This is Part III of a series on pashkevilim, the anti-establishment wall posters hung in large haredi neighborhoods. The series is based on a talk by Tzuriel Rashi of Michlelet Lifshitz and Bar Ilan University.
Read more on Pashkevilim: Wall Posters in Jerusalem Part III, Spoofs and Cellphones…
Last night we attended the first game of the Israeli Baseball League. We hesitated a lot because a) the ticket price was steep (NIS 25 each; they let the 3yo in free) and b) my husband, despite an obsession with baseball in his youth, has lost most of his interest in the sport. But the kids know enough about it to be interested, and we decided to make an evening of it.
Anyway, if you expected an analysis of the game (Modiin Miracles 9, Petach Tikva Pioneers 1), you’ve come to the wrong place. You can read the JPost’s reports here and here.
We sat near these fellows pictured above, from left to right: Jacob Levy of Los Angeles, USA, and Rafael Rojano and Max Donald of Colombia, South America. I mostly spoke with Jacob, who plays for the Tel Aviv Lightning and is really excited to be in Israel. Some of his American friends think he might not come back! After graduating from Brandeis University in MA in 2003, he began a career in investment banking. Recently he decided to try something more “competitive” and left his job to try out for the Israeli league. (Time will tell whether the new league will be more competitive than investment banking.)
During the summer each team will play 45 games, and the players rest from Thursday evening through Shabbat (another good reason to go). The players are scheduled to return at the end of August.
Jacob is Jewish, as are about half the players. (I can’t speak for the other guys in the picture.) During the game, quite a few kids came over to ask for his autograph. He asked each one his name and chatted with him for a few moments. And he is probably the only person in recent memory who immediately identified my youngest as a girl (and complimented her on her looks). Needless to say, he’s single.
I asked Jacob what he wanted me to say about him on the blog, so aside from encouraging my readers to come to the games, he said to write that he was good-looking and intelligent. When I said that my readers would judge his looks for themselves, he said it was too bad he hadn’t shaved. Don’t hold it against him.
Hats were on sale for NIS 100 each. Even more incredible, they were selling. A woman from Hashmonaim told me that just about everyone in her town bought tickets to the game. Another woman from Hashmonaim told me that her kids would not have missed opening day. She has 7, ranging from age 4 to 20. Even though they made aliyah less than three years ago, the kids don’t even want to go back to LA for a visit! Who ever said that you can’t make aliyah with teenagers? (She did admit that the schools were a challenge.) We hardly saw anyone we knew–I guess we have been here too long.
The league will have to work through some logistical problems; we parked easily but we it took us at least twenty minutes to buy our tickets and get into the ballpark.
If you are interested in meeting Jacob (I was going to say “playing ball with Jacob” but I didn’t know how that would go over with my readers, or with Jacob, for that matter), email me and I will pass on any messages to him. He’s also interested in learning more about investment banking in Israel.
I think that West Bank Mama was looking for something a little more positive in honor of her blogoversary feature, “Only in Israel.” I hope she’ll forgive me and post it anyway.
When we bought our apartment in the early 1990′s, we were entitled to a government grant and a reduced-rate mortgage. After submitting the numerous documents and permissions, the bank finally called to say that the check was ready. At around 8 in the morning I strapped my toddler into his stroller and walked to the bank, figuring that I would be back in time for his morning nap. I was seven months pregnant.
At the bank, I waited a few minutes before the clerk called me. She handed me the check, gave me a form to sign, and asked to see my “teudat oleh.” A look of indignation crossed her face as she examined it. “But this document is butal!” she exclaimed. She reached out and retrieved the check.
The teudat oleh is a passport-sized booklet, used to document all of the financial benefits that are allocated to olim chadashim (new immigrants). When we received ours at the airport, several of the pages had been stamped “butal,” or void, with large black letters. The stamp appeared on pages referring to oleh rights that were no longer in force. Unfortunately, the hand of the individual who had stamped our teudat oleh had slipped, and the marking appeared diagonally in the bottom margin of one of the valid pages, and partially on one or two of the other pages. This is what the clerk had noticed. We had already presented the teudah to various officials without anyone commenting on it. I tried to explain this but she would have none of it. She made a phone call. “You need to go to the absorption ministry and get a letter saying why your teudat oleh says “butal” on it,” she instructed me.
I saw there was no arguing with her so I packed up my toddler and my belly and walked the few blocks to the address she had given me. The sun was hot. The ministry was no longer there! By this point I was in tears. Fortunately someone was able to tell me where the ministry had moved to, and I shlepped to the bus. At the absorption ministry they were sympathetic and ushered me past the dozens of waiting Russian speakers straight into the director’s office. The director wrote me a letter on official ministry stationery, stating that I was entitled to all of the rights of an oleh. I examined the letter. “But the clerk said that the letter needs to say why the teudah was stamped “butal.” “Don’t worry,” was her comforting reply. “If I write that you are entitled to all these rights, you are also entitled to the mortgage. If the teudah were really void, it would have been marked in a much more obvious way.” Logical, right?
Leaving the ministry, I had another stroke of luck. Even though I only knew about ten people in my town, one of them drove by and offered us a ride. She even had a(n ancient) carseat. She apologized for not being able to wait and take us home from the bank. I showed the letter to the clerk. Predictably the clerk said, “The letter doesn’t say why the teudah is butal.” Another phone call. Waiting. I really don’t remember how I managed to keep my toddler occupied all this time, but by now he was going crazy. I went to a supermarket to get something for us to eat. Thus fortified, I tried approaching another clerk. The first clerk saw me and said, “Don’t ask her; she won’t be able to help you.” It was 12:00 and the bank was closing soon.
Finally, I had an idea. I took my toddler to the nearest payphone and called my husband at work (he recalls that I was not in good shape at that point). I suggested he call the bank official we had dealt with while negotiating the bank’s portion of the mortgage. He called the central office of the (small) bank and berated the clerk who answered the phone. They put him through to the CEO! In another ten minutes, the check was in my pocket.
It seems that neither the branch clerk nor her boss (who both happened to be female) was willing to risk giving me the check on the chance that the bank wouldn’t be reimbursed by the government for its portion of the mortgage. Only the more senior, male official was willing to authorize the transfer. Lessons learned: 1. Start at the top. 2. Sometimes a woman needs help from a man.
I also participated when WBM asked for posts relating aliyah stories. They were among my first posts!
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