What a Crazy Country

JERUSALEM — So I went to the bank this morn­ing to open a new account since I had moved back to the Holy City and had become dis­en­chanted with the bank that I had been using (too many ser­vice fees). The whole process took four hours, but I guess I should not be surprised.

I was first in line at 8 a.m., and I took a num­ber from the machine. (Although I had writ­ten ear­lier that Israelis never wait in line and instead fight to be next, more busi­nesses and gov­ern­ment offices have been insti­tut­ing take-a-number sys­tems. The results have been mixed, to say the least.)

Right after the guard opened the door, every­one rushed inside and plopped him­self at a banker’s desk as if the num­ber sys­tem did not exist. I walked up to some­one and said, “Hey, I was before you!” The banker’s response: “Wait for your number?”

“But I was first!”

“Look at the tele­vi­sion, and wait for your num­ber.” (Of course, no one else had even both­ered to take a number.)

I took a step back and glanced upwards. The screen said, “Now serv­ing num­ber 100.” I was num­ber one. (Yes, noth­ing works as planned in the Mid­dle East — not even take-a-number systems.)

“I was num­ber one!” I said to the banker while he was help­ing the woman who had already sat down. “What’s the prob­lem? Why does it say 100?” He looked at me and shrugged in that Israeli way that means: “I don’t know — stop both­er­ing me.”

I looked at the tele­vi­sion again. Per­haps it was a glitch. But, no: 101, 102, 103…

As soon as some­one at the row of desks had fin­ished with his banker, I rushed over. “Can I sit?” I said in an all-too-politely-for-Israel way. “I was num­ber one!”

“Why didn’t you come when your num­ber came up?”

“It never came up! It started with 100.”

“What?”

“I don’t know — you work here!”

“Fine, fine…,” she said with a huff. “Sit.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “I want to open a new check­ing account.”

“Where do you live?”

“Right on XXXXXX street here in the neighborhood.”

“Give me your Israeli I.D.” I gave it to her.

“It says you live in Ris­hon Lezion.”

“I just moved here to Jerusalem.”

“But you can­not open an account in Jerusalem unless you live in Jerusalem.”

“Why?”

“That is the cor­po­rate pol­icy. You need to live in Jerusalem.”

“I just moved here!” I gave her my exact address.

“You can­not open an account here unless your Israeli I.D. says that you live in Jerusalem.”

“Why?”

“That is the cor­po­rate policy.”

“That’s stu­pid!”

“That is the cor­po­rate pol­icy. You need to go to the Min­istry of the Inte­rior and get a new Israeli I.D. with your new address.”

As I walked away, I told her with a ges­ture of frus­tra­tion: “After two years, I shouldn’t be sur­prised when some­thing here is com­pletely illogical.”

She shrugged.

—

So I walked home, and looked on the Inter­net for the near­est office of the Inte­rior Min­istry. I did not want to go to the main office in the cen­ter of the city — wait­ing in line there can take hours. Luck­ily, I found a branch in the neigh­bor­hood of Gilo, which is at the south­ern tip of Jerusalem on the bor­der with the West Bank. (A mix of Jews and Israeli Arabs live there.)

I walked to the local kiosk — a con­ve­nience store — since the owner is extremely nice.

“Do you know which bus goes to the Inte­rior Min­istry in Gilo?”

“Yes, 30 — at the stop right outside.”

“That’s the only bus? Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, it comes every half your.”

“OK, thank you.”

I walked out­side and waited 45 min­utes. The 30 never came, but many other buses had come and gone. I walked back to the kiosk.

“Are you sure only the 30 goes there?”

“Yes, of course! Only the 30. I know what I’m talk­ing about.”

So I walked back to the bus stop. I waited twenty more min­utes. No num­ber 30. I tried some­thing else.

“Do you know which buses go to the Inte­rior Min­istry in Gilo?” I asked an old man sit­ting on the bench.

“The 71 and 72 — not the 74!” he replied.

“Not the 30?” I asked.

“The 30 does not go down here anymore.”

So I got on the 72 when it arrived a few min­utes later. I had for­got­ten that many Israelis do not know what they’re talk­ing about — no mat­ter how con­fi­dent they seem. It is impor­tant cul­tur­ally for every­one to be right — and the per­son who is “right” is the one who speaks the loud­est and most con­fi­dently. It does not mat­ter if he is actu­ally correct.

Twenty min­utes later, I arrived at the Inte­rior Min­istry. After telling the secu­rity guard what I needed, I was wait­ing in line. And I thought I was in luck! There were two desks — there was a guy and his friend at the table on the left, and no one was at the table on the right. I had taken a num­ber, and right away I was next in line. It should be a minute, right? Wrong.

I walked up to the right-hand table since it was open. I stood there. The clerk, a blond woman in her twen­ties, was chat­ting inces­santly, as best as I could under­stand, with her boyfriend. She did not even bother to look up to see that some­one was wait­ing, no mat­ter how long I glared at her. (In Israel, noth­ing at work, on a date, or else­where is ever impor­tant enough for any­one not to take a call on his mobile phone the moment it rings. Israelis live love to talk.)

Mean­while, the guy at the left-hand table and a friend were dis­cussing the­ol­ogy with the clerk there. I’m not kid­ding. They were dis­cussing var­i­ous rab­bis and what they were doing on Shab­bat as if they were the only ones in the room. Mean­while, I’m pac­ing in front of the pair of desks, just wait­ing to get a sim­ple slip of paper stat­ing my new address.

After ten min­utes, the two guys left, and I sat down. I gave the clerk my old Israeli I.D. and a received piece of mail as proof that I lived at the new address. While the clerk was enter­ing the new infor­ma­tion into the com­puter, she con­tin­ued chat­ting with the two guys in the room who, for some rea­son, were still hang­ing out by the door. Still, after ninety sec­onds, I had my new Israeli I.D. And I caught the bus back to my neighborhood.

I went back to the bank branch, took a num­ber, and waited in line. When it was my turn, I put my new Israeli I.D. on the desk and said that I wanted a new check­ing account. After forty-five min­utes of sign­ing and ini­tial­ing var­i­ous pieces of paper, I had my new account and a lot of paper­work that I would never read since it was in Hebrew. I went home and took a nap.

—

But some­times, the crazi­ness of this coun­try can take an endear­ing turn. As I was in the mid­dle of writ­ing this post, I went out­side for a breath of fresh air — Jerusalem is pretty warm right now, even for the winter.

A ran­dom girl came up to me and started speak­ing Hebrew. It was very quick, so I did not under­stand. After see­ing that she did not speak Eng­lish, I asked her to speak more slowly. As it turned out, she needed help — she had been walk­ing past my blog when the heel on her high-heel shoes broke. She could not walk. This girl, a com­plete stranger, asked if I had any shoes that she could bor­row. I said that I knew some girls in my apart­ment build­ing who might be able to help.

I brought her upstairs and intro­duced her to my neigh­bors, a group of twen­tysome­thing, Jew­ish immi­grants from Argentina who are flu­ent in Hebrew. After some brief con­ver­sa­tion, the girl who was home gave the girl in need a cheap pair of shoes to wear. She promised to return them the fol­low­ing morning.

No mat­ter how divided Israelis are on eth­nic, reli­gious, and polit­i­cal terms, every­one always helps any­one in need. It is an endear­ing trait of the coun­try. Still, see­ing that act of kind­ness make all the stress and neg­a­tiv­ity from the ear­lier part of the day dis­ap­pear. What a crazy country.

Adden­dum: The bank gave me a gift for open­ing a new account: a com­puter mouse and USB cord. Of course, when I plugged in the mouse, my com­puter said that it was bro­ken and would not work. Oy. Not sur­prised at all.

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