Jamaicans with Attitude

Before coming here, I was warned that I’d need to develop a thick skin to deal with the rude Israelis.  No sense of customer service, no concept of lines or order of priority, and absolutely no patience.  Think I’m exaggerating?  Just watch how they drive.

But I’ve also been told that being in Israel is like being part of a brotherhood, a club with secret passwords and handshakes.  I began to imagine something like the mafia: selective, secretive, harsh and unforgiving on the outside, but incredibly generous and obliging within.  And I thought further: “Will I ever get in?”

As it turns out, the handshakes aren’t so secret and the password is forgiven the moment they hear an awkward attempt at rudimentary Hebrew.  But shh!  I didn’t tell you that.

And though they are indeed rude, Israelis can also be incredibly kind individuals, sometimes in the most peculiar ways.  Ways that make an American stop and question if you’re really allowed to act like that.  And by “act like that,” I mean “act as if you’re already acquaintances, friends, mishpachah (family).”  And mean it.

The thoroughly non-Israeli sweatshirt.
Because it's colder than I thought.

This evening I went with three friends to nearby Rehovot where I bought a pair of cheap, gaudy earrings, a thoroughly non-Israeli sweatshirt, and falafel for dinner.  One friend got her nose pierced and another tried falafel for the first time - an all-in-all good evening.  Yet the greatest part of the entire evening was, to me, the wonderful Israelis we met along the way.

earBling!

It started with our taxi driver, Gil, who charged us 10 shekel less than anyone else just because we're on the Ulpan.  His English was very good and before dropping us off at the mall, he pointed out a number of places to eat and check out in Rehovot.  He also came to pick us up at the end of the evening and told us before leaving the car that if we ever need anything - help, advice, whatever - that we should call him directly.  Mitzuyan.

After the mall we went in search of a tattoo/body piercing parlor and a complete stranger showed us the way.  At the parlor - a small place found by going through a cafe then up a flight of outdoor stairs to the loft above - the man with the long hair and baggy jeans gave us all the safety, health, and aesthetic information one would need to get a nose piercing.  He also asked if we were from the Ulpan so he could charge us the discount fee and asked about how the other guys were doing, the ones who'd had their noses, eyebrows, and ears pierced a few days earlier.  After it was done and he'd given our friend a sugar cube to suck on and some water to wash it down to take the edge off the shock, he gave her his number and said "If you need anything or have any questions about it, call me any time.  Even Saturday."

And at the falafel place, the young guys behind the counter were nice and [relatively] patient with our awkward attempts at Hebrew (remember the password?), then they offered us free chips (French fries) and salad because the manager wasn't there.  When I put on my new, incredibly non-Israeli sweatshirt, one of them noticed the tag on the hood and offered to take it off for me.  In no time at all he went from being the man who served me my pita to the kind friend helping out an anonymous buddy and member of the not-so-secret society.  

Oh, and I nearly forgot about the man in the bakery who gave us each a free piece of seasoned pita.  Publicity stunt?  Maybe.  But I'm betting it was less contrived and more sincere than many of the similar stunts you might see in the U.S.  

Remember when I said that beseder is kind of like the Israeli national motto?  Their version of Hakunah Matatah, if you will.  Well, it turns out it's not just a saying but a way of life, which has led me to the following conclusion:  Israelis are like Jamaicans with attitude.  Cool, compassionate, care-free, but with a temper hotter than a summer in the Negev.  

I think that has been the hardest thing to deal with, thus far.  Yes, the home-sickness, time difference, and language barriers have been difficult, but the most personally challenging thing is dealing with the fact that here, I don't need to care quite as much about the little things.  That would only make me stick out like the tourist I am.  This should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I am anal-retentive, moderately O.C.D. (though perhaps not clinically), neurotic, and picky.  This is in total opposition to our program director who worries about things as they come, taking one day at a time, never worrying about that which need not be considered in the moment, and not giving in to our incessant pleas for more, more, more information, please!  "Why do you need to know now?" he coyly responds in his beseder demeanor.  I'll admit, it unnerves us all to no end.  But I'm learning to cope.

My friend, The Crazy Baby Mama (the woman from L.A. who made aliyah not long ago) has talked about Israel's general badassery, and how that badassery is instilled in every child from birth, creating an entire society of badasses.  Why, you might ask, would that be necessary?  As far as I can tell, it's a survival tactic.  Imagine living in a country where your very existence is the cause of great strife and even a war or two (or five) among your neighbors.  Imagine living in such close proximity to hot-headed people with incredible hatred and incredible power.  And if every day was, in essence, a blessing of the highest degree, would you care so much about the trivial details that fill mundane lives?  No, I suspect not.  So despite occasionally yelling at each other, it seems Israelis have more room to enjoy life and the people in it without constantly worrying about silly things like political correctness or personal space and privacy.

Along with learning how to speak and how to live in very close proximity with 24 other students who all speak different languages, I'm learning how to be a kibbutznik, learning how to let things slide a little, to not care so much, to not get upset or bothered at the things that really just don't matter.

Hakol beseder.

It's all good.