I’ve officially lived in Israel for over a month, but this is my first post. Why?
Well, besides the fact that Wix glitched and didn’t save a blog post I drafted at 5am during Quarantine (thanks, Wix), I’ve been feeling burnt out.
Burn out isn’t something travel writers often talk about. We’re supposed to post daily, even hourly, about pristine beaches and our “discoveries” of customs that have actually existed for centuries. We’re supposed to make it seem like every moment of travel is incredible.
But that’s not the truth. We get tired, we struggle with language barriers, we feel lonely in new lands where we know no one, our phones and credit cards stop working. In some cases, the baggage comes from what we’ve left behind. And, at least in my case, the time difference between my old home and new home is so vast that I only have a couple of windows per week – Saturday and Sunday nights – to catch up with family and old friends. I never thought that I’d crave a Zoom call. But I do.
There are all kinds of adjustments. In Israel specifically, I’ve had to get used to:
Hanging my clothes to dry because dryers aren’t the norm here. Often, my clothes won’t completely dry by sunset, and I end up hanging clothes in random corners of my room as well.
A largely cash-only economy. Or as a taxi driver explained to me after I asked to pay with a credit card: “You’re not in America. You’re in the Middle East.”
Not everyone speaking English. We take for granted that English has become the universal language for the upper classes in countries across the world. But everything from calling a Gett (Israel’s equivalent to Uber) to ordering a cup of tea has required a combination of Google Translate and pantomime.
Everything shutting down on holidays and Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath. Across the country, public transportation shuts down. In Jerusalem especially, you’re unlikely to find open grocery stores or pharmacies. A handful of restaurants will be open. On Yom Kippur, you can walk in the middle of the street during rush hour as there are almost no cars.
I’ve also had to get used to another idea, one that goes against my American upbringing: Instead of money being central to a functioning society, here, money is treated more like a game that people are willing to sometimes lose.
Remember how I mentioned issues with credit cards when moving abroad? There have been multiple instances in which my card was declined or I didn’t have enough cash.
The first time it happened was at the shuk in Jerusalem. I had just collected a bag of vegetables and handed my card to the man running the stand. He tried inserting the card, swiping it, tapping it. It was no good. I felt myself start to sweat.
And then, to my surprise, he pushes the bag of vegetables into my hands and says, “Take it.”
Dumbfounded, I offer to run to the ATM or leave the produce behind. He won’t accept it. He tells me I can pay him back next week. He has no way of knowing if I’ll return (I did).
I was sure it was a fluke. But it happened again when I went to pick up take out and my card was, once again, declined. I was preparing to be screamed at, to be banned from the establishment.
“It’s fine,” they told me, and asked me to take the food. They barely looked up when I raced back with cash to pay.
And then again, when I tried to use my card in a cash-only falafel place in Tel Aviv. The man barely spoke English, and I barely spoke Hebrew. But kindness doesn’t require a mutual language. He wanted me to take the sandwich without paying.
I couldn’t believe it. I mentioned my experiences to a friend who’d grown up in Israel. Surely, I’d just kept meeting nice people. His response?
“Are you telling me they wouldn’t do this in America?” he was genuinely horrified.
That was it right there. I’m living in a country where money came second to making sure your neighbors didn’t go hungry. Unsettlingly, I will admit that it was one of the first times as an adult that I realized the value my life held wasn’t based on the money in my pocket.
In America, safety nets are rare. No one will stop you if you fall. Having to climb up that hill, all day, every day, with no support, toiling your hours away at jobs where you barely make enough to live and have to worry at any moment about being fired or replaced is exhausting. Yes, it burns you out.
This isn't America, after all. It's the Middle East.
So I ask you: If you weren’t afraid to fail, how would you actually view money?
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