In spite of my complete lack of exercise and a diet consisting of chocolate and Ben and Jerry’s, I have been lucky to have always been in good health. On the (very) rare occasion that I need to leave my beige sofa, I enlist the help of Tidy Husband to heave-ho and hoist me up, and I am adamant that none of us need scales in the house, let alone mirrors.

However, I recently joined a new company, and they very kindly offered to pay for me to attend an all day health check. I wasn’t sure if this was because I was the oldest employee they had ever had or they had calculated that my food consumption in the office was higher than my colleagues when spying on me through some secret cameras, but as the day at the clinic included free breakfast and lunch, I decided to go.

I had no idea what to expect but was excited at the prospect of detailed, informative conversations about my aches and pains and why my teeth weren’t as white as I wanted them to be. I was called into the first examination room where a Russian nurse spoke to me in garbled Hebrew and, without warning, sprayed some sort of liquid in my eyes. She handed me a tissue and I stumbled back out into the (now very blurry) waiting area, knocking over a rather expensive looking plant on the way.

Clearly in need of assistance, I was approached by a young nurse who began to explain something about breakages not being included in the cost of the day and could she have the name of my boss. At least I think that’s what she said, because even after 8 years of living here in Israel, people still insist on talking to me in Hebrew, which I don’t speak.

I began to protest that I had been accosted and had some liquid sprayed in my eyes and I was only here for the free breakfast. She could see I was obviously very frail and in need of sustenance and I thought she would point me in the direction of the canteen. However, I deciphered through her use of hand signals that I was expected to have some blood tests first before I could partake in the buffet so I felt my way to another small room to have a variety of needles inserted in my veins.

So far, this was not the relaxing spa day I have envisaged it to be. Where was the sauna and steam room?

Once bloods were taken I was allowed to eat.  This was a place where they make money by telling you how sick you are, but weirdly they only had a selection of healthy foods. (missed out on an opportunity there). There were no pastries or pancakes. It certainly wasn’t an Israeli hotel buffet spread. Highly disappointed and only after an hour there, I decided to return for more tests.

Next, I had to be weighed. As I have no clue what I weigh, the revelation that I am a huge number of kilos in weight came as a surprise. Even though I am aware that I am somewhat overweight, I identify as a skinny, petite girl and ask others to see me that way too.

The next station was a stress test to check my heart. This involved some sort of movement on a treadmill wearing a ridiculous amount of monitors and wires. When asked my weight I declared proudly that I was ‘taysha’ kilos. The nurse appeared confused and gestured that I was a little on the large side to be ‘taysha’. At that point, I realised I had got my Hebrew numbers mucked up and had told her I was the weight of a small dog. I confessed my real weight (a good few kilos more than ‘taysha’) and we laughed all the way to the heart attack unit.

The final stop was the dermatologist. I am used to this test as you can play dot to dot on my body connecting all the moles I have and there are usually no new ones. So I was surprised when the doctor questioned some dark shapes on my butt cheeks.

It turned out they were the remains of my HRT patches.

I left, got on a plane and am now living a new life in New Zealand.

 

 

I can't speak Hebrew

After a year and a half in Israel – I have a confession to make….

I can’t speak Hebrew.

It’s mortifying. Every time a visitor arrives, their first words are ’How’s your Ivrit? You must be fluent by now’. And I stare at them. And I try to decide.

Should I lie? Should I reply ,‘Pah! Of course I am. I mean, only an IDIOT wouldn’t be able to speak Hebrew after A YEAR AND A HALF in Israel. Ho ho ho’. Or do I own up to the truth - that actually - I AM that idiot, and that, no, I’m not bloody fluent. I can just about say my name.

It’s a dilemma. I mean, they’re not going to test me, are they.  I can order a coffee in the coffee shop, and maybe a cake, and they’ll be none the wiser. I’m excellent at the ‘todah’ and ‘bevukasha’, and if a shop assistant asks me a question, I usually answer with - ‘ken’. It seems to work for the most part, but has got me into trouble a few times. I’ve ended up having to buy special offer items at the till that I really didn’t want. But it was too late to back out at that stage (and the half price hemorrhoid cream has actually come in rather useful).

But I’m likely to get caught out at some point. What if my guests need actual help with something? I could pretend I’m speaking Hebrew – again – they're not going to know any different – it all sounds vaguely plausible if you get the spitting in the right places - but, it’s a risk. What if they hurt themselves whilst here and it’s up to me to save their life? I don’t know how to say ‘Quick, this lady needs a Thoracic Aortic Dissection Repair. NOW’, in Hebrew. It’s a worry.

I’ve tried. I really have. I went to Ulpan every day for 5 months. I hardly missed a lesson. When my car broke down and I had no way of getting there – I walked. Yes, walked. Those of you who know me will realise what a huge deal that is.  I’m not a big one for walking. It’s not my thing.  I have been known to drive to my neighbour, two houses down.

I did all my homework. Studiously. I only used Google Translate when it was absolutely necessary – mostly at midnight, when I’d spent too much time catching up on Greys Anatomy.

I can tell you where I live (B Ra’ananna), and I can recite my telephone number and Identity Number with ease. With only a few pauses in the middle. Whilst my brain catches up. But anything else, I’m stuck.

I still try. Every day. I prepare what I want to say…I practice in my head a few times…I reach the shop assistant… I look them directly in the eye and state confidently what I require with a defiant nod of the head for emphasis. I’m euphoric. I’ve done it. I’ve conversed with an Israeli. I Am Fluent.

But they look at me sadly and reply in a perfect North West London Twang ‘Sorry love, couldn’t make out what you were saying. What was it you wanted? Hemorrhoid cream?’

God I miss Tesco

So a year and a half after making Aliyah – I have a confession to make…

I am not a huge fan of Israeli supermarkets.

It’s been a long time coming. At first, I loved them. I was amused by the surly cashier, looking at me blankly when I asked for help packing my shopping. How I laughed when all the items in my overflowing shopping trolley wouldn’t fit on either end of the conveyor belt (design fault anyone?). No shopping trolley to be found? Don’t worry, walk around the shop until you find someone else’s and nick it.

But now, I’ve had enough. Today was the day that broke my happy go lucky shopper attitude’s back.

For 25 years I pledged loyal commitment to my favourite place ever – Tesco.  I could never understand my friends who bought ‘a few things’ in Sainsbury’s and would ‘pop’ into Waitrose if they were on the Finchley Road. No, I was a Tesco girl through and through. But after making Aliyah, I have become a supermarket flirt.

Unable to commit to any of the local supermarkets due to their complete lack of care for whether I ever return to their shop, or indeed, whether I keel over and die there, I have flitted and fluttered around freely, trying each chain in turn, comparing prices (the price on the shelf is always different to the one you end up paying) and ‘service’ (‘MUH??’) and knowing, just knowing, that my Supermarket Prince is out there and soon, soon, he will reveal himself to me.

But he’s not. And he didn’t. And I'm sad. I’m alone and lost in a sea of crap Israeli supermarket chains.

Why are they so crap here? Why? Not one of them wants my custom. Not one of them gives a monkey’s whether I return next week or not.

They. Just. Don’t. Care.

As an overly polite and courteous shopper myself (‘No, no I’ll pack and take my 45 bags out to the car myself. I wouldn’t want to trouble you to do your actual job’), now, I am slowly, changing…….

Today, I dropped two bottles of beer on the floor. Huge loud smash. Totally my fault. All over the shop floor, all over the produce and most importantly, all over me, the customer, the ONE WHO IS ALWAYS RIGHT.  There was beer and broken glass everywhere.

In England, at my beloved Tesco, three assistants would rush to help me. ‘Are you alright Madam?’, ‘Let’s get you away from that nasty broken glass, shall we?’ ‘There, there love, cup of tea?’. Followed by the comforting tannoy announcement (‘Ye, Derek, spillage in aisle 3 please mate’) that tells you, the customer, that it’s OK and no, you don’t have to clear it up yourself.

I waited for the rush of attention. I waited. But, Nothing.

The smash could be heard in the next town and yet not one assistant in the relatively small shop moved a muscle. There was a lady stacking shelves three feet away from me. Impossible to miss the noise, or the broken glass that shot towards her feet and settled around her in a pleasing shiny pattern and no way could she ignore the smell of spilt beer around her vicinity.

But she didn’t even move.

Without the prospect of Derek from Tesco coming to clear the mess away, I certainly didn’t want to risk being asked to do it, so I made a quick escape to the crisp aisle, red-faced and sweating, frantically looking around to check for the spillage police to investigate my clumsy mess. I pretended to be frightfully interested in the ingredients of a packet of Doritos and nonchalantly passed off  my soaked t shirt and jeans and stench of stale beer as an unfortunate drinking problem.

I needn’t have worried. No one took any notice whatsoever of the lady covered in beer. No mops were brought out, no worried health and safety official rushed over with a clipboard to assess the risk of broken glass to other customers, no one seemed aware that I was slinking warily through the shop, followed by the waft of beer.

I finished my shop and left. As I did, I caught a sly glance at the drinks aisle on my way out.

The broken glass and spilt beer was still there as it had fallen. Not one of the assistants had made any attempt to clear it up for the benefit of other customers..

And I realized. They. Just. Don’t. Care.

And so I have decided, in the future. Neither. Will. I.