I was in London standing in line outside the box office, hoping to get tickets for that night’s performance of “The Lion King.” Behind me I heard a mother talking to her daughter, in Hebrew.
“Are you from Israel?” I butt in. They were — from Tel Aviv. The mother’s name was Miri. Her daughter, Roni, was the youngest of three children. Miri works as a travel agent and they were in London for the week. “Is this a school vacation?” I asked, trying to figure out what break would fall at this time of year.
“Of course,” Miri said. “It’s Purim.”
Israelis have a way of saying “of course” that makes you feel stupid for asking. It’s nothing like the Englishman’s polite “of course,” meaning, “I’m at your service.” Or the Frenchman’s obsequious “of course,” meaning, “yes, even though you’re beneath me.” An Israeli’s “of course” is like something your mother or sister or Aunt Mae would say at the dinner table if you asked for a second helping. “Of course. Since when do you have to ask?”
I was on my way to Israel, where I had gotten this “of course” business before — from store clerks, bellboys, even strangers on the street — and it didn’t seem to matter whether or not my question was a stupid one.
Israelis are a tough lot. They don’t stand in lines or take turns. If you’re waiting to order a sandwich and don’t act fast enough, someone behind you will scream out an order, elbow her way up to the counter, pay and be through with lunch before you know what happened.
Noise is another thing. They blow their car horns and holler at other drivers. They don’t talk, they yell. Every Hebrew conversation sounds like an argument, with voices raised and arms flailing in the air. Only when they hug at the end do you have a clue that they were discussing whether to have fish or chicken for dinner.
A cell phone is to Israelis what a water bottle is to Californians. There is always one in their hand or in their purse or in an over-the-shoulder carrier. As for cell phone etiquette, well, there is none.
No matter where you are — stores, hotel lobbies, restaurants, even at the top of Masada — cell phones are going off. And they don’t just ring, they play some Beatles’ song or “Hava Negillah” or Beethoven’s Fifth. Once I watched a couple in a restaurant talk on their cell phones throughout the entire meal, never exchanging a word until the check came.
If you ask an Israeli for directions to a restaurant, he’ll suggest a better place to eat or what to order or will tell you to make sure to say hello to his cousin, Yael, who works there.
And that’s one of the things I love about Israelis. Because when you deliver the message to Yael, she’ll bring you a complimentary dessert and treat you like family.
Even though I’ve only been there three times, Israel feels very familiar to me.
It’s about walking down the street and seeing a sea of faces that could be relatives. It’s about being with other people who can’t talk if their arms are full. It’s about being with people who can’t imagine sitting around a table, whether for a meeting or a class or a discussion, without setting out more food than could possibly be eaten. It’s about seeing bus drivers and teachers and men in army uniforms wearing yarmulkes. It’s about seeing Judaica in the window of more than just one specialty store.
It’s about a country full of Israelis. Sabras, they’re called, the fruit of a cactus, prickly and hard on the outside but soft and sweet inside. And that soft, sweet center will get you every time.
I told Miri I was going to be in Israel the following week.
“Are you going to be in Tel Aviv?” she asked. “Call me. You’ll come over for dinner.” She opened her purse and removed a business card, on which she jotted down a couple of phone numbers.
“This is my home phone and this is my cell phone,” she said. “It’s always on.”
Of course.