On the Fringe

A few days ago, David and I sat in a hummus restaurant – yes, that’s a thing! A very yummy thing! – with two post doc students, one from the US and one from China. We ran into these two post docs the previous Saturday when all four of us were trying – and failing – to find the same Messianic synagogue. This evening, over hummus and pitas, we started comparing notes on our experiences with Israeli culture, and very quickly, the conversation turned to stories of social blunders we’d made and the dramatic responses they’d elicited. Though stressful at the time, we laughed at each other’s stories and concluded that being yelled at by an Israeli was an inevitable initiation rite for any newcomer to this expressive country. I thought I would share our initiation stories today.

C, one of the post docs, shared the story of a time when he was gassing his car. Now, putting gas in your car is somewhat of a mysterious process here because though the pumps look and act like they accept credit cards, they actually don’t. At least not US credit cards. Or bank cards. While C struggled with the pump, a woman pulled up behind him, waiting for her turn to gas her car. It wasn’t long before C concluded that that he had no idea how to operate the pump, so he left his car and headed toward the gas station store to get help. When the woman saw C leaving the pump, she got out of her car and followed him. Once inside, she found him talking to the clerk and proceeded to yell at him in Hebrew, not a word of which he understood. When she was finished, the gas station clerk turned to C and said in English, “Welcome to Israel.”

David’s Initiation: Our second week here, David went to a coffee shop in Carmel Center and parked in a parking garage. When he was ready to leave, he went to the ticket machine and, with much effort, paid his parking fee. At least he thought he had; since he doesn’t know Hebrew, he really had no idea precisely what he had done. I asked him if the ticket got stamped, and he said he couldn’t tell; there were a bunch of Hebrew characters on the ticket before he put it in the machine and a bunch of Hebrew characters on it when he took it out. As he approached the gate to leave the garage, he tried to put his ticket in the slot to make the gate go up. The machine wouldn’t take his ticket. He tried again. No luck. He turned it around and tried it that way. Still no luck. He was starting to stress out, worried he would get yelled at when a car would pull up behind him. Had he really paid his parking fee? Just then, a man came up and started yelling and waving his arms at him. When the man realized David could not understand him, he pointed at the gate. The gate had actually gone up. David had been so focused on the process we were accustomed to in Ann Arbor that he hadn’t even noticed. He sheepishly drove out of the parking garage. I feel like there’s a great sermon illustration or something here.

Gail’s Initiation: The first week we were here, David and I decided to cook a favorite shrimp pasta dish — and now many of you already have an idea of where this is going. We headed to a nearby Shufersal grocery store to find shrimp and other groceries. David and I meandered up and down the aisles, looking carefully. There was beef and chicken and lamb and all sorts of interesting fish — but no shrimp. We decided we needed to ask someone for help. Feeling brave and wanting to actually try communicating in Hebrew, I got out my phone, found the word for shrimp, and rehearsed it a few times. When I felt ready, we approached a friendly looking fellow stocking shelves, and I used my new Hebrew word to ask where the shrimp was. After repeating myself once, he understood me! I was elated! This was my first time communicating successfully in Hebrew, and I felt rather proud of myself. But as Israeli culture would have it, my elation and pride were short -lived, like maybe a milli-second. Upon full comprehension of my question, the store clerk started emitting a stream of very loud and seemingly never ending Hebrew. We had no idea what he was saying, but he didn’t seem to be telling us where the shrimp was.

At this point, my mind immediately went to two female MLC students who had recently told me about similar experiences they’d had in grocery stores in the US. After unsuccessfully trying to ask a store clerk a question, the clerk had started talking to them very loudly. They told me how they felt embarrassed by this and how the higher volume of his speech did nothing to aid their understanding of English. In fact, it just upset them and made them feel a little afraid. I felt I understood them a little better.

Back to this Shufersal clerk. . . When he realized we didn’t understand Hebrew, he switched to English – and an equally loud and long stream of language came at us again. We were right – he wasn’t telling us where the shrimp was. I don’t remember everything he said because he said so much – but he did say that this store was kosher and didn’t have shrimp because they were Jewish people. I apologized profusely in English, and we immediately went to the check out lane – at the other end of the store. As we were putting our items on the belt, an Israeli woman came up to me and in English told me the name of another store in Haifa where I could buy shrimp. Not content with just sharing the name, she insisted that I find it on the maps app on my phone. As I struggled to type the Hebrew name with English letters, she took the phone out of my hands and typed it in herself. She was bound and determined not to let me leave the Shufersal without knowing where in Haifa to buy shrimp. I was extremely touched by her kindness – but also a tad mortified because I then realized that our mistake and its reprimand had been broadcast to the entire store. We left feeling slightly taken aback but also reminding ourselves that this was just one in a long (and growing) string of adventures. For the first couple of weeks, we counted them at the end of each day.

I have to say that we’ve made many mistakes here that were not met with Israeli ire. One thing that is done differently in coffee shops here is that you don’t pay when you order; you have a running tab which you settle when you leave. Our first week here, unaccustomed to this new set up, we spent a couple hours in a coffee shop and forgot to pay when we left. As we were walking to our car, a young barista came running out after us and asked very nicely if we’d forgotten something. We seemed to have all our stuff and couldn’t think of anything we had forgotten. Then, she asked a little more directly if we’d forgotten to pay. We immediately realized what we’d done. We apologized profusely as we walked back to the cafe’ with her. Funnily enough, she seemed almost apologetic to us.

Lastly, not only are Israelis aggressive in letting you know when you’ve done something wrong, they can also be aggressive in helping you, like the woman in the Shufersal. When we first arrived at the airport in Tel Aviv, I couldn’t figure out how to work the machine that provided luggage carts – and we really needed a cart for the 200 pounds of books we had brought. The machine required a credit card, but I couldn’t read the instructions, and I was clearly doing things incorrectly. An Israeli woman walked over to me and without a word, took the credit card out of my hand, stuck it in the machine, and pushed all the right buttons. As a cart was released, I grabbed it and thanked her. I started trying to retrieve a 2nd cart, but she would have nothing of it. She patiently repeated the entire process for me. She did not speak a word or smile this entire time, but her actions were unusually kind, and I was very grateful.