Posts From Jerusalem

When Bureaucracy Works

Much depends on where the world thinks you are--officially, that is.

When Arlene and I left Israel last April 30, the official world had our address as Lincoln, 12A, apt 8. And that's where they thought we were through the long summer and as we arrived back on September 6, regardless that we were not there.  So, high on our 'to do' list were trips to the Ministries of Interior and Absorption, to our bank, and to our medical provider Maccabi.  If these people didn't know that our new home was at Rachel Imeinu, 10, apt 5, the furies of confusion could rain down unimaginable torments upon us.

Of course, we weren't actually living there yet.  We staying with David and his family in Efrat.  The hour-and-a-quarter trip in to the big city involved a bus from Efrat to the Malka Mall in western Jerusalem (about $1.50 each) and then a city bus (69 cents each) to our apartment in the German Colony, or another 10 minutes beyond that to the downtown area where the ministries and bank were located.  The Efrat bus schedule was not wonderful (about every hour or 1-1/2 hours during the day and early evening) but feasible.  The major city buses came every 10-15 minutes.

So, in we went, armed with our teudot (ID cards), passports, original temporary ID card, and our new cell phone numbers (on paper because we had not yet memorized them).  With time on hour hands and some sense of Israeli bureaucracy, we expected, with the patience of well-trained cows, to spend the next two or three days trying to input our new data.

The first, and probably toughest nut to crack was Interior, the infamous scene nearly a year ago of three-plus hours of nightmare antics that generated no pride for either us or that ministry.  We knew the drill:  get there early, get your number to the correct desk, and wait.  By 9:35 we were sitting in the main waiting room with slip #152 in our hands, ready for desk #1 (which specialized in changes of address).  (Right!)

The fourteen numbers ahead of us were dealt with systematically.   A scant 25 minutes later we were seated at desk #1, pouring our documents before a smiling clerk (yes, smiling!).  The passports turned out to be superfluous, but no matter.  She scanned my old information, consulted her computer monitor, asked for the new data, typed it in.  I was careful to point out that we were not yet living at this new address, and where we were staying.  I don't remember how she handled this, but there was no concern or auxiliary document to fill our, and she still had that pleasant look.  Then Arlene's change was entered.

Suddenly, after a mere 5 or so minutes, we were getting up from the desk, feeling, well, as if something had been omitted.  I was almost expecting her to send us to the next desk in this procedure--for new finger prints, or something.  But, in fact, we had done it!  In less than 40 minutes, we were in and out of Interior!

There was jauntiness in our steps on our ten-minute walk to the Ministry of Absorption.  True, Absorption had been the nicest to us last year of all our dealings with officialdom, but we knew it would be foolish to get cocky this early in the day.

Inside, we told the receptionist what we wanted to do.  With a smile (everyone was smiling!  What's wrong with this picture?), she informed us that all she had to do was enter our new address and phone numbers into her computer.  And she did.  And, in less than five minutes, were out on the pavement again, trying not to feel too euphoric.

Still, we rewarded ourselves with lunch at Cafe Hillel (with the best croissants in town).

The next logical stop would have been nearby Bank Leumi, but we had been able to change our address with them over the phone.  So, off we went on the  half-mile walk up and down to Maccabi, our health provider, at the Wolfson building. Once again, the receptionist simply entered our new data into their system.   While there, Arlene had to sign up with a rheumatologist.   And (medical marvel), he was available to see her in an hour and a half!  So we waited.  Dr. Amar turned out to be the coldest fish she had ever encountered, but she was on board.

The last stop at our other bank (long story) found it closed at that late hour.   That still left us elated with a 5 our of 6 day.  Bureaucratically speaking, that is like beating Tiger Woods by 10 strokes!  Oh, yes, you will mutter that changing an address SHOULD be simple.  But, oh what a relief it is when it IS simple!  With a doctor visit thrown in as icing on our cake! 

The bus rides back to Efrat were very pleasant.

Off to Jerusalem

Shalom from sunny Israel, and Shena Tova, Happy New Year, and all those good things.Arlene and I are back, we are well, and (with any luck at all) our apartment should be finished by the end of September.  Yes, you do remember correctly:  the target date had been September 15.  But language is an imperfect tool, and contracts can be really humorous documents, especially in Hebrew.

But I get ahead of myself.  This post should have begun, "Never again!" --from Newark International Airport, that is.

The whole tension-filled boondoggle was actually a series of miscalculations on our part.

This series began last spring, as we scheduled our April 30 flight to the states and the 9/5 return to Israel;  we tried to avoid an evening or red-eye time because Arlene cannot sleep on a plane.  So, we opted for the 2:30pm from Newark (none from JFK).  And, since the shuttle limos from Connecticut did not go to Newark, we rented a small SUV to hold us, 2 dogs, their crates, and suitcases--a ponderous lot that just did fit.

But the flight itself was not the first real problem.  The rental SUV was fine, the traffic not all that bad, but we were amazed at how much longer the trip to Newark was compared to hour-and-a-half romp to JFK.  Instead of the planned 11:30 arrival at the Budget return area, we cruised in at 12:35.  But the return procedure was brief and there was still plenty of time.

Then, little things became mountainous impediments.  Getting two luggage trolleys took more than  10 ridiculous minutes.  The short walk to what looked like a shuttle bus stop revealed that there was no bus;  over our heads (a guard pointed out) was a shiny new light rail system to whisk us quickly to terminal B where El Al would be waiting.... You get the idea.

Again, the little details.  The escalator was out of the question, and the small elevator was a cruel joke.  Ingenuity prevailed and we crammed everything into the car.  At the platform level, it was a race with the doors to get us, dogs, and things out.  We lost.  One trolley with toppled luggage on the floor remained.  Calling on my experience with hundreds of elevator and subway doors, I tried to push it open--and succeeded only in jamming the doors off their tracks!

An airport attendant came by, tried the doors, and phoned for a repair person.  ten or fifteen very long minutes later, he arrived;  in another ten endless minutes, he had the doors working.

With the freed trolley and the rest, we waited more endless minutes for the next train (dozens, it seemed, had come and gone during the previous waits!).  It came and we took up most of a smallish compartment.  Four long stops later, we got off at the long-sought Terminal B, only to discover that we were on level 3, while the check ins were on level 4.  We were down to about 45 minutes, as we got into a normal-sized elevator.  But it had a mind of its own and took us down to level 1, where several other overloaded travelers tried to get on.  It was unduly warm in there as we carefully stopped at every level and left other travelers unable to get in.  Eventually, we got to our level 4 and raced (!) half the length of the floor to El Al.

While we suffered in the elevator, a scene played out in my mind, based on those long waits by the gate for the cattle call that would herd us aboard a plane.  On occasion we'd hear the PA boom out:

"Passenger Metcalf.  Passenger Lowell Metcalf, on Arugula Air flight 27. Please report to gate 15 immediately.  Your plane is ready to take off."

Then smiles blossomed among us as we heard a more peremptory summons.  And, once, amid our giggles, poor passenger Metcalf was given one final call.

But I was not amused now, as I was fast becoming the latest passenger Metcalf!

Like manna from above, the check in crew were magnificent, unperturbed by the scant time remaining, dogs that had to be paid for and weighed, and crates that had to be assembled.  They simply proceeded, calm, smiling, and helpful.

Much lighter, we set off on the mile trek to gate 62.  There was a line at the security check, but not very long.  Then they decided to open our rolling carry-on.  Those two large plastic bottles of shampoo and conditioner, the ones that should have been packed in a check-in bag....were confiscated, along with Arlene's miniature knife (part of her Swiss Army credit card-sized utility kit).

But, we got it all together  (suitcase, belts, shoes, etc.) and made it to gate 62 with a solid 8 minutes to spare--and 3 other dawdlers behind us!!!  The one big consolation, aside from the relief of just being on board, was that there had been no summons over the PA.

And the flight?  Very routine:  Arlene could not sleep.  However, dinner and breakfast were rather good!

We arrived, I a little groggy, Arlene a little wiped out, and the dogs boundingly happy and fresh-faced!  David met us with his trusty Peugeot looking very much as he had when we saw him off a week earlier.  And the desert sun felt good.