TEL AVIV, Israel—As I ease my way out of the lovely country of Israel back to the U.S., there are a few minor observations about daily life that will stay with me. I haven’t noticed anything earth-shattering, but as they say, it’s the little things that count.
Let’s start with crosswalks. Most Israelis, upon my personal investigation, find nothing amiss with the crosswalk scenario here. But consider for a moment the sheer lack of logic about how they are set up. You have a street, and you need to get from one side to the other. Oh, how nice, there’s a crosswalk to help you avoid being hit by a car. But for some odd reason, in the middle of the road it splits and there is a little island to stand and wait on. There are also multiple crosswalk signals—one for the little island, one for the far side of the street, and one for cars. For the cars?
For an American, this is extremely confusing and more frightening than reassuring. Yes, there are a lot of crosswalk signals, islands to stand and wait on, and even many places with tick-tick-tick meters for the blind. But in the U.S. we have this crazy system of going from one side of the street to the other all at once. Some Israelis have argued with me, “But it’s very convenient—the street is very wide.” Okay, fair enough. But what about the alarming concoction of crosswalks and islands I found in a tiny intersection of a quiet suburb of Tel Aviv? Explain that. But after three weeks in Israel, one thing I’ve discovered is that things don’t always have to make sense. Sometimes, that’s just the way it is.
My first thought when trying to unravel the mysterious universe of the Israeli crosswalk system was that the drivers here must be crazy. It is the Middle East, and my American head is full of stories of goblins from this part of the world. I blame mainstream media. But Israeli drivers are incredibly courteous. They have a penchant for honking, but when it comes to their treatment of pedestrians they are extremely patient. For a New Yorker like me who has been repeatedly traumatized by aggressive taxi cab drivers and angry people in a rush and willing to play a game of chicken with pedestrians, Israeli drivers are a dream. The first time a car let me cross a teeny-tiny crosswalk I thought they were joking. Or confused about where they were going. Then I said, out loud, “Wow! That car is stopping for me!” So, thanks, Israel. You have restored my faith in the capability of drivers in a metropolis stopping for vulnerable pedestrians. Maybe it’s because they feel sorry for anybody walking around in the 90 degree weather.
There are some drivers here that I am not very fond of. Motorcycle drivers. These people should have special licenses for authorization to be a menace to society. Of course, nothing is absolute. I know there are some very nice motorcycle drivers who consider the fear factor they can instill in others with their crazy antics. But then there are the rest: I saw someone popping a wheelie in a parking lot, apparently just for the fun of it. It looked really cool, but … why?? Then there are those who speed in between the lanes of traffic to get to the front. Ever heard of a car door? Yes, motorcycle drivers, you are one thing I won’t miss about Israel (with the exception of a friend who rides one). Maybe it was those four or five times I was walking, basking in the glow of a polite driver who just let me cross to a crosswalk island, when one of you motorcycle drivers zipped past me, nipping at my heels and making me scream. Not fun.
Motorcycle drivers apparently aren’t the only ones in Israel who can’t handle the concept of lines. In New York, and the U.S. in general, we’re pretty much in love with staying in line. It makes us feel reassured to know when it will be our turn to buy that bus ticket or cup of coffee. But in Israel the concept of lines seems muuuuuch looser. The first time someone cut me off in line, I asked my Israeli friend, “Did you see that?” to which he looked at me with a completely blank face and replied, “Of course.” In New York City, dare to cut someone in line and you’ll face the wrath of a barking voice pointing out your error.
Experiencing the pace of restaurants in Israel has also shown me the opposite end of the spectrum from my life in New York. There, you barely sit down before someone comes to take your order, and barely finish eating before the check comes. In Israeli restaurants, it’s more like going to someone’s house for a meal. You get your food when it’s good and ready, your waitperson isn’t really at your beck and call, and the check comes only after you have practically begged for it. It’s lovely; sort of like an invitation to stay and hang out for as long as you like. “You’ve been sitting here for an hour now, would you like anything else? Another cappuccino?”
A cappuccino here isn’t always a bad idea, though. Unfortunately it took me 2 weeks to discover that aside from the Israeli Nescafé fixation, excellent, perfect cappuccinos can be found in abundance everywhere. I wonder who the genius is who traveled throughout this land and taught everyone to make beautiful, textbook-perfect cappuccinos? As an added bonus, apparently there is not one store from a certain coffee shop chain in this country. They came here, tried, failed, and left. What a breath of fresh air—good job, Israel!
What I’ll miss least about my new second-favorite country is the stray cat situation. Oddly, there are stray cats everywhere here, roaming the streets in packs or alone. Sometimes you’ll see a garbage can on the sidewalk rattling and a cat or two will jump out. Once a little family of cats with medium-sized kittens wandered into my friend’s front yard. I thought, “Oh, how cute!” until I approached the half-starved, semi-mangy cats who, as an added bonus, were really not that friendly and cuddly like cats should be. According to my Israeli friends, their plethora of stray cats are directly proportional to America’s healthy supply of squirrels. I never thought about it much, since squirrels are wild animals, and they go well with parks and trees and such. Also, they don’t yowl loudly in the middle of the night or have dramatic, screeching and hissing fights on your porch. Not the most rational comparison, but since my Israeli friends have been such unparalleled wonderful hosts, I’ll give them that one.
That’s my way of saying thank you for the nice memories, Israel: I concede the point—stray cats and wild squirrels are totally similar. Of course.
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