End of Kipple #6

January 13, 2011

Manneqipples

Very noticeable upon Israeli streets are the extremely true-to-life storefront displays. Mannequins here have nipples. With color differentiation. Impressive, no? Life is all about the details and when the details make you smile and you can have a conversation on a crazy sherut ride for twenty minutes about "mannequipples," it's not so bad.

On the bureaucratic front, it remains as hellishly annoying as always but still delightfully entertaining:

In order to fix my תעודת זהות (Teudat Zehut--Identity Card), I had to return to our friendly משרד הפנים (Misrad HaPnim--Ministry of the Interior). The first time I went (in Netanya), they looked at me, looked at the תעודה (Teudah--card), and told me they couldn't me. I had to go to Jerusalem.

I called Nefesh. They call me back-and-forth twice.

"Go back. It's all ready. You can go anywhere in the country to get it."

I went with Jake and he wisely advised me to take two tickets: one for the right side of the office and one for the left of the crazy line. We passed the time playing Bust-A-Marble on the iPad. I think we--maybe just I--got a little too into it.

Pretty sure this is a scarab.

Before too long (but only because of the marbles) my number on the right came up. We sat down but got up about five seconds later because, no, she doesn't print the card (even though she's friggin' sitting with the printer) because she only processes "families, children, and babies". She tells us to go to the left and take a number. Luckily, we already had one.

We wait again and let my other friend know what's going on because she's coming in from Jerusalem to help me move into my absorption center.

Finally, the number is called and we go to a desk. The woman is on her cellphone with her grandkid or something, all "Ok, Motek"-this and "Motek"-that. She says very loudly to me to give me the number, which is not unlike yelling in America and wouldn't fly, but here it's not considered yelling--all while she's still on the phone "motek-ing". She's still on the cellphone, the Misrad phone rings and she asnwers that, too, and meanwhile, we're still sitting there.

Somehow, she figures out what I need, clucks and tisks at all the errors, and disappears for a few minutes while I throw passport photos and my botched Teudah on the desk.

She comes back and isn't on the phone for once, although this only lasts for about sixty seconds. During that sixty seconds, she takes a look at my Teudah, give me the equivalent of a "WTFF Niyald?" in response to what they did to the name "Daniel" and whisks everything away.

Disappeared. Again.

She comes back and has the new one. Yay. My  name means "truth" again instead of garbled gibberish. And she's back on the phone.

January 14, 2011

View of Jericho from the settlement, Mitzpeh Yericho

On Tuesday, after the Misrad Hapnim's success story, I moved into my Merkaz Klitah (Immigrant Absorption Center). I have three roommates, all within a year of my age, and all from the United States. Our chemistry seems to be good. We all lucked out, too, as we got the only renovated room in the entire Merkaz.

Like anything else in Israel, moving in and beginning the Ulpan involves even more bureaucracy. Before we can do anything at all, we have to sit down and sign a contract that pledges us to attending every class, every day sans "special circumstances," to not having visitors past 23:00, and to not have those visitors eat in the dining hall with us.

It sounds like college again.

Although I read the contract in its entirety, I apparently missed the clause forbidding us from employment for at least two months. This may have just been tacked on arbitrarily after-the-fact of signing as things often are. Anyhow, I signed--not that I had a choice int he matter--and then received my Ulpan/Absorption Center ID.

After this, I waited around for another thirty minutes for the מנהלת (Minahelet--supervisor/principal/etc.) to usher me and three other new immigrants into her office for another debriefing and room key reception. With me were two other Americans, including another Tali, and a Parisian guy.

We were told the terms of the contract again (no no-work-for-two-months clause, though) and instructed to go to the bank to set up our payments and to go to the post office to submit our initial deposit. I still have yet to arrive at a post office during open hours. Sunday, hopefully.

"High Stress! Danger of Death!" sign:
Where we all reside in the midst of bureaucracy

I went trekking across town with my roommate to get to the bank. This took three hours, but we set everything up, put in for a branch transfer which will take a month, so we can go to a branch in a central location. We deposited money and set up the Ulpan crediting system. So no more worries.

Let's go into another difference between the Israeli and American systems: banking, this time.

In general (and I think this holds true for not only American banks, but nearly--if not all--other bank in the world), you open an account with a bank and you can deal with any branch of that bank for anything, no matter where it is. If it's a U.S. bank, the most you might have to do for a normal transaction is fill out an out-of-state deposit slip if your account has an address (as in your home) in Georgia instead of Oklahoma and you're depositing money from an Oklahoma location into your account in Georgia. No biggie.

First of all, Israel is, tops, the size of New Jersey. If I want to deposit money into a branch down the street from my registered branch, I can't do it. (Hence our put-in for a branch transfer as it took us over an hour to get to it).

Also: if I have an account with Some-Bank-In-America and I go to a Some-Bank-In-America ATM to withdraw money, it's free. If I go to a teller inside the bank for the same withdrawal, it's free.

Here: if I have an account with Some-Bank-In-Israel and I go to a Some-Bank-In-Israel ATM to withdraw money, I get charged 1.65 shekels. If I go to a teller inside the bank for the same withdrawal, I get charged over 5 shekels.

There is no difference between credit and debit. It's all "credit" and you either owe the bank, which only reduces the money for all withdrawals/purchases/etc. in your account once a month (so you better be keeping track), or you owe the bank. You either have money left in your account afterwards or you're screwed because you owe the bank.

Oh, the joys.

So I figure all of this nonsense out and return to the מרכז קליטה (Merkaz Klitah--Absorption Center) where, of course, they can't find my name on the Ulpan enrollment list because (guess what!?) it's spelled wrong!

Apparently, this is the story of my life.

But other than that, the place is amazing. There are, roughly, 230 of us in the Ulpan course. We range from ages 22-37 and hail from over 50 countries.

Street musician on Ben Yehuda St., Jerusalem City Center

I've met Indians, Georgians, Colombians, Australians, Brits, New Zealanders, South Africans, Russians, Venezualans, French, Iraqis, Persians, and even one half-Israeli-via-Iraq-half-Japanese American guy who was born and raised in Orange County, CA. He was brought up by his immigrant Israeli and Japanese parents and speaks neither Hebrew nor Japanese and only English. Of course, there are also Ethiopians, some Romanians, and I had dinner with a bunch of Brazilians and Turks.

The mutliculturalism is absolutely fantastic. Hebrew must be the common language because, for once, English is not ubiquitous.

End of Kipple #5

January 2, 2011

In perfect fashion, the first cab driver who took me anywhere was another "Shlomi". Like 1/3 of all other Israeli cabbies. That is where the order stops, though. And he didn't even hit on me. Miracle.

Well, I suppose the order does not actually stop. Israeli routine is chaotic and ridden with countless seemingly unnecessary steps. And so plans most often do not go as planned for their usual ETAx3.

My plan was to land, gather my תעודת עולה (Teudat Oleh-Immigrant ID), initial payment, and arrival information, etc. and go get a cell phone. Of course, being without a cell phone in this day and age is difficult in general. Being without a cell phone in Israel upon arrival while technically homeless for another two weeks borders on torturous. But it is already Sunday and i have as yet been unable to obtain this small but necessary device.

Why? The system is not like the American one. And I refuse to blow $300 on a temp phone for one week. In order to get a phone, I must have an Israeli bank account so the corrupt bond between bank and cellphone company can flourish heartily. But in order to open a bank account, I must possess my תעודת זהות (Teudat Zehut-ID Card--this is different from the Immigrant ID). 

On top of that, it is impossible to even research cellphone plan option because 

A. they change daily and

B. the people won't even talk to me without a תעודת זהות (Teudat Zehut) in hand.

"You come beck," they nod, reassuringly. "We will be here."

Great.

I then discover that all the banks are closed today. And that after I open the bank account, I have to request a document granting permission from the bank to the cell phone company to credit my account. Or, I have to request a document from the cellphone company requesting permission from the bank to credit the account. Or both. 

January 3, 2011

At the Nefesh B'Nefesh office, I was able to open the bank account (finally), which enabled me to get a phone, so now I don't feel lost and disconnected anymore. 

Of course, I was only able to open the bank account because I got my תעודת זהות (Teudat Zehut-ID Card). And of course, there are massive problems with it. They spelled my name incorrectly even though I told them verbally and on paper no less than five times how to spell it. 

They also decided that all of the information on the card would be one line too far down on the card, so I was born in "Female" and my sex is the "United States of America" or something like that. They also can't type and changed my father's named from "Daniel" to "Nield". So now I have to go get more passport photos, resubmit everything to the משרד הפנים (Misrad HaPnim-Ministry of the Interior) and wait at least a week for them to hopefully correct their mistakes.

Well. Welcome to Israel. Where the bureaucracy can't get no higher.

The good news is that my number stays the same, so I don't have to worry about my payments getting delayed. I just have to submit my bank account and other information to the משרד הקליטה (Misrad HaKlita-Ministry of Absorption) and they start dumping cash. Which means I can pay my cell phone bill and my other bills, like health insurance in the meantime. 

Speaking of which:

I got off the plane, was immediately signed up for basic coverage (as stated), which is free for the first year and automatically covers all pre-existing conditions forevermore. In the airport, I was talking to a woman who is also a Type I Diabetic who made Aliyah three years ago and has the same health plan as I do. She told me that for all of her insulin and supplies, she pays maybe 180 shekels a month. That is approximately $50.75!

I elected to upgrade my health coverage from basic to Gold, which includes exciting things like Accupuncture, eye, and dental for 45 shekels/month--$12.69. I love this. Very cheap, amazing health care. But socialized medicine is evil. I suppose on this one, I'll traffic with the devil because I elect to live. 

On another practical note, and a return to the cellphone issue, I've been discovering even more differences between the Israeli and American systems. 

Actually infuriating: a cellphone catalog provided by the store with all kinds of models, etc:

1. does not list features of models, the pros and cons against other and

2. does not list any prices.

I ask the prices repeatedly to the salesman and get "It's no problem. Which one you want?"

"How. Much. Do. They. COST?"

"No problem. Which one? I give you deal."

Great answer. Really informative.

Because Israel is such a small, closed market, all the companies are relatively the same. So there is really no difference. Each one is just as horrible or all right as the next. The lines are just longer or shorter. I went with the short line. Up the hill. Harder to get to. 

The weird thing is that if you buy a plan and talk over your minutes, you can get your phone for free. Don't ask me to explain this. I took me about two hours to figure out how the companies make it appear that they're helping you, the consumer, out and losing profit but really, they're just screwing us even more. Still, it's the cheapest way to go if I don't want to pay 45 Agurot (shekel cents) per minute or per SMS. 

Meanwhile, I've been staying with my friend Jake, in Netanya, as mentioned earlier, along with his roommates. One of them has a spare phone and has offered to sell it to me so I don't have to deal with the rip-off through the company and the phone plan. I think I may go with that. After I trial it for a week. 

As I continue the job hunt.