I have a confession to make……
I don’t know how to get petrol.
I thought I was quite intelligent. Until I made
Aliyah, I acted a bit like an
adult. I could buy what I needed, make
myself understood in Starbucks and mostly
get to school on time to pick up the kids. (Very occasionally I fell asleep on the
sofa, after overdosing on Netflix).
But since making Aliyah there are things I can’t
accomplish alone. The most annoying being I can’t work out how to fill my car up
with petrol.
When I lived in England, I could do this. It took
place when I did my weekly shop at my beloved Tesco. There was a petrol station
right there. (So clever, those Tesco bods).
I moved seamlessly from shop car park to adjacent petrol garage
forecourt to do the deed.
It was easy and at some point, it was made even
easier, when one of those clever Tesco bods invented the ‘Pay At Pump’ option.
What. A. Joy. Credit card inserted, petrol pumped and Tesco Clubcard Points to
boot. No more trudging through the wind and rain (this was England) to the
kiosk to pay, or more importantly, being faced with the temptation of that 'extra large snickers bar, four packets of crisps and fizzy drink combo' in the shop.
Although there were plenty of petrol stations in
the UK, my car wasn’t always full. I
never quite got the hang of that ‘fill your car up before it runs
out’ thing. I always thought the petrol gauge was lying.
So I had my fair share of waiting for the AA man
to bring me my green watering can containing £5 of petrol ‘to get you on yer’
way luv'’. I may have had a few smiley telling offs - ‘that was a silly thing to do wern’
it darlin’, you won’t be doin’ that again, will yer’?’ Ho ho ho.
But of course, I would be doing it again. And again. Culminating
in being stranded one snowy night with my sister, Mum and Mum-in-law on the
hard shoulder of the M11. Whilst waiting for said AA man to save us, we huddled
together under a single silver foil blanket singing Barry Manilow songs. (We’d
just been to see Barry in concert at the O2. And yes, his face did look really
weird).
So though I didn’t always do it in a timely
manner, I knew I could do it when required.
But, here in Israel, I can’t.
Everyone else seems to manage it. I see people
driving around all over the place. But so far I’ve only figured out two options;
1. Ask the smiling petrol attendant (often called Yossi) to do it for
you.
2. Do it yourself.
Up until recently, I didn’t even know
there was a number 2 (The weird 'do it yourself' option). I honestly believed I had
found my petrol station Utopia. I was blown away by the Israeli improvement on
Tesco’s ‘Pay at Pump’ option, (which to be fair, I thought was beyond improvement).
All I had to do was drive up to my pump of choice, smile graciously at Yossi,
(as mentioned before, I have always been an overly courteous and appreciative
customer), and boldly state ‘Ma-leh Be-vu-ka-sha’. (translation: ‘fill ‘er up
please guv’nor’).
And the best bit ……you don’t even get out of
your car !! Your bum stays firmly in position. You open your window
the tiniest crack to prevent your beautifully cool, air conditioned air, from
escaping, you waggle your credit card through the crack at Yossi for payment
and away you go.
Amazing or what?
So what’s the problem?
Well. The problem arises when Yossi isn’t there.
Maybe he’s on a falafel break, or a fag break, or more than likely, in the
middle of a loud and furious argument with three other customers all at the same time, all of whom are
as stumped as me as how to get their flippin’ petrol, and have decided to
completely block my entrance to the special ‘Get Yossi to do it for you’ pump
lanes.
So now I have to go to one of the
scary ‘Get yer' own petrol luv’- we’re
havin' a fag break’ pumps. That I have never ventured near before.
I know that before you can get pumping, you need
to remove the nozzle. And I know you have to put the nozzle in the petrol hole thing
in your car. (I’m not a complete
idiot). But in Israel there are a whole series of numbers that need to be input
into the frightening huge pump dispenser thing, before the petrol is released. Apparently
the numbers include your ID number and your car registration, both of which I
actually know. (Well, I don’t actually know my car registration, but again, I
don’t want you thinking I’m a complete
idiot).
But these numbers need to be input in the right
order. Exactly after the scary machine asks you (in bloody Hebrew). And you
need to insert your credit card at some point. Perhaps, even twice. And then press
a few more random buttons frantically. And there appears to be a knack to this.
Which I haven’t got.
I search for Yossi. But Yossi is oblivious to my
distress. He looks directly at me, sees I’m having difficulty, clocks the
sweaty, middle-aged woman playing tug-of-war with the pump…....and looks away.
I try to grab his attention, I wave manically,
managing to squeak ‘Slich-ah be-va-ka-sha… ’ before my Hebrew runs
out. He finally notices the red-faced, panic-stricken middle-aged
lady (that’s me). He saunters over, casual like, looks me up and down with
disdain whilst I attempt clumsily to wipe the (now pouring) sweat from my face, and says loudly
‘MUH?’
But. He’s there. Once he’s there, it’s plain
sailing. He suavely inputs the magic numbers, his fingers release the nozzle
and the fluid finally flows……(sorry, got a bit carried away there).
With Yossi – it’s Utopia.
Without, I face a future of being stranded on an
Israeli highway, awaiting the Israeli equivalent of the AA man, bringing me my green
watering can with 50 shekels of petrol.
Not appealing.
But I suppose at least I can be grateful that this time I
won't be shivering under a silver foil blanket, on the M11, singing Cococabana.
