A new direction...

Coming soon, new thoughts and new directions. From me. About homeownership and the tribulations of opening a business in Philadelphia. It's like living in Israel, but in no way, shape, or form.

High Anxiety After a Return to the Bedoin Tent

I've officially become that which I hate more than anything else in the world (no Mom, I haven't become a Muslim (no, reader, I don't hate all Muslims- just Palestineans, Iranians, and the stubborn few Iraqis who just can't stop hating freedom)): a non-blogging blogger. Cyberspace is clogged with so much useless, redundant, non-pornographic idiot-spout that I'm truly ashamed of my stagnant Internet real estate which has been bereft of even the most purfunctory update for nearly two months. I feel like I've regarded my blog with the same attention and respect that Americans regard the Winter Olympics.

Begin digression here:

And can you think of anything more talked up but less cared about than the Olympics? Especially the Winter Olympics? I mean, countries spend millions of (insert your country's currency here)s to try to curry favor with the Olympic Selection Committee to get their city chosen, and then the "lucky" chosen city spends like a billion (again, insert appropriate currency here)s to ready itself for the influx of tourists and , of course, the luge competition. Okay, my Mom watches the figure skating, but does anyone watch anything else? What is the skeleton? The only reason I've heard of the event is because the coach is a drunk or a child molestor or something. And curling? In college a couple of friends and I wanted to start a club curling team, but once we read the rules and discovered alcohol, this plan went out the window pretty rapidly. Can you fathom that there are people in the world who train in this event? Winning the gold in curling is like winning the "Most Likely to Become a Podiatrist" award in High school. Do these "athletes" try to impress people at parties? "You know, I'm a world-class curler. No, it's the sport where we push the stone down the ice, then try to shave the ice just so it gets as close as possible to the bulls-eye... wait, where are you you going?" It's a travesty that these people are on television. It's like televising the shuffleboard championships at the Easy Pine Home for the Elderly, but without the hope of a broken hip adding some excitement to the action.

And I can say without any doubt in my mind that by the time the Olympics are over, one of the more important players on the Flyers will hurt himself badly, severely compromising any chance the Flyers might have had of winning the Stanley Cup. Peter Forsberg, I know you're a regular reader, so please take my advice and just come home. Your groin, along with all Flyers fans, will be tremendously grateful.

In other news, I just got back from staffing a ten-day Birthright trip which was preceded by three and a half days in the States. I didn't tell my folks I was coming home. They wept. It was awesome. Birthright was pretty great also. The group was a lot of fun, I was horribly ill for five days in the middle, and I fed an alpaca.

So now I've started back up with Ulpan in the mornings, it looks like I might do some office-type work for my Birthright tour operator, and I'm going to be doing some catering gigs also. Busy busy busy. Annie just went to the States for a ten-day trip, so I'll be keeping myself occupied (like the West Bank!) here doing things like watching movies, commentating on the Olympics in my blog, and resolving the Israeli-Palestinean conflict.

And it's looking like I'll be coming home for good on the 28th of March. Philadelphia is the expected landing point, with some interesting opportunities still crystalizing. Ooh, mysterious.

Don't say it, Mr. Trump!

My working ordeals have been somewhat well documented in this space, but things took a turn for the strange this week. To review: I got a job at a couple of places, decided to take one place over the other because I was going to work in the kitchen, trained there, was suspended from work pending acquisition of a work visa, and resumed working there after three weeks. Since resuming work, however, my place of work had relatively few customers and I was receiving relatively few shifts. In addition, there was a new manager, rendering all of my previous training invalid, but I was never exactly retrained. So I go into work this week, and I’m told, in Hebrew, that in the time that it took me to get my work visa, they hired other people, and they didn’t really need so many people, so it would be best if I didn’t work there anymore. Actually, the guy could have told me that I was a bad person and a terrible worker, but since I got fired in Hebrew, I’m relating things as I understood them. Let’s say I’m about 70% confident in my first explanation. This was actually okay with me, because I was dreading every shift at this place, and was kind of planning on quitting anyway. I guess this just made the decision that much easier.

So now what?

Well, since my shifts were so few in number the past couple of weeks, I’d already been considering the possibility of additional time on my hands. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been volunteering a couple of mornings a week for an organization called Livnot Ulehibanot. They send their volunteers to a soup kitchen, or to paint/repair the homes of the needy. So that’s been a good time, and I’ve met some very nice people doing it. Plus, I learned the Hebrew word for spackle. It’s “spatchtell.” Don’t you just want to say it over and over? “Spatchtell.” And, as in English, it’s both the verb and the noun. “Say, would you mind passing the spatchtell?” or “Just spatchtell right there, where you see that gaping hole in the wall,” or, less correctly, “That was a fine example of professional spatchtelling, until you came in and f’ed it up” Really, learning that word is probably one of the top five things that’s happened to me since I’ve gotten here. Which I guess says a lot, but not necessarily anything good.

I’ve also begun looking for other work, but in an entirely non-desperate way. Through Janglo (the Yahoo group where English-speaking Jerusalemites post anything from garage sale announcements to advice requests about infants with severe gas), I’ve found several part-time professional leads that could be financially if not spiritually rewarding. If I really wanted to ruin my time here, I’d work with IDT. IDT is a call center about thirty minutes from where I live that has all sorts of jobs for native English speakers, with hours either from four in the afternoon til midnight or from midnight til seven in the morning. I like sleep. So I don’t think I’ll be doing that.

Finally, I’ve talked to a couple of organizations about being a counselor for a short-term Israel trip. I don’t know why I didn’t think to apply for something like this sooner, since the vast majority of these trips are taking place in the next month and a half. But I’ve found some quality leads, and I’m confident something will come of this.

By the way, Merry Christmas. Classic “I live in Israel” moment, courtesy of Joel Seltzer. Earlier this week, for Fantasy Football purposes, he was looking at the NFL schedule, and saw that almost all of the games were being played on Saturday. He couldn’t figure out why. It took him half a day before he realized that today, Sunday, was Hag HaChristmas. And honestly, you can’t blame the guy. Unless you watch non-Israeli TV stations (recommended, actually), or decide to take a quick jaunt to Bethlehem, you’d have no idea that it was Christmas. In the States, y’all are being bombarded by the “Holiday” spirit, while fighting in the trenches of the War of Christmas, while here in Israel, I was at the mall last night and the only indication of the holiday was a drunk guy walking around in a Santa hat and beard.

We have so many guests coming here in the next couple of weeks, I can’t even keep track of everyone. And that’s not counting the dozen or so people who I know who are here, but I don’t know that they’re here. So if you’re here, and I don’t know you’re here and you want to split a sufgania or something, let me know.

And one more thing: Sufganiot. The traditional Hanukkah jelly-filled donut that brings cheer to all the boys and girls in Israel. Is. Totally. Gross. I’ve probably tried a dozen of these things, and I’ve been unable to finish a single one. There is never enough jelly. There is always immediate heartburn. I keep trying them because people gush about them, and I’m trying to figure out whether it’s a national practical joke on me, or whether people are just ignorant of the superiority of a Krispy Kreme jelly donut, or even (and this is hard for me to type) a Dunkin Donuts jelly donut. Or do Israelis just have digestive tracts of steel? Are you supposed to pop a dozen Tums first? Can someone explain this to me?

And to all of my Jewish readers, a very happy Chanukkah / Hanukkah / Channukkah / Hanuka / Chanuka / Hannukka / etc / etc / etc.

How quiet things are...

I've been wanting to post for awhile, but there's been so little going on. I've been working at the Cafe, but shifts have been infrequent and the patrons have been few in number. I tried to get a different job in a fancy hotel, only to be thwarted by the Israeli Bureaucracy. I've still got some other options, but I'm wondering whether gainful employment is ever going to be possible for me here. Sigh.

Annie's family is here, which has been very nice. Yesterday, we went to Ariel, one of the largest settlements in the West Bank. We got a tour from the mayor. It's a nice town, but the mayor's an insane person. The politics involved with settlements are a whole other blog post that I just don't have the strength to pen right now. After Ariel, we went to dinner in Yafo, and the power went out as the food was arriving. Good times.

Last weekend, we rented a car and travelled to Machtesh Rimon, a huge crater in the south of Israel with inspiring views and awesome desert hikes. We climbed a mountain, then we climbed down the mountain. On the way to Machtesh Rimon, we stopped in Abu Ghosh, an Arab village just west of Jerusalem, famous for its hummus. You know how you buy hummus in the store, and some flavors are Hummus Abu Ghosh, and the hummus has this red stuff in the middle that tastes kind of spicy, but you otherwise can't place the taste? Yeah, that stuff comes from Abu Ghosh. And let me tell you, they know from hummus there too. Just awesome. The restaurant we ate at was owned by a man who had moved to Illinois, and then won the lottery, came home with his $30 million, and opened up a restaurant. There are newspaper clippings of him all over the place. Good reading material while stuffing one's face with hummus.

But enough about the hummus.

Okay, just one more thing. I want to learn to make hummus before I leave. And I'm not talking about filching a recipe from the Internet and mucking around. I want to watch the pros do it. Then come back to America as the hummus king.

This post was only marginally better than the lame Thanksgiving post. I promise, the next time something exciting / hilarious takes place, I'll be sure to make fun of it. And maybe one day I'll write about politics, but that will be a low day indeed for not just myself, but for the entire Jewish people.

Bah, I'm not even going to edit.

The Israeli Bureaucracy: Not so bad after all?

I know that the minute I post this, I'll get some phone call invalidating the title of this post, but what the hell, I'm feeling lucky after my experience today.

For those not carefully following along, last week a kind soul named Yuchi granted me an appointment at Misrad Hapnim to get a work visa, without which I've been unable to work. My appointment was set for 12:45 this afternoon; forty-five minutes after the office closed. Now, in any other country, this might have sent up a red flag, but in Israel, for whatever reason, I didn’t even think to question the logic. Just to be on the safe side, though, I arrived a full hour early. When I entered Misrad Hapnim, I mused to myself "this is exactly what it's like in hell," somehow appreciating this fact in a way that I hadn't in my previous visit. I walked into the door, and made it about a step and a half before I was nearly decked by a tall black-hatted man rushing in one direction while almost having my legs taken out by a three-year-old looking boy going in the opposite direction. I waited on a "line," which was more a clump than anything else, with people consistently pushing to the front and harassing the lone woman at the front desk. I decided that this woman probably has the worst job in Israel, which might explain why she only has to work four hours a day. By the time I'd “gently elbowed” my way to the front of the clump, the poor woman was as much as the end of her rope as she was at the end of her shift. She was very nice to me though, telling me that I shouldn’t have waited on this “line” at all, and that I needed to take a seat in the next room. As I walked through the clump to get to the corridor to the next room, it smelled like poopie pants.

Finally able to move and breathe freely, I made my way to the visa waiting room, which was packed with mostly Anglo English speakers from workers from the Philippines. I found a place to sit and opened up my book, expecting to be called at some point in the approaching two to four hours. You can imagine my surprise when I heard my name called at 12:46, a mere minute after my appointed time. I sat down with Dalia, who was exceptionally friendly and helpful, but never smiled at any point during our twenty minutes of interaction. Apparently, I had all of my documents in order, and surprisingly, the requirement to bring two pack mules as tribute to the Israeli Bureaucracy is no longer binding for people seeking work visas. So if anyone needs a couple of pack mules, just let me know (By the way, I'm pretty proud of myself for resisting the overwhelming urge to make an ass joke there. You know you were just waiting for it, and there's a part of you that still wishes it had been there, but there's a larger part of you that appreciates my shunning of predictability there). Dalia asked me to fill out a green form, typed some stuff into a computer, had to get her supervisor to sign off on my visa (I was surprised that she only needed one additional person to approve my visa), and before I knew it, I was walking out of the office with an official Israeli work visa. I'm still kind of in shock.

There is still the matter of seeing whether the cafe that wanted to employ me a couple of weeks ago has given away my job, but for the moment I'm just content to bask in the glow of my work visa. I don't even think I would care if they found someone else. Plus, with legal permission to work, my options are wide open now. So thank you Israeli Bureaucracy, for (can't believe I'm thinking this, let along committing it to print) making my life easier and better, in a not terribly bureaucratic or obnoxious way. Okay, now I'll be struck by lightning or spontaneously combust or something like that, so if you don't see any more posts, you’ll know what happened.

In other news, I've decided that I haven't given up on the Eagles' season yet (officially confirming either incredible stupidity or brutal masochistic tendencies), and I'll be waking up at 4am on Tuesday morning to watch them come incredibly close to upsetting the Seahawks, only to fall "Kevin Dyson in Super Bowl XXXIV" short. So there that is.

In other other news, lots of people are coming here soon. We're excited.

And finally, I've written this entire posting on my porch. It's December 4th, and it had to be like 80 degrees out today. This is great news for people who live here, and all but guarantees that the weather will be atrocious for every minute that we have visitors. Sorry in advance.

Israeli Bureaucracy II: A New Hope

I began my last entry with an unintentional falsehood, and in the interest of full disclosure, I feel it my duty to clear things up. I stated, only two days ago, that as of then, I had absolutely nothing to do. I then proceeded to explain how I needed to acquire a work permit, which would qualify as "something to do," under International law. I apologize for any embarrassment that my friends or family might feel as a result of this non-truth coming to light, and I know that, as I atone for it for the next ten to fifteen seconds, I have a strong support system behind me. I will get through this, no matter how hard the road ahead appears to be. I thank you in advance for your understanding, and may God have mercy on all of us.

Ahem.

Okay, NOW I have absolutely nothing to do. At all. And I mean it. And here's why.

On Sunday night, I was invited to a get-together in honor of a friend who finished a tractate of Mishna. I think. Okay, I wasn't paying much attention to that part, I just knew that a bunch of people were getting together to celebrate something Jewish, despite the fact that it wasn't a Jewish holiday. Future Rabbis reading this, please feel free to comment and explain exactly what I attended. But the point is, while at this party for a Jewish cause at a meat-eating-extravaganza restaurant, I met someone who had recently gone through the process of acquiring a work visa in Israel. From her, I learned that I, indeed, needed an additional letter from someplace in Jerusalem I'd never heard of, along with an official stamp, before I could actually get a work permit. I am so very thankful I met her, as she certainly saved my ass big-time.

So it's Monday morning. And instead of going to Misrad Hapnim, as I'd been planning since 1:03pm the previous day when I discovered it closed, I made my way to Misrad HaSochnut, the Jewish Agency. I was supposed to meet a man named Tziki. When I arrived at 9:01, I learned that Tziki was off, but his assistant, Damian, could help me. I stuck my head in his office, noticed that he was on the phone, and patiently sat around the corner, waiting for his call to wrap up. A minute later, a woman in her mid thirties came into the waiting area where I was sitting, stuck her head into Damian's office, and a minute or so later, as I heard him hanging up the phone, I heard her go into her spiel on why she needed help. Not wanting to cause a scene, I waited twenty minutes until they were through. But can you believe the chutzpah? Actually, in Israel, yes. Yes you can.

Once I got into Damian's office, it was about 9:30, and it seemed like things would go pretty quickly. He looked at the letter from my Rabbi that indicated my Jewishness, did a Google search of my Rabbi's name, saw that he exists, and stamped the letter from the Rabbi. This made some sense to me, as I guess the Jewish Agency is verifying the verification that I am Jewish. Let's not get into whether Googling someone proves their existence, let along their knowledge of my Jewishness. Next, he put together a letter for me, which serves a function that continues to escape me. It has my name, my address, my phone number, my passport number, and a stamp from this office. I figured that it was just one more bureaucratic step that was required in this involved, unfortunate process, and I was just happy that I knew that I had to go to this office in the first place. So he finishes typing the letter, and he hits the print button, and the paper jams. He tries about thirteen or fourteen more times, and the paper jams every time. You can tell he's getting a little exasperated and embarrassed by the eighth or ninth time. I ask if I can help, and on the first try, I get the paper to go through. Only he'd been abusing the ten-year old printer for the previous ten minutes, and when I finally got paper to go through, the damn thing printed an HP demo sheet. And then it did another one. And then jammed again. I struggled to get the thing unjammed, and finally got the letter to print. But he was out of black ink, so you couldn't read a single word on the thing. In the meantime, he'd moved on to doing other work around the office, despite the fact that we were in the middle of a conversation and there were three people waiting for him. When I showed him that he was out of ink, he tried to email the file to himself, only there were no other computers in the office with both email and a printer. Then he tried to put it on a USB stick, but the stick wouldn't work. Then we sat in his office and looked at each other for a while, with him alternating between apologizing every couple of minutes that things weren't working and pretending that he was trying to make things work. After twenty minutes of this, someone appeared across the hall and opened Tziki's office. We went in there, printed the letter out lickety-split, and I was out of there faster than you can say "Falafel, hold the tachini." In truth, it probably took longer than that to get out of there. It was on the 14th floor. Anyway, by this point it was 10:30.

I went to Misrad Hapnim, only about a 10-minute walk away, and waited on line to make an appointment. I got to the front fairly quickly, and was "informed" that I needed to make an appointment over the phone between 10:00am and 2:00pm, and was given the appropriate number. I tried to call for about five minutes, and the line was busy. I later learned why the number is always busy, but we're not there just yet. I started walking around the massive office, looking for someone to help me skirt the rules. I turned a corner and saw my friend Roseanne waiting on line outside the door of the office of Yuchi, the Director of Visas. She had a similar, but somewhat more complex problem, and also needed help from someone high up. She recommended that I go speak to Nava, the Manager of Visas, in an office down the hall. She had started with Nava, and had been sent to Yuchi when Nava was unable to help. Thinking my problem simpler and possibly more within Nava's realm, I waited outside her door for fifteen minutes until the desperate person who had been begging for help emerged, and I went in with my most charming smile. I got five or six words out before Nava said to me, in one of the less friendly tones I've heard, that she had no time for me, and that I needed to speak with Yuchi.

So now it was time to wait for Yuchi. And wait I did. I was fifth on line, and waited for an hour and a half or more. Someone was in there for half an hour. I heard shouting. Maybe some crying, too? There was also an angry American guy walking around the office, cursing at the employees, who seemed to need some visa help. After I'd been waiting an hour, he walked up to Yuchi's office, knocked on the door, and barged in on her and someone else. Now, I'm sure this guy had a very important problem, and I'm also sure that no one helped him because he acted like such a colossal jackass to everyone. Finally, after considering leaving several times, I made it into Yuchi's office. We spoke for two minutes. I told her my story. She told me she would see what she could do. I followed her into the next room, and couldn't believe what I saw there. It was one woman with a headset, and a huge appointment book. That's right, one woman. Hundreds of people calling every day, trying to get an appointment for their visas, and there is a single (grumpy) individual who answers the phone for four hours a day. And when she speaks to people, and makes them their appointments, she scribbles their appointments in a huge, handwritten binder. My mouth agape, I watched Yuchi open the book to the front, find a space on the margin on page three for December 4th, and write my name and phone number. And that was it. In her office, out of Misrad Hapnim in eight minutes, appointment for six days later in hand. It was a little after one in the afternoon. There went my plans of sitting at Misrad Hapnim every day for a week until someone helps me, leaving me, as stated earlier, with nothing to do at all.

Weeee!

Now the question on my mind is whether I get the visa on the day of my appointment, or whether I'll need to come back for it several months later or something ridiculous like that. The Israeli Bureaucracy was easy on me this time, but there is little doubt in my mind that the moment I let my guard down, it will take me out. It's just a matter of time...

The Israeli Bureaucracy Strikes Back, Part 1

Today I began my first day of 100%, unadulterated nothing to do.

On Thursday I graduated from Ulpan, taking a test that, as far as I could understand, meant nothing. We began preparing for this test a month ago, and it's all we've been talking about for two weeks. We've taken a couple of practice tests, we've done exercises to simulate sections on the test, and we've discussed strategies for conquering each section in a timely manner. It was a couple of days ago when I decided to ask my teacher, the fabulous Zmira (To be clear, I added the "fabulous" part. She is, in fact, fabulous, but doesn't go around calling herself "The Fabulous Zmira" like a magician or an attraction at the circus or something like that.), what the test meant. The conversation, translated into English and summarized, follows:

Me: So, Zmira, why does this test matter exactly?
Zmira: It's for us to know when our students pass to the next level of Ulpan.
Me: Okay, but don't you know when your students are ready to move to the next level?
Zmira: Sure, but the country requires that we give the test. It's the same test that the department of education gives to every Ulpan in the country. There are students all over the country taking this test at the same time.
Me: So how do you know when students are ready to move to the next level?
Zmira: It's based on your score on the test.
Me: What score do we need to move on to the next level?
Zmira: You need to do as well as you possibly can.
Me: And I will, I promise, but what is the minimum score that I should shoot for?
Zmira: The best score you can get!
Me: But what number means I pass?
Zmira: 65.
Me: All I need is a 65?
Zmira: No, you need to do as well as you can.
Me: But why have we been preparing so much if all we need is a 65?
Zmira: Because YOU need to do much better than 65. That's not nearly the best you can do.
Me: Fine. I'll do the best I can. How do I find out my score?
Zmira: You don't, actually. You just find out whether you pass. You'll get a certificate.
Me: So I'm supposed to do as well as I can, but won't actually find out how well I did?
Zmira: Right!
Me: So does anyone find out how I did?
Zmira: Well, the ministry of education finds out. And we know the average scores of our students. We're running out of time, we have to move on to the review of changing passive verbs to active verbs now.
Me: But...
Zmira: The book WAS read by Shmuel. Shmuel...

And so class continued without my questions really being answered. Here's what I've decided must be the case: We take these standardized tests and based on our scores, Ulpan teachers receive bonuses and/or different Ulpans get more or less Federal money. These are the only reasons I can think of that would justify our teacher pushing us so hard to succeed on a test that we could all easily pass after a night of heavy drinking, or after slamming our heads in a car door a couple of times. If you have another possible explanation, I'd be glad to hear it.

In the two practice tests, I got an 85, then I got a 90. I figured that with no study at all, I would get between an 85 and a 92. With hours of intense study, I determined that I would probably get between an 86 and a 94. And no matter how much I studied or didn't study, I wouldn't find out how I did anyway. So my studies weren't exactly dedicated, but I feel pretty confident that I passed. The great news: I didn't even have to experience any head trauma beforehand. The better news (well, maybe not better, but...): Even if I didn't pass, none of it matters, because the Ulpan at Beit Canada, where I've been learning since I got here, only goes up to the level I've almost certainly passed with the completion of the meaningless test. So if I want to go study at another Ulpan, they're just going to give me their own test, making the pointless test that I just took take on a whole new level of uselessness. Thank you Israeli Bureaucracy!

Speaking of Israeli Bureaucracy, I'm not working right now (which is why I'm currently doing a whole lot of nothing). In order to work, I need a work permit. To get a work permit, I need: My passport, a letter from a place that wants to hire me saying that they want to hire me, proof that I am a Jew, health insurance, multiple passport photos, one of Randall Cunningham's shoelaces from the 1988 season, a burlap sack, and any eight-track tape. I have all of these things, I swear. I have to take this collection of items to an office downtown called Misrad HaPanim that only helps people if they make an appointment weeks in advance. I have not made any such appointment. My plan is to show up and beg for their help, and to continue to show up every day until they help me. Figure some person will not be able to make it for some appointment at some point, right? Today was Day One of my quest to get legal permission to work. I showed up at Misrad HaPanim at 1pm. They had been closed for the day since noon. Can you believe this? They're open four hours a day, from 8am til 12pm, except on Wednesdays, when they're open from 2pm til 5:30pm. Wow, they really have to tough it out that day when theysuffer through a three and a half hour work day. There must be some very hardworking people in that office.

I can't wait to meet them tomorrow morning.

Thanks full ness

On this day before a day that's meaningful in no way out here and is, in fact, based upon some pretty iffy history, I offer my thanks to you for reading this blog, whether out of a desire to while away the hours at work or out of a genuine desire to keep tabs on me.

Coming soon: The Israeli Bureaucracy Strikes Back as I try to get legal permission to work here. Stay tuned...

Give me my money back, you bitch!

I've come to the conclusion that men in Israel shop at exactly one store (it's called FOX), and they've purchased all of the black short sleeved t-shirts in the country.

So I got a job. Actually, I got two jobs, but I'm still working up the courage to reject a job offer in another language. The first job offer came from a cafe down the street. They are in need of waiters, and I was in need of employment, so it seemed to be a good fit. Something that I've come to better understand through this process, though, is that it's completely critical to nudge people in this country if you ever want anything to happen. To wit, the first time I stopped by the cafe, I left my name for the manager and I was promised that he would call me in short order. A week later, without hearing from him, I returned to the cafe and asked to speak with him. I exchanged four words with him and learned that he was far too busy to speak with me at that time, but received assurances that I would be hearing from him that night. Now, in America, if you reach this point, you wait around for a few days, expecting a phone call that will almost certainly arrive. In Israel, it seems, that call just doesn't come. Ever. So the next day I decided I would drop by to see whether the manager had time for me. I waited a bit, then we talked things over (him in fluent Hebrew, me in somewhat less fluent Hebrew), and he said he needed to think it over and that he'd get back to me. I gave him the benefit of a day and a half before I showed up again. He said that I got the job, but he couldn't give me any details then. He promised to call me. When I came back later that afternoon, he found time to talk to me and told me that he needed a waiter, and asked me if I thought my Hebrew was up to par. Without thinking, I ironically replied in broken Hebrew that it wouldn't be a bit of an issue. The lesson here is that persistence to the point of what we in America consider obnoxiousness is not only NOT considered impolite, but it's pretty much a required way of life.

A few days later, on the day my training was set to begin, I spent an afternoon on a quest for the aforementioned black t-shirt (the standard cafe uniform 'round these parts). My first stop was the Mega Mall, named for the mega-sized Mega market in the basement. I went into a number of stores, and found only FOX selling a selection of men's clothing. I spent 20 minutes going through their shelves trying to find a plain black shirt. To no avail. I then ducked my head into a handful of other stores that I couldn't immediately identify from the outside as to whether they sold men's clothes in addition to women's clothes. When I couldn't make a clear decision after four to six seconds, I bolted. Yes, I could have asked, but I'd have been embarassed to ask such a question in my native language, let alone in Hebrew where I'm finding that I stutter lately when I speak to Israelis. For the next couple of hours, this scene repeated itself in two other malls and a couple of discount stores. I finally found my black t-shirt in a store that I nearly walked out of before spotting men's underwear on my way out. Honestly, I probably went into 20 stores, and no more that four of them sold men's clothing. I never thought I'd have a stronger urge for the simplicity and clarity of choice presented in a place like the Gap. Ugh, typing that last sentence made me throw up in my mouth a little. And hey, re-reading it had the same effect. Try it at home, kids!

Later that afternoon, a couple of hours before I was set to begin my training, I stopped by a different cafe where I remembered seeing a sign that they were looking for people. I asked for the manager, had an interview, and within eight minutes I was scheduled for a week of training starting this past Saturday. I am assuming that this is the rare circumstance in Israel where desparation on the part of the employer trumped the standard persistence challenges. In this place, everyone does everything, but everyone starts in the kitchen. Which is okay by me. Shortly after I walked out of the second cafe, I got a call from the first cafe asking if I could reschedule my training for a later date. Done and done. Have I talked to cafe #1 since? Not exactly. I know, I have to get on that.

As for cafe #2, I've worked two nights of training, and I'll save any observations for a time when I've gotten a little better feel of the place. But it's going good so far.

In other news, my visa expires in a month, and I have to figure out somewhere to go. It has to be inexpensive, not too cold, and yes, I've already ruled out Jordan.

In other other news, if the Eagles don't come through for me when I wake up tomorrow morning at 4am to watch them play, I may consider a boycott for the rest of the season. But don't hold me to that.

And finally, the avalanche of visitors in only about a month away. If you're coming to visit, drop me a line and let me know when you'll be here, what you like on your falafel, etc. We'll make sure we do it right.

Bucking Broncos, et al.

Let's just say that I pulled myself away from the Internet radio broadcast and went to sleep mid-way through the 2nd quarter the other night, and it's a decision I don't regret. I'll admit, I did wake up occasionally over the course of the night, imagining a miraculous comeback and another unbelievably sweet, utterly undeserved victory. But it was not meant to be. Now what am I looking forward to? Next Sunday night's game against the Redskins. It will be on TV. At 4am. Horse shit.

As I was walking to Ulpan today, I discovered horse shit on the sidewalk. And it wasn't in a neat and tidy pile either. It looked as though several people had tracked through it, and to be honest, it didn't appear to be particularly fresh. And this isn't the first time this has happened, either. This brings me to an issue that should get much more press than it does in Israel and abroad: Shit all over the sidewalk. It's literally everywhere in this country. I imagine that American cities had a similar problem until fairly recently, when cities began enforcing strict fines for not curbing dogs. Either this concept hasn't yet arrived here, or no one cares about having shitty shoes all the time, but it's really getting on my nerves. I mean, walking at night on the sidewalk is a scary thing. I'm considering starting a grass-roots campaign. Okay, glad to have gotten that off my chest.

Another thing that's bugging me has nothing to do with Israel. What's the deal with this Alito nomination? It's all been said already. The President missing a great opportunity to unite with a moderate, the impending nuclear option debate, the real possibility that this could hamper a woman's right to choose in the near future. It goes on. So though I have nothing to add to the debate this minute, I just shake my head from afar about the whole thing. But for the good news, we're going to spend $7.2 billion dollars to fight the pandemic that may or may not come. And if you don't want to hunt down pandemics and kill them where they live and breed, then truly you hate freedom.

I've been on a bit of a seesaw in terms of finding a job here. Before I got here, I was told that I wouldn't need a work visa or citizenship to work here. I've learned, however, that a work permit is generally required by law-abiding employers and regulators tend to frown upon illegal workers. Then I also was told that acquiring a work visa was a difficult process, almost impossible for someone like myself looking for part-time work. Then I learned that getting a work visa is actually pretty easy, so long as your employer is willing to write a short letter to the appropriate government official. So as of now I'm actively looking for work. I have some good leads, and hope to be settled on something by early next week. It should be just in time to learn that the office that handles foreign work visas will be closed until February for renovations or something unfortunate like that.

On a more positive note, Annie started working this week. On an altogether neutral note, I really should get around to cutting my hair. On a less positive note, I can't seem to find blueberries in this country. Okay, I did find a bush not far from our place with berries that looked like blueberries, but I was afraid that they were poison. If I ate one poisonous berry, I'd probably live, right?