The Grapes of Wrath and other Hangovers

It was once claimed that there was one pub for every ten Englishmen. Obviously the source of this claim was in the pub at the time. There is actually 1 pub for every 820 UK residents who are legally able to drink.

Pub culture is England.

Every soap opera is focused around a pub. Every village and small town centers its life around the pub. Like the Eskimos have countless names for snow, the English have countless names for the pub depending on its menu and services; local, inn, ale house, boozer, tavern and hostelry. And like snow for Eskimos, pubs are an integral part of UK life, culture and where you live. The pub is forever England and England is forever in the pub as Hillaire Belloc said so succinctly "When you have lost your inns drown your empty selves, for you will have lost the last of England!"

We are a nation of drinkers and not just beer, whisky but wine too, as W C Fields put it "what contemptible scoundrel stole the cork from my lunch?"

On Friday I realised I had run out of wine so I decided on a expedition to the local wine shop. It’s actually a nice place and reminds me of my local 'offy' that is an Off Licence shop or a shop in England registered to sell alcohol to be consumed off the premises, 'Offy' for short. Wood panelled and reeking of wine, you get drunk just breathing in (by the way the English have more words for getting drunk than they do for pubs).

The shop assistant staggered over to me; glass in one hand, the other holding on to the shelves of wine.

"Yesh sir, my names Yitz, have you been here before, how can I help yoooo?"

"I'm sorry can you repeat that?" This guy was flammable. He had obviously been drinking since the shop opened.

"I would like 6 bottles of Golan merlot and six Golan semi dry white, please."

"Ha ha ha ha ha, thash really funnily, cos the lasht man alsho wanted that."

"Can I have it too?" This was going to be a very long shopping trip. He walked - actually staggered - back to his desk, took another swig of red wine and then walked to the back of the shop.

"What did you want again?" he called.

I walked to the back of the shop. "I would like 6 bottles of Golan merlot and six Golan semi dry white, please".

"OK, so I need to find the red wine and then the white wine, mmmm, now where is the wine?"

"Yitz, do you need help, I mean it might be quicker".

"No, no, I'm fine just wait here."

I found the wine I wanted while my drunk assistant started chatting up some savta, telling her that with surgery she would look fantastic. The other patrons of the shop shuffled nervously past him.

I managed to get all my bottles to the front of the shop and placed them on the counter.

"Yes sir, how can I help you?"

"I want to pay for these bottles please."

"What bottles?"

"The ones here on the counter, the six red and six white."

"Oh those ones, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, didn't notice them,” he chuckled and took a swig from a bottle of white fizzy stuff.

"You Israelis really cant take you drink can you," I challenged him, as he was struggling to find the keys on the cash register.

"We can, I have had two glasses already, and Yitz at the back has had a least one maybe two full glasses too."

He managed to swipe my card and finish the transaction.

"Can I have a box for the bottles?"

For fifteen minutes he struggled to construct a cardboard box for my wine. I wished I had a cam to film him; it was great entertainment, especially the car hooting in the background, until I remembered I had left the family in the car, which sobered me up.

Boxes made and wine safely stowed in the car, I ran back in to get another flat box just in case.

As I walked in a familiar smell overpowered me and Yitz came over, arms out for a big hug.

"Yesh sir, my name's Yitz, have you been here before, how can I help yoooo?"

The Carousel of life

Godzilla eyed me suspiciously as I waited by the luggage carousel in Ben Gurion's Terminal 1 arrivals halls. After a few days in Eilat, I was relaxed and contented, but in an instant that changed. The kids were tired, our luggage was bound by the laws of Sod (or Murphy) to be last and to make matters worse I had Godzilla standing next to me, arms out by her side to make sure no one encroached on her four meter fly zone. She had marked her territory and although you could have parked 3 trolleys next to her, no one dared.

Godzilla, stood, dragon-eyed by the luggage carousel wearing a large green poncho, flared green trousers and a red T-shirt. Oh, and she had a green and red hair band. She was, in the opinion of this beholder, ugly as sin, scary as Freddy Kruger and she frankly unnerved everybody within a very wide radius. I decided that as the hall was packed it would be my duty on behalf of the other Arkia and Israair customers to ask her if she wouldn't mind moving a few centimeters so I could get closer (on a temporary basis) to grab my luggage.

Godzilla threw me a look even before I approached her. I know her don't I? I asked myself. New tactic, I thought. My youngest was struggling to break free of the constraints of her stroller, gnawing on the straps and struggling like a fish caught on dry land (thank you Sting). Idea number two; the best way to clear a supermarket line, government office or doctor's waiting room is to parade around with an overtired screaming kid. Not even Godzilla would be able to stand that.

Godzilla flashed her a look that Medusa would have been proud of, and the screaming stopped. Bloody marvelous, I thought. I turned to my wife and she laughed, "maybe we should offer her a job", she called. Godzilla stared at her, and my wife fell silent. "I think she just passed the interview", I laughed back. My wife flashed me a stare and I shut up. Whose turn was it to stare and laugh, I was confused.

Godzilla was getting as impatient as we were. The other two kids were causing havoc claiming boredom and hunger. Tempers were fraying. Godzilla started rocking from one foot to the other. Now with my kids that’s a sure sign of a full bladder and bathroom trip. Maybe she would have to leave her spot and I would have a front row poll position. She continued to rock. Oh go already, I thought, or I thought I thought, but I didn’t think - I said. Another black look. "I was talking to my kids" I said, sheepishly smiling, cheeks as red as Godzilla's shirt.

Godzilla was feeling the strain. I knew she would have to leave. Now I had hope. Hope of seeing my bags emerge from between the plastic stripped curtains and not have to wait until I saw them go past over Godzilla’s shoulder. I was excited. I could see Godzilla was struggling. I called for extra ammunition. A bottle of water was passed to me. My youngest could be trusted to the do the rest. I waited for her to spill the water, but for the first time in her short history she drank from the bottle and didn’t spill a drop. The luggage continued its journey around the carousel towards us.

Godzilla stopped rocking. Two reasons I thought, I hoped the second reason, that I was wrong about her needs, was correct. The cases continued coming. Then I saw a case and I had renewed hope and vigor. A green case with a red sash. Must be the mythical, fire-breathing, Japanese dragons. The case came nearer. I could feel myself standing in her (hopefully dry) spot. She began to rock again, she's getting ready for what I term 'the holiday's finally over' syndrome. That feeling, when you heave your case off the carousel and you realize that finally you are going home and the holiday is truly over. It’s a long lonely walk to exit. But before she could grab her case someone else did. She looked at me, smug and satisfied, she knew what I was thinking and that I was wrong and she was staying.

Godzilla, rock solid up until this point, started talking to herself and then she started cursing and then she started talking very animatedly to the guy next to her who pointed to the electronic information board, and then she started backing away from the carousel. But it all happened to quickly. Godzilla had been standing all this time at the wrong carousel, as she backed away I had to move further back and Darth Vader moved into her spot before I had little time to awaken my lightening reflexes. I cursed, my wife cursed, my youngest then started crying and the kids continued their moaning and complaining.

Godzilla had left the hall, Darth Vader walked off with his massive suitcase, wheezing into the night. Our luggage still hadn’t arrived. The hall was emptying out. The kids had long since been bribed with ten million packets of overpriced Bamba and chips, bumping off the walls as the E numbers took their toll. I was on my fourth coffee, tongue burnt to a cinder, and my wife had resigned herself to sitting on the trolley. Our youngest was asleep. Then the carousel stopped and our bags still hadn't appeared. Dejected, tired, emotionally and physically worn out, and really, really angry, I turned to walk to customer services. At least, I thought, I'll get some decent compensation. And then I saw a green poncho glide across the hall to the exit.

Godzilla heaved her case out of the hall. It suddenly occurred to me that there were so many flights from Eilat maybe just maybe..................Whatever Godzilla had mumbled to herself, cursed out load and shouted to her neighbors around the carousel was nothing to what I shouted as I realized that I did know her. She was on my flight. I rechecked the electronic information board, and then checked my ticket. I had been standing waiting for 81 and my tickets last numbers were 18.

Godzilla turned and saw me schlepping my cases off the stationary carousel, her gaze met mine and she smiled. I smiled back. She wasn't so frightening after all. My wife noticed us and put two and two together. She smiled. "She's definitely hired", I called to my wife. Well a three second smile is better than none at all.

Of Koalas and Men

Fat, lazy and smelly. That’s how I would describe him. Gangaroo near Bet Shean is always a good day out (and good drive as well). My kids like the Koalas, but I don’t. Maybe I am jealous that they get to sleep 23 hours a day, but I wont let on, instead I tell my kids that they are fat, lazy and smelly. My wife growls at me for being a grumpy old man, little does she know that we all want to be a Koala once in a while (except for the Eucalyptus leaf diet).

My daughter told me once she wants to be an Arab. I warily asked why, knowing that a child’s use of logic, however innocent could be very damaging. She told me that whenever we see Arabs they are sitting down, either by the road selling fruit, waiting for lifts, on a break from working on the road or just generally laying about. She thought that was a good life. I explained to her that there were Arab doctors and lawyers and in fact Arabs worked in all walks of life.

That seemed to satisfy her. She wasn’t going to be an Arab. On a visit to Gangaroo she concurred with me that apart from the smell a Koalas life was pretty laid back and satisfying so maybe she would be a Koala.

“What’s better”, she asked, “a Koala or an Arab”.

“You can’t really compare”, I answered. “It’s like comparing apples with oranges. You need to try and compare apples with apples. You could ask what’s better being a Koala or a Kangaroo or you could ask what’s better being Arab or Chinese.”

“Ok,” she said, “what’s better being an Apple or an Arab.”

I looked skyward for some help. “OK,” I said mustering all my patience, “you can compare people with other people, fruit with fruit and animals with animals”.

“Look,” she said mustering all her patience, “Some Arabs are lazy, Koalas are lazy and apples really do nothing all day.”
“Yes,” I replied, “and some Jews are lazy too. You have to be a bit more specific.” Ok so the word specific was lost on her but I think she understood.

In her mixed up little world, where everything is black and white, there are very specific categories. I needed to find a way of explaining to her better.

On the crocodile farm in Chamat Gader, we carried on the conversation. “Those crocodiles lie about all day but as soon as they are hungry they jump to life and are very fast at getting food. Are they lazy?”

“No,” she said, “they spend a lot of time waiting for their breakfast, lunch and supper.”

“So there you go then. Arabs that you see are not lazy, they are waiting for someone to buy there fruit, or to carry on working or just waiting for a friend.”

“So what you mean Abba, is that Arabs are like crocodiles.”
OK things were getting out of control.

“Ok, some people are like Koalas, some are like crocodiles and some are like kangaroos, but it doesn’t matter if you are Jew or Arab, everybody is different.”

“I see,” she said, nodding her head in contemplation, “but who are the apples?”

La salle de bains

The English have a long and well-documented love affair with the French. OK not so much love as mutual understanding. Actually, who am I fooling, it's been a disaster.

From the day William the Conqueror waltzed into London and said "I am you're new King and everyone has to eat frogs legs and soufflé", it's been downhill. Especially as most of Northern France was once part of England. Didn't know that, eh? Well read you're history books. Then came Waterloo, Trafalgar and many other battles, but we kicked their behinds every time. In fact the Brits have never lost a significant battle since. They have always bounced back. Today the wars take on different personas; instead of soldiers we have diplomats and French lorry drivers that burn sheep.

And no more has the French-English been felt than in our land:
This royal throne of Kings, this sort of sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Olmert,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by hi-tech for herself
Against infection and the hand of war?
This happy breed of men, all bringing home the same amount no matter what their salary actually is, this little world,
This precious stone set by the silver sea and tar and plastic bags,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house
Against the envy of less happier lands who would rather drive us into it;
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Israel?

You see for all the wonders of Israel, it can still be a breeding ground for internal wars, I kid you not. And there you were thinking we all got along in blissful harmony. Well if it wasn't for the French, maybe we would.

That's painfully unfair, I hear you cry. Well you?re right because it's not really like that, but after years of indoctrination, it's hard to shake it off.

Aliyah is a wonderful chance to shake of your prejudices and enter a new land with an open mind. You are exposed to hundreds of different cultures and where as in London you could keep to yourself safely in the bosom of your snug Jewish community, in Israel everyone you deal with represents a different country or culture.

"Yes", I thought, time to heal wounds, so when I chose a new bathroom and was faced with dealing with a French immigrant I relished the chance. Now some things just aren't meant to be, some things should be left alone, but I was too naïve (to use a purely English word (?)).

"Hi I want to change my shower unit and cupboards".

"Why?"

"Because we moved into a new home and they are not our taste".

"OK."

"Erm, can you show me what you have?"

"They are all over there." He pointed to the back of the shop. My initial instinct was to have a quick look and leave. I mean he obviously doesn't care, so why should I?

But, I thought, I'll give him another chance. "Do these cupboards come in other colors?"

"No."

"Can I change the glass in the shower unit?"

"No."

"Can you help match colors, I have a floor tile to match the wood to."

"Whatever you think matches."

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

"What?"

"Being unhelpful, I mean do you want a sale?"

"You're English, yes?"

"So what?"

"Why are you so fussy, just choose something you like."

"What difference does it make if I'm English, I just need some expert help."

"You know this is a shop, not a law office, if you want something choose it or try somewhere else."

"Would it help if we spoke in French?" I actually know about five words in French and one of them probably has something to do with this guy's mother. "Can I ask you a question, why do we have to be so aggressive, I mean we are both Jews, immigrants, Israelis, we should throw off this intolerance."

"I suppose you're right."

"Good, should we start again?"

"No, we are closing, try somewhere else."

I tried, I really tried, but c'est la vie.

And so the French / English rift perpetuates itself through each generation. And as I stood outside the bathroom shop I thought "I will try harder even in the face of adversity, stiff upper lip and all that. He's obviously jealous, who wouldn't be, Britain created the modern world, gave the people TVs, telephones, trains and more. The Empire was the largest the modern world has ever seen. We are a royal nation, a nation of rulers. I mean we invented malt whisky for crying out loud, what more could you ask. And what did his ancestors present to the world; garlic and the guillotine, rich food and greasy hair. A great big tower and furniture with funny bandy legs."

No, I was going to try harder. He's a Jew, I'm a Jew, he's an Israeli, I'm an Israeli so as I turned my back on his shop I whispered, "au revoir but not goodbye".
La salle de bains

The English have a long and well-documented love affair with the French. OK not so much love as mutual understanding. Actually, who am I fooling, it's been a disaster.

From the day William the Conqueror waltzed into London and said "I am you're new King and everyone has to eat frogs legs and soufflé", it's been downhill. Especially as most of Northern France was once part of England. Didn't know that, eh? Well read you're history books. Then came Waterloo, Trafalgar and many other battles, but we kicked their behinds every time. In fact the Brits have never lost a significant battle since. They have always bounced back. Today the wars take on different personas; instead of soldiers we have diplomats and French lorry drivers that burn sheep.

And no more has the French-English been felt than in our land:
This royal throne of Kings, this sort of sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Olmert,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by hi-tech for herself
Against infection and the hand of war?
This happy breed of men, all bringing home the same amount no matter what their salary actually is, this little world,
This precious stone set by the silver sea and tar and plastic bags,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house
Against the envy of less happier lands who would rather drive us into it;
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Israel?

You see for all the wonders of Israel, it can still be a breeding ground for internal wars, I kid you not. And there you were thinking we all got along in blissful harmony. Well if it wasn't for the French, maybe we would.

That's painfully unfair, I hear you cry. Well you?re right because it's not really like that, but after years of indoctrination, it's hard to shake it off.

Aliyah is a wonderful chance to shake of your prejudices and enter a new land with an open mind. You are exposed to hundreds of different cultures and where as in London you could keep to yourself safely in the bosom of your snug Jewish community, in Israel everyone you deal with represents a different country or culture.

"Yes", I thought, time to heal wounds, so when I chose a new bathroom and was faced with dealing with a French immigrant I relished the chance. Now some things just aren't meant to be, some things should be left alone, but I was too naïve (to use a purely English word (?)).

"Hi I want to change my shower unit and cupboards".

"Why?"

"Because we moved into a new home and they are not our taste".

"OK."

"Erm, can you show me what you have?"

"They are all over there." He pointed to the back of the shop. My initial instinct was to have a quick look and leave. I mean he obviously doesn't care, so why should I?

But, I thought, I'll give him another chance. "Do these cupboards come in other colors?"

"No."

"Can I change the glass in the shower unit?"

"No."

"Can you help match colors, I have a floor tile to match the wood to."

"Whatever you think matches."

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

"What?"

"Being unhelpful, I mean do you want a sale?"

"You're English, yes?"

"So what?"

"Why are you so fussy, just choose something you like."

"What difference does it make if I'm English, I just need some expert help."

"You know this is a shop, not a law office, if you want something choose it or try somewhere else."

"Would it help if we spoke in French?" I actually know about five words in French and one of them probably has something to do with this guy's mother. "Can I ask you a question, why do we have to be so aggressive, I mean we are both Jews, immigrants, Israelis, we should throw off this intolerance."

"I suppose you're right."

"Good, should we start again?"

"No, we are closing, try somewhere else."

I tried, I really tried, but c'est la vie.

And so the French / English rift perpetuates itself through each generation. And as I stood outside the bathroom shop I thought "I will try harder even in the face of adversity, stiff upper lip and all that. He's obviously jealous, who wouldn't be, Britain created the modern world, gave the people TVs, telephones, trains and more. The Empire was the largest the modern world has ever seen. We are a royal nation, a nation of rulers. I mean we invented malt whisky for crying out loud, what more could you ask. And what did his ancestors present to the world; garlic and the guillotine, rich food and greasy hair. A great big tower and furniture with funny bandy legs."

No, I was going to try harder. He's a Jew, I'm a Jew, he's an Israeli, I'm an Israeli so as I turned my back on his shop I whispered, "au revoir but not goodbye".