Missions Accomplished

It's been a busy and fruitful week here in J-town.  I continue to sort out the finer details of life, like where to buy toothpaste and contact lens solution, how to use ATMs entirely in Hebrew, who to call to get the piano tuned, and finding a doctor.

And I did all those things just today! (Plus, I finished a chapter for the ole book, translated some German philosophy, reviewed some notes on Loop Quantum Gravity, applied to a few more tenure-track jobs, practiced Scriabin's Sonata No. 5 and had a 3 hour rehearsal with the Jerusalem Chamber Choir! In Hebrew! )

So feeling very productive and happy.  Although the visit to the doctor was nearly a disaster.  The bus was really late, and I was overly confident and didn't bring a map with me.  I ended up getting off the bus about, oh, a good half-hour too soon.  Which I didn't realize-- I thought I was in the exact right neighborhood, until sufficient time had elapsed such that (i) I was 20 minutes late to my appointment, and (ii) my pride re spatial awareness and map-memorizing skills had shriveled to the size of an overcooked cherry tomato.

I stopped two guys who were getting into their truck and asked where the medical center was, still believing it to be near by.  They sort of laughed at me (hint number one) and conferred with themselves in Hebrew for a good while (hint number two) and finally said they'd better just give me a ride. (Hint number three).

Now now, Grandparents, I want to point out that I am in fact still alive.  I am proud to say I have hitchhiked several times now, and all completely safely, and I even picked up a male hitchhiker in Scotland once. And it was all completely safe.  Safe safe safe safe.

I won't do it again, though.  I promise.

In today's instance, it probably wasn't super wise of me, especially because the party in question was two dudes with a van and, by the way, since they were gardeners the van was chock-full of garden implements and sharp tools etc. etc.  Lots of shovels for burying bodies.

But ... both guys were shorter than me.  And.... they seemed like they just wanted to go home after a long day of work.  And... you gotta go with your gut instinct on these thing.  And my gut said "You're Very Very Late, Stop Messing Around and Get in the Stupid Van" and my other gut said "They seem like nice guys."

Which they were.  All told, I was only 35 minutes late, and the doctor was pretty cool.  Very laid back.  They definitely don't have universal health care here, and I definitely had to pay an exorbitant fee just to talk to a guy for 15 minutes, but I certainly don't miss the cold, factual stoicism and obvious burn-out exhibited by every physician I ever met in the UK.

So, success!


Ooh! And I've mastered the art of tipping in Israel.  I know, I know, it doesn't seem like the sort of thing a person should have to "master", but I'm such a social space-nut (I really don't know how else to describe it) that it takes practice for me.  I mean, there are few factors to consider.  First, I'm usually dining alone.  I become very introverted and shy and always, always, always have reading material with me. Second, the menu is often in Hebrew, or the dishes are Israeli dishes I don't recognize. Which is mostly adventurous, but somewhat nerve-wracking.  And third, food is not so cheap here.   This city is expensivo, and yes of course, that's even after converting New Israeli Shekals into dollars (the rate is 3.6 NIS to 1 USD, in case you were interested).

After a while (and by that I mean, after several years of eating meals in countless restaurants in different cities all over the world) you get fairly comfortable eating dinner alone.  You even start to own it a little.
But there's this other slight awkwardness about dining alone that I haven't yet gotten over.  And that's when the waiters are cute.  It's a real problem here, because -- and I exaggerate not -- the waitstaffs in this city seem to be uncommonly good-looking.  It's shocking, really.

I heard once on NPR (man, I miss NPR) that in times of economic strain the waitstaff in restaurants increase in physical attractiveness noticeably.  Because when the market is flooded with young kids looking for a gig to pay off student loans from that ever-lucrative B.A. in Theatre they did at NYU, the better-looking ones from among the pool of qualified applicants get hired faster.  (By the way, I believe a similar story was told by the Wall Street Journal, regarding the positive correlation between height and success (or maybe it was power.  Whatever).  So, thanks for that leg-up, parents. *wink*)

I don't think Jerusalem is in a time of especial economic downturn or anything, but gosh.  I get pretty flustered just about every time I eat because inevitably some dashing, dark young foreign man is taking my order, at my beck and call, and serving me delicious food.  (Which is  a nigh-unbeatable skill set, by the way)  But the problem is that I get all flustered, and usually by the time the bill arrives I'm in such a tizzy and feeling so awkward that I don't wait for change.  Last week, in the instance of one particularly handsome (and particularly attentive, I'd like to add) waiter, I accidentally left a 48% tip.  Which is crazy, especially given that the usual rate here is 10%.

I need to work on this, as it is literally costing me.  But perhaps this little quirk is already paying itself off.  I mean, for one thing, how much you wanna bet that waiter would love to see little ole me with my reckless tipping habits seated at his table again?  And, because I'm always dining alone I often get free stuff.  Like, free dessert or free bread or a free refill of the wine.  I'm not entirely sure if this is just what is done in Israel-- good hospitality and so forth -- or if the waitstaff feel sorry for me, sitting in the corner dribbling Matbucha on my chin whilst attempting to reading an enormous George Eliot novel, whose pages I've pinned down using the salt and pepper shaker in order to have both hands available for food-related requirements, and squinting at the itty bitty print with the light of my table's sole votive candle.  But I'm not complaining.  I mean, free dessert? Color me happy!