With national elections around the corner it’s easy to spot intolerance and discord among the Israeli population. Yet I recently discovered an unexpected model of coexistence and cooperation–the chapper.
I used to take the bus to travel to Tel Aviv. I knew about the minivan companies that compete with the two major bus routes between Petach Tikva to Tel Aviv, but I hadn’t been on one in years. There was something slightly disreputable about them–after all, chapper is Yiddish for grabber. I believe that these minivans have only recently become organized into companies and regulated. They are also known as sheruyot, plural for sherut. More than one new immigrant has mistakenly asked for the sherutim and ended up at the bathroom. But I digress.
My son had told me that chapperim are much quicker than the regular bus, so one evening when I was running late I decided to take my chances. You wait on the street–it doesn’t have to be a regular bus stop–and when a van approaches you signal the driver. If he has space for one more he opens the door. I am always slightly surprised that the driver has control of the passenger side–after all it’s a van, not a bus.
With no room to stand you must duck and find a seat as quickly as possible. Each van contains about ten seats, with a column of seats against each window and a row of three in the back. There are even working seatbelts.
The cooperation begins when it’s time to pay. The newest passenger passes the fare forward to the person in front of him, who passes it forward in turn until it reaches the driver. Passengers must be careful not to drop the coins in the dark. If a religious passenger needs to pass coins to a passenger of the opposite sex, the two are careful to avoid touching hands.
When the driver receives the coins, he calls out to ask the passenger’s destination. He then counts out the appropriate change and the process repeats itself, in reverse.
When you ride a bus, you are on your own. You listen to music, read, or close your eyes. The bus is full of sleeping soldiers or chattering groups of teenagers. Few children ride the chapper–they don’t get the substantial discount that they do on the bus–and most passengers are traveling alone.
When you climb onto the chapper, you have accepted an unwritten obligation to interact and cooperate with the other passengers. You can’t pretend to be asleep, and it’s too dark to read. You could sit in the back, I guess, but you’d have to wait a while for your change.
I’m going to be grabbing the chapper more often.
in an unfortunate accident, but we managed to reconstruct it. We’re six people with too many bags to count, containing food for two days and camping gear. Good thing there’s no weight check involved this time. I expect to be back to blogging next week after school starts–if it starts.
After Brookside Gardens we went to Max’s, a kosher deli, for lunch. My brother hoped we could sit down, but my daughter (DiI) insisted we leave for the airport. I took the food, booster seats, strollers and children onto the Metro and said goodbye to my brother and nephew.
At National the computerized Shuttle “kiosk” rejected us. We were misdirected upstairs to the regular Delta counter, with a humongous line, and at 1:10 we found the Shuttle counter. Our flight was for 1:30. At least it wasn’t cancelled.
When the computer again did not show our reservations, the agent simply began to book us in manually. I told her about the threat on our trip down, and she said we wouldn’t be charged. She printed out old-fashioned cardpaper tickets and boarding passes. The people behind us in line were plotzing, so the agent advised them to check in using the electronic kiosk. “That’s what they’re for,” she informed them helpfully.
At about 1:20 we got to the security line. The inspector looked at my brand-new boarding passes, marked them for special security, and directed us to another line. It’s that middle eastern thing again; I’m not sure how we escaped it on the way down. DiI still doesn’t understand how they knew just from looking at the boarding passes.
The woman at the front of the newest line decided not to argue with me after I explained that we had been diverted here from another line and our flight was in ten minutes. Small children are useful sometimes. They patted us down gender-appropriately and rifled through our hand luggage. When the basket on the conveyor belt began ringing an agent gave permission to answer my cellphone; we had passed. It was my brother — I think he realized that we may have cut it too close. I told him that if he didn’t hear from us again, we were on the plane.
We replaced our shoes and ran to the gate, catching the plane about 30 seconds before the doors closed. Two passengers from the check-in line boarded right behind us. We buckled into seats in the last three rows of the plane,
My four-year-old could finally eat her hotdog.
The nevertheless entertaining Tisha B’Av edition of Haveil Haveilim can be found over at Simply Jews.
We finally arrived in Washington. Usually, by the time I arrive at my sister’s house with my small children, the last thing I want to do is get on another plane. But I decided to be brave, and flying the day after arrival was even braver. Below are some highlights.
In case you were wondering, we did have a misadventure on our way back to New York. I hope you can handle the suspense . . .
In my last post I was on my way to the airport.
We had reservations for the 5:30 shuttle to Washington, and it looked like we might even catch the 4:30. But when I presented our e-tickets, the Delta agent said our new reservations didn’t show up on her computer. “You don’t have a reservation for this flight.”
She poked some more into the computer and found us still listed on the original flight. And darn it, there wasn’t anything she could do. She could make the change herself, but we would be charged another change fee and full-price shuttle fare, adding up to over $440 per ticket. She doesn’t know what El Al did, but they didn’t do what they were supposed to when they changed the ticket. She gave the unmistakable impression that this wasn’t her problem.
Traveling internationally these days requires nerves of steel, I tell you.
I asked the agent for El Al’s number. I managed to reach the agent who had changed the reservation. Why, I am sure you are asking, didn’t the Delta agent offer to do this? I leave that to your imagination. The El Al agent asked to speak to the Delta agent. The Delta agent was not convinced, as she still could not find our new reservations. She handed me back the phone. The El Al agent put me on hold. “Round one to Delta,” I reported to my daughter. The El Al agent came back on and asked to speak to Delta again. The Delta agent punched a bunch of numbers into her computer and managed to pull up my reservation.
Round two to El Al. We would go on the plane. The 6:30 plane, that is, because the 5:30 was cancelled. The shuttle ain’t what it used to be.
The agent printed up our boarding passes, and then two other agents pored over the screen. (There were about four agents who seemed to have nothing to do. Contrast this to the single agent I would find at National, which admittedly handles fewer flights.) “I see the problem,” one said. “You’re not hooked in.” She punched in more numbers and “hooked in” each of the new reservations. “There, you shouldn’t have any more problem.” “This won’t happen again on our return flight?” “No,” she assured me.
The departure lounge was comfortable enough. It’s a good thing I ignored my brother-in-law who made fun of me for for taking food for the 45-minute flight. We had left my sister’s home at around 3:30 and got to my brother’s after 8:00. (Actually, the terminal seemed to stock quite a selection of kosher food.)
There was one bright spot: Despite our flight having originated in the Middle East, we passed under the radar, so to speak, and avoided going through “special security.” Miracles do happen.
My sister called a few days before my trip to tell me that her mother-in-law had stopped eating. She died at her home the morning I arrived.
At the funeral my brother-in-law spoke about his mother’s passion for her grandchildren. She bragged about them to no one but their parents, because telling people outside the family would only make them feel bad. Her grandson spoke about her giving him a check for $100.25. When he inquired about the odd sum she replied that the hundred dollars was because she loved him. The $0.25 was so that he would “call her sometime.”
I blogged here about the compassion and assistance of my sister’s in-laws during another international trip. My sister’s mother-in-law had a warm place in her heart for my family, and despite the “balagan” of arriving in the midst of everything I was glad to be at the funeral. My children stayed with my father and his helper.
About thirty people returned to lunch at my sister’s, but I didn’t have much time before leaving for the airport. Amazingly, my sister found a ride for the four of us with a couple on their way back to Manhattan. They were happy to fill their van, now that their children are mostly grown. I sympathized; our own van is rarely full these days.
To be continued . . .
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