Izzy's Page: The Incognito Tourist: Assertiveness Training in Israel, Part 1 of 4

The Incognito Tourist:

Assertiveness Training in Israel

Installment One

Travelling is not just about site-seeing or learning about the country. It’s about experiencing the country—experiencing life through native eyes. When I travel to other countries, I become an inhabitant and fit right into the foreign culture. My secrets are simple: Before I go I learn to say “hello,” “thank you,” and “please” in the native language; I use a regular bag and not a backpack; I never wear sneakers ( I conceal the inevitable blisters); and I never ask directions unless I have been wandering aimlessly for at least an hour.

However, on a recent two-week trip to Israel with my daughter Hannah, it took us a bit more than usual to grasp the Golden Rule:

The Hebrew word for “excuse me” is “s’leechah” (guttural “ch”). NEVER EVER USE IT!

Even the softest utterance of this platitude invites abject humiliation and blatant scorn.

We flew to Tel Aviv where my niece Marissa has been living for the year. Several days later her mother, Marian, would join us.

Tel Aviv is a fun, sea side city that is on the cusp of civilization. The beaches on the Mediterranean are gorgeous. The ubiquitous cafes are unique, their fare delicious; the architecture is eclectic and cutting edge; and the night life is said to be smashing. I am sure that the fashion is sure to catch up some time in the near future.

Once we learned the Golden Rule, it didn’t take long to understand the ins and outs of this complex culture:

Every Question is Dumb

--On the first morning of our stay, the hotel receptionist put a quick stop to my questions about the locations of various sites, tourist information offices and places to exchange my dollars into sheckles. Although I was obviously in a jet-lagged, nonfunctional haze, he cleverly deflected my questions by appraising me of the facts that 1, it is not hard to navigate a map; and 2, there was a tourist info office close by that could answer my questions. (Said map was one of those that hotels give out that are missing three quarters of the city streets.) (Said tourist office was simply a tourist bookstore with personnel who had no clue about traveling in Israel.)

--This lesson was solidified in Jerusalem, on the morning of my daughter’s beautiful Bat Mitzvah. Jerusalem, of course, is as magical and wondrous as one might imagine from a glance at the Bible. It was a great privilege for us to have my daughter Bat Mitzvahed there. We did everything we could to make it happen—through a network of generous people starting with our friend Adam.

The night before the Bat Mitzvah, the rabbi had told me to bring sweet wine and a sweet to the ceremony, which was first thing the next morning. We got up extra early the next morning so we had plenty of time to get to the store. Up until that point, some of the people working in the grocery stores did not speak English. So in Jerusalem that morning, I thought I’d save us some time by stopping by the receptionist’s desk on the way to the store. I asked the receptionist how to say “sweet wine” in Hebrew. What a faux pas! Instead of answering my question, the receptionist replied that I didn’t need to know it because in that well-touristed area, all the store owners know English. Still, I persisted. Still the guy didn’t tell me what I wanted to know. After a brief impasse, his colleague confirmed that I didn’t need to know how to speak Hebrew at the store. Minutes later, we were at the store, playing a hearty round of charades with the store owner. Why? Because he didn’t speak English.

The Mediterranean Coast in Tel Aviv

Bar Mitzvah in Jerusalem

Contention as a Way of Life

--One day while we were in Tel Aviv, we went to a bank to exchange dollars for sheckels. I was fourth in the bank-teller line directly behind an elderly woman who was vehemently arguing with a young man standing at the teller’s window. With much animation and gesticulation, they argued back and forth—then it got a little more intense and the two started yelling at each other, of course in Hebrew.

In between swipes, the old woman would turn back to me to exchange pleasantries in English. It went like this: I am behind the woman, we’re both facing forward. She yells at the guy in Hebrew, he yells back in Hebrew, she turns to me, and in perfectly civilized English, asks me how long I have been in Israel. Lest he forget she was angry, she turns back to the man, yells some more; he yells back, she turns to me and sweetly asks, “Where are you visiting while you’re here?” After a few more rounds, I finally asked her what the argument was about. She explained to me that the guy was slowing down the line by doing a huge time-consuming transaction that should not be done at a teller’s window. He was so guilt-ridden, she explained, that he felt the need to tell her the reason he took such a long transaction to the bank teller. (I guess the need to get it all off of his back was so strong that he screamed it. )

Of course, not all was so bad. I showed her my map and asked her for directions. She wasn’t sure, but the guy in back of me gave me directions in perfect English. I am confident that the Israelis were as impressed with my English as I was with theirs. After all, they thought I was Israeli too!

Let me set the context for the part of our assertiveness training. There is no place in Israel that is devoid of fascinating history and rich culture. One day we rented a car and went up north of the Sea of Galilee, almost all the way to the border of Syria.

First, we went to a park north of the Sea of Galilee, near the Syrian border. We visited historic sites from 3,00 BC to 1967. Part of a small waterway ran through the park—In 1967 Six Day War Syria attached Israel for control of this tiny water source. (The Syrians lost and Israel pushed the Syrian border back, part of which was given back in the next war as part of negoti.ations.) As we walked among ruins from 1200 BC, we saw the old and the new Syrian border. Then we then drove to another historical site nearby -- ruins of Israel’s oldest middle-aged fort, the Nimrod Castle.

--At the entrance to Nimrod’s Castle, the security guard refused to sell us a youth or student ticket for 15-year-old Hannah because we had no proof of her age. Marissa was valiantly steadfast; she would not change her argument, which relied on the obvious. Hannah looks her age—or certainly younger than 18. But the ticket agent was a formidable opponent. He did not even let anything distract him--including the honking of the cars behind us, waiting to enter the Castle. In the end, the security gardy could not overcome the obvious, and we bought Hannah a youth ticket.

--Nimrod’s castle was wonderful. Dating back to the 1300’s, it was relatively young. It was really cool because there were a few new additions over the years, and it was used as a fortress right on up to the 1967 War, when the Israelis pushed back the Syrian border (as we saw in the other park). There was even a romantic tale to be told--very recently a tourist found a note in a bottle that was left by French soldiers, commissioned to stand guard during WWI. The note listed the members of the battalion and granted its finder ownership of it.

--At some point, Hannah, Marissa and Marian had gone off into another part of the castle; and I was alone reading a plaque with a historical explanation. I could hear the frolicking of child and his family nearby. The father broke off from the group and approached the plaque. Apparently the high winds that day must have swept some sand in his eyes. He must not have noticed that there was no one else in sight besides me. He came right over to the plaque and stood a few feet directly in front of me, and began to read.

That was my chance—the incognito tourist was ready to go Israeli and chastise this guy for intentionally blocking my view. Since I didn’t know much Hebrew, I gave the guy’s back a sour, dirty look raised my arms towards him in exasperation. By then the wife had caught up and she saw me do that. She grabbed his arm and then uttered the forbidden—“s’leechah.”

What a moment!!! I WON! What an amazing moment: a respectable exchange between Israelis!

Well….almost. My triumph didn’t last long. Of course the husband did not move out of the way. He yelled at his wife, turned around and scornfully looked at me, turned back to his wife, argued with her some more, turned around looked me up and down, and then gave me a look that almost shrunk me down to inches. But then he did step aside. I had already finished reading the sign, but I was righteous. I stayed a little bit longer to make a point.

(No doubt the husband must have told the wife I could move if I needed to, but I stood my ground.)