There I was at the bank, when suddenly, one of the employees appeared, talking at me in rapid-fire Hebrew.
It seems she recognized my name displayed on the computer of the banker helping me as she very innocently made her way back to her schmooze corner, I mean, desk, and it was a good thing she did because it turns out she had tried calling me that very morning! Why did I not pick up?
I blinked. This is my new tactic when I don’t understand all of the Hebrew.
Well, let me qualify that. I’m not into cars. I don’t particularly like to drive them and I never liked to ride in them. In fact, I’m the world’s worst passenger on account of a certain vomiting problem.
But it’s like I’ve opened my four eyes for the first time and noticed that Jerusalem is chock-full of the cutest little cars I’ve ever seen. Or maybe it’s that the country suddenly erupted in adorable specimens of motor vehicles.
Since I was running late to meet someone in the Old City, a place perpetually bewitching and confusing to me, it was worth my shelling out the extra moola to have a driver take me as close as possible to my destination without actually hitting the Western Wall.
Which is sadly kind of possible, considering they let cars drive in alleyways there that are barely big enough for a mule. A very skinny mule.
It was date-night Saturday night and we were set to spend a rockin’ evening in Rosh Pina.
We even had a car.
Which is another way of saying, when one is visiting relatives in the Galilee, which, however beautiful and verdant, is nonetheless no Tel Aviv, why not hop, skip and jump it over to what was once one of Israel’s oldest Zionist agricultural communities and hang with one’s fellow senior citizens at the Cinematheque?