From New York to Tzfat

While in Tzfat last week I was walking though the artist’s colony, basically a narrow alleyway of galleries, shops and weary Israelis selling the tourists bracelets. As I was walking, I passed the store of a guy dressed in traditional Yemenite clothing and making lachoch, a type of pancake with tomatoes, peppers and hot sauce sprinkled on top. It was not the sight of food which made me hungry, but the incredible aroma wafting down the street. It smelled like a bit of heaven fallen into a pan. Even though I had eaten twenty minutes before, I had to stop in for some of what he was selling. The man was cheerfully greeting passing customers and offering them some traditional Yemenite food. I ordered a pancake with all the trimmings (easy on the hot sauce) and a delicious cup of iced lemon-mint drink.

While I was sitting in the store relaxing on the low sofas, I started to find out a bit more about the proprietor. He did not always live in Tzfat, or for that matter dress like he just walked out of Yemen. He grew up in Rishon L’Tzion and had a very normal and traditional Israeli life. Following the army, he got married and together with his wife decided to seek out the Israeli dream, life in America. He lived in New York for nearly a decade selling art and being moderately successful, living a comfortable lifestyle. I could not understand how someone who leaves Israel for the States and makes things work could ever possibly end up selling pancakes while wearing a robe and a funny hat in Tzfat. He told me that he has a friend who was tired of the lifestyle in Israel. He was sick of driving a beat up old car, having second hand things and yearned for the good life in the States. He set off to make his fortune in the US and for a while, things worked out great. He had a pretty good job, bought a relatively nice car, and he was satisfied with what he had. Over time, the guy began to notice that even though his car and home were a lot nicer than what he had in Israel, it still didn’t compare to what other people had in the States. While he had achieved a level of material success, he missed his friends and family back home in Israel, and eventually made the move back. When he returned, he saw that his friends beat up cars were now second hand as opposed to third or fourth, their houses were a bit bigger and overall people were happier with what they have. The guy then bought a fourth hand car and rented a small apartment and started over again. I guess the moral of the story is you can make money anywhere, and live anywhere, but the most important thing is to be happy with what you have. My Yemenite host continued to tell me that everyone in Israel might not be able to afford steaks, but pretty much everyone can afford a piece of chicken. In the States you might be able to afford more steak, but will probably have less friends dropping by for the BBQ.

I was struck by how happy this guy was. Its refreshing to see him, just doing his thing, living his life, and having the right goals. It was really nice to meet someone who finally found the thing they really wanted to be doing, and for the right reasons. He was not living in Tzfat for the money or the prestige, but found a place he is happy in, and doing a job which would seem crazy to most, but makes him, and his customers, happy. He told me he was not really sure about moving to Tzfat and selling pancakes when he was living in New York, but decided to humor his wife and try it for a year. That was ten years ago, and he is still doing what makes him happy today.

Waiting in the Misrad HaRishui for a drivers licence

Yesterday morning I decided to do one of the things olim (new immigrants) and Israeli’s alike abhor, go to the Bureau of Motor Vehicles (Misrad HaRishui) and get my drivers license.

Getting a drivers license is not a simple process and takes many steps, each of which involve arguing and of course, plenty of waiting. According to the AACI’s (The Association of Americans and Canadians in Israel) website, new immigrants, temporary residents and returning residents are permitted to drive in Israel with their foreign or international driver's license for one year following their date of entry into Israel. In addition, tourists who have resided in Israel for more than one year are obliged by law to drive with an Israeli driving license. The Misrad HaRishui allows olim and tourists who are in Israel to transfer their foreign driver's license for an Israeli driver's license within three years of arrival. They are exempt from taking the written exam. However, a driving test is compulsory.

In my particular case, I am heading for the army next week, and decided it was high time to get my Israeli license. The first step is to go to one of several glasses shops and get an eye test taken. It’s a simple computerized test, after about five minutes the woman at the counter handed me the green paper. The paper is green, has my photo on it, several boxes for driving instructor comments, the licensing ministry’s comments and a medical form. I went to take the eye test months ago in Jerusalem. I got my green paper but just swept it under the rug and conveniently forgot about it. After I realized it may be a good idea to get my license and be able to drive in the police and in the army, I decided to finish the process. After getting a physical and all the medical information filled out on the back of the green paper with a signature and a stamp of approval.

Its a little known fact that Israelis are crazy about stamps. Nothing is official unless it has one. Many people carry around little pocket stamps in order to stamp in addition to their signature. There is a whole story about our family car years ago and finding the right stamp, but that’s a whole other story.

Thinking I was now on my way to getting my Canadian drivers license switched to an Israeli one, I called a driving teacher and asked to schedule a test. In Israel tests are taken with a driving instructor’s car, he waits outside, and the official tester administers the road test. The helpful English speaking instructor asked me if I had the stamp from the licensing ministry, and I said no, seeing as I had no idea what he was talking about. He explained I had to go to Misrad HaRishui (the licensing ministry) and talk with them to get approval in order to take the test.

I arrived at their main office in Holon, just south of Tel Aviv, at about 8am. I had no idea how to get there, but a couple lucky bus changes at random stops landed me exactly where I needed to be. The scene inside the office was already chaotic. People were everywhere, running, shouting, waiting in line and talking loudly on their cell phones. The guard told me to go to window 8 and ask for a ticket. It took me a minute to find window 8 under the sign “foreign licenses”. Once I got my number, I settled in to wait for my turn. I found it hilarious when I later realized that the entire room was pasted in no cell phone posters and everyone sitting underneath them shouting at someone on the phone. I wondered what would happen if you had a waiting room full of people and no one was actually allowed to talk on the phone. Here everyone has at least a couple of phones, and since incoming calls are free, everyone is always talking with someone. The waiting room is large, brightly lit and filled with rows of chairs. On one side of the room Israelis were queued up to get and renew their drivers licenses. On the other side of the room were two counters, one for taxi licenses, and the other for foreign license exchange. The taxi drivers’ side of the room was filled with tired looking middle aged men, all looking like they could use an extra cup of coffee. It was hard to tell if their shifts were just beginning or just ending, but everyone sat quietly, reading the paper and waiting their turn. At the foreign license desk, people were conversing in every language known to man, English and French mixing with Arabic and Russian.

I waited and waited, time slipping by. I kept trying to do something like count the ceiling tiles, but my attention kept drifting back to the people and the stories going on all around me. The room seemed to divide evenly, after an hour or two of watching the door and observing new arrivals, I got a sense of where people were going just by the way they looked. The pair of teens wearing Abercrombie and Fitch naturally made their way to the left side of the room to sit and wait for the foreign license clerk to call their number. Their accessories were laptops and ipods, running shoes and baggy jeans. In contrast, when the tall, dark guy with greased back hair and a jean jacket walked in, I had the feeling he was heading to the right, and the Israeli license line. It may have been the greased back hair, or maybe it was the too tight black sweater or jeans. Perhaps it was the hair band, or the leather boots. His accessories were a pack on Nobles (the cheapest cigarettes in Israel) and a sheaf of papers. I love it how there is a look here combining a 50’s era greaser, imagine the Fonz, then add in a splash of tight Euro fashion and an Israeli flair, and you have, well, you have to see it to understand. In any case, you could definitely tell where people were going.

The place was packed and everyone was jostling in line when the loudspeaker blared “the fast line is now open in the lobby”. It was as if they announced they were giving away free cars or ice cream. The entire room emptied out as if hundreds of people had been sucked out by a vacuum. Startled, the girl seated next to me asked what was going on, I can see how easily someone could have misunderstood the announcement. If they had said “clear the building, there is a bomb in the basement and Jack Bauer is on the way” people could not have emptied out quicker. It would follow that the non native Hebrew speakers would be left standing at the counter trying to figure out what has just happened. The olim were left standing at counter 8, watching the big hand of the clock slowly crawl by.

Number after number, hour after hour, it finally came, my turn was next! I was getting ready to dash to the window and make sure no one snuck in front of me, when the loudspeaker came on again with another announcement. “Attention ladies and gentlemen, we would just like to let you know that the clerks will be on break from 10 to 10:30”. Glancing at my watch, it was now 9:59, and of course I was stuck waiting. I just took a deep breath, reassured myself that I was next in line, and went back to playing Monopoly on my cell phone.

When they finally called my number I kind of felt guilty that I was not letting the waiting crowds go on ahead of me. I did wait three hours though, so I guess it was OK to take my turn. The clerk asked to see my green paper, my license and my teudat zahut (identity document). As expected, it was not exactly smooth sailing.

The clerk asked me when I came to Israel, looked over the stamps in my passport, and glanced at my Ontario drivers’ license. She told me she was sorry, but since I didn’t have the document from the Ministry of Absorption stating I was a returning resident, she could not give me permission to take the written and practical tests. I explained how I was in Israel for more than a year now, was no longer a returning resident, and could she please just stamp the paper? She told me that since I now had residency, it would help if I left the country for four months and came back, which would make me a returning resident and allow me to just take the test. Since most everyone getting their license here must take 28 lessons, I really did not want to go that route. I explained that I was going to the army in a week, and it seemed a bit crazy that I would have to go back to Canada, where my drivers license is valid until 2011, in order to get a license in Israel. I think by that point she was bored with the whole affair and just gave me a couple stamps on my green paper. She just said “OK, just take the test and no lessons. Next?”

It was so simple, I wanted to cry. Three and a half hours of waiting, ten minutes of explaining / arguing and I can now study for the written test, but that’s a completely different story.

Savlanut

One of the first things olim (new immigrants) learn upon arriving in Israel is how to cope with Israeli bureaucracy. You would think that having better customer service, longer hours of operation and helpful clerks would actually make the companies/government more money and make life easier for everyone. If that’s what you thought, you would be completely wrong and still living in the “North American head space”. It may seem like a foreign concept to wait in endless lines, initial and sign hundreds of mystery documents, and receive mail with no apparent purpose other than the bank or power company wanting to be in touch. That’s more or less just the way Israel works, fighting the system or trying to change it is usually frustrating and pointless.

Many new immigrants assume these are all just things they don’t understand, and with time they will figure the system out. The only problem is most Israelis have no idea what any of these things mean either, but they do know how to work the system. Dealing with everything from the government to the post office and the banks is like trying to roll a huge boulder uphill while people on the sidelines shout directions at you in a language you can’t understand. Being truly Israeli is a matter of creating balance, a cultural feng shui. There must be a careful balance between two concepts, savlanut and being atzbani.

Savlanut is the concept of patience, taking a deep breath, and not getting frustrated when you realize the bank is only open for three hours on Tuesdays. Savlanut is the reason why we don’t have drive by shootings, people killing each other while waiting in line, and endless public brawling. I guess it also helps you have to check your gun when you visit most government offices and beer is sold in corner stores. I once asked at the Jerusalem DMV why you have to check in your gun before standing in line to wait you turn to argue with the unhelpful clerk. She just stared at me and asked “don’t you think it just makes sense?” It seems that utilizing savlanut is extremely important to get through the day and to deal with the million and one hassles that someone from North America just can’t understand. Why does the tax office think everything you import in your lift contain bottles of single malt scotch and cartons of cigarettes? At the tax rates they inexplicably charge, it would be cheaper to forget the furniture back home and buy a couple cases of alcohol and tobacco here to help you get through the home shopping experience. So take a deep breath and just exhale, reminding yourself its all worth it because you’re now in Israel.

When all else fails, and it quite often does, the real Israeli turns to the second half of the equation. If savlanut is the force side of the Israeli persona, becoming atzbani is nothing less than the dark side. When one finds it’s no longer possible to maintain self control, keep calm and wait patiently, its time to turn atzbani. Like the Hulk getting angry, the screaming, shouting and hysterics come bursting to the surface. The glare, the shouting, the “try me and see what happens” attitude are all parts of getting really, really atzbani. Many Israelis evoke this tactic after waiting in line for a couple minutes, or may even get started while on the drive over. As a North American, you will still have plenty of patience when the entire line has already passed you, gone berserk, and gotten exactly what they wanted by virtue of screaming alone. You may be tempted to copy the Israelis and do some screaming on your own. Just remember, the important thing is not to apologize in between each epithet at the clerk’s mother and his choice of shirt. Apologizing and displaying savlanut in an atzbani situation confuses people. It makes them think you are a fryer (sucker) and are meant to take advantage of, if only to teach you a lesson. Being atzbani is not about creating enemies or making the other person feel bad, it’s just a way of getting what you want. As the maxim goes, he who screams loudest gets exactly what he wants, with a discount to top it off. Just because you went ballistic on someone and got what you wanted, it’s important to remember that in Israel the other person is now your friend, you have been through a cultural exchange, not an exchange of insults or verbal taunting.

The bottom line, try to stay calm, try to figure out how to work the system, wade through endless paper work and keep a smile on your face. When all else fails, blow your top and see if screaming accomplishes anything. Either way, its all part of the experience, welcome to Israel!