Shabbat Shalom from Israel! Today was a free day to sleep in and prepare for our first shabbat here. Although I had the option to sleep until 5 PM, I decided to wake up at a decent hour and go buy the necessary items for shabbat cooking. Here is a word of advice for those of you brave enough to attempt an Israeli super market - don't. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The super market to which I refer is actually called, I kid you not, Super Douche (pronounced in Hebrew soo-pare doosh). Yes, this is the store's formal name which appears on all shopping bags (we are collecting Super Douche bags - HA). No one in Israel finds this name funny, and they fail to understand why WE think it's funny. It is because we are Americans. Therefore, it is only one more reason for them to point at us, laugh, and make judgmental comments. I think the hilarity has already worn off, to be honest. Anyway, do not attempt the market on a Friday. Not at 9 AM, not at 4 PM, not ever on Friday. Why? Let me tell you why.
Walking into the store on a Friday around 11 AM is somewhat like entering a circus that is midway through and all the clowns and elephants and fire-eating folk are running around in their respective circles, except you fall into none of the aforementioned categories and are therefore dreadfully lost. Not only are you dreadfully lost, you are in serious and grave danger. Replace the clowns and elephants and fire-eating folk with angry Hebrew-spewing women with five children in tow, elderly Russian couples arguing over the necessity of a fifth bag of potatoes (the wife, as I have noticed, always wins this one. That fifth bag of potatoes ends up in the cart), and, my personal favorite, double-wide shopping carts. There must have been dozens of shoppers wielding not one, but two, extremely large and heavily loaded carts. Keep in mind, the wheels on these carts have the turning radius of a Barbie convertible (if you're lucky) and two of them only doubles the odds of an accident, fatality, or worse (worse than fatality is the inevitable boxing-in of the unsuspecting American by dual shopping carts, and with no escape, being forced to listen to the nonstop Hebrew screaming that ensues). In summary, I did not make many friends at the market, which is fine, because I found all essential items to make our side dish for the community shabbat dinner (we were in charge of potatoes). I then stood in line to pay for my six grocery items for 34 minutes. Yes, I timed it. Israel, unlike New Jersey Shop Rite, does not believe in express checkout lanes. Whether you have six items or sixty seven, are about to spend a thousand shekels or ten, you wait in one of twenty lines regardless. Finally, a woman saw me, pitied me, and let me go in front of her DWSC (double wide shopping carts). I paid and left, only to realize I had forgotten, in the hysteria, to buy baking soda for our apartment refrigerator. I guarantee the eventual purchase of that damn baking soda, but there is no way that transaction will take place on a Friday.
To reward myself for my patience and bravery, I walked upstairs (the market is actually in the local shopping mall) to the schwarma stand. For those that don't know, schwarma is one of two things: first, it is meat roasted on a spit for hours, then sliced thin and made into a sandwich (usually in pita bread) with hummus, Israeli salad, french fries and spicy sauce; and second, it is my favorite food. I have discovered, however, a new way to eat schwarma. It is called laffa. Laffa is an Israeli burrito, but because it's been made for thousands of years, and invented by Israel, it becomes, automatically, better, more correct and simply tastier than a burrito (this is not a personal reflection, just the local attitude). Anyway, ordering schwarma on laffa makes you sound infinitely more Israeli. However, in my Nike workout shorts and Rainbow flip flops, I was not fooling anyone. The guy behind the counter asked "What do you want and where in America you from?" I ordered my schwarma and told him I'm from New Jersey. He then, of all questions, asked the following: "Do you know Jerusalem pizza? I used to work there. Me and my brother," pointing to the younger looking version of himself at the other end of the counter, "we come back here after some time. Is nice, New Jersey, but Israel, much more nicer." I couldn't believe my ears. I had traveled thousands of miles to meet someone who worked at a pizza restaurant ten minutes from my house?! What are the odds?
The remainder of the day was somewhat unremarkable. We made the potatoes without setting off any fire alarms or smoke detectors, they were the first dish to go at dinner, and then spent the remainder of the night on the beach in Bat Yam, absorbing Israeli culture at its finest (or something like that).
So, in summary, avoid Super Douches on Fridays, but do buy the laffa and ask exactly via which US locations its handler is coming from, and, when all else fails, hit the beach and avoid trouble. It sounds much less difficult than it actually is. Especially because telling a cab driver I would like a napkin does not get me back to my apartment.
Much love and pictures soon!
Elana
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