile, there I am, making a bed of napkins to house my bread. Maybe they look at me and wonder what my problem is, why I am wasting perfectly good napkins; just as I sit there and wonder what their problem is.... I don't care; I have been sick here in four weeks more than I have been sick in ten years! I can't figure it out, and wonder if I have "A," whatever that may be; but I am not about to start eating my bread straight off the table.
If, after reading this, you are thinking to yourself that I am so negative and ethnocentric, then allow me to refer you to my first paragraph! You try living here! not that it is "worse" than Vancouver; no, it is just very different. The important thing is that I can laugh at these things and know that I will get used to them. There are plenty more where these came from and I am not complaining, I am processing!
Peace out,
Burro D Block
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