January 8, 2005

Alison on Aliyah:  It’s official – I’m stuck!

            I will never forget a conversation I had with a mentor of mine, a professor who has taken pains to steer me on the right path from the day I began as a student at Brown.  He has heard me waxing nostalgic about Israel for years, bemoaning my feelings of being trapped in America, wondering if I would ever fulfill my dream to live here.  On more than one occasion he was able to convince me that making aliyah was not the right decision, at least from the standpoint of where I was at the time.  He had spent a significant part of his life in Israel, and so I took very seriously his warnings about the inevitable downfall of my naïve hopes and dreams about life here.

            And so, late in the summer of 2003, soon after making the decision to move but well before I had any clue what I would do once I arrived here, I knocked on his door with a distinct feeling of unease.  I knew I was about to hear some “harsh truths,” at the very least.  And as I told him my preliminary plans, which included pre-order forms for a washing machine and dryer, refrigerator, and stove (among many other things), I could see him preparing his speech.  And I can still remember it, almost word for word.

“Alison,” he cautioned, “You have to approach this as an experiment, not as the rest of your life.  You could be in Jerusalem for the next fifty years, or you could end up back in Providence in two.  You need to make the transitioning process as easy as possible, which means keeping your load light and not making purchases that will tie you down.  You should only buy these types of items when you are absolutely sure that you are there to stay.”

It was a very reasonable perspective, and I bought it – hook, line, and sinker.  “Who knows?” I thought dejectedly, “This might not work at all.  Do I really want to get stuck in a country I might hate, being weighed down by all these irrational purchases?”  And so I came over with what was, for me, the bare minimum – just books and clothes and a dog – and I made do.

Slowly, throughout the first year, however, I began to acquire things.  A TV was paramount, followed shortly by the VCR and DVD.  “No discussion,” I reasoned, “These are simply must-haves.”  A washer and dryer were first on the list of big-ticket items, and I rationalized the purchase as a response to the exorbitant do-it-yourself laundromat prices here.  Next, it was a stove – “I have to cook, don’t I?” I thought.  Then came the TV stand, couches, and coffee table.  The arrival of all my possessions from Providence made me decidedly less mobile.  Moving to Be’er Sheva then brought the necessity for a dishwasher, a clothes cabinet, and various other home furnishings.  I became settled.

The final “nail in the coffin,” as it were, came a few weeks ago with the purchase of a brand new car.  It was a truly terrifying experience, walking in and plunking down the receipt for a bank transfer of an obscene amount of money (yes, what you’ve heard is true – cars here cost at least fifty percent more than in the states).  But driving up the hills to Jerusalem in my new wheels, feeling for the first time truly independent in my new country, was an experience not to be forgotten.

Of course, the process of buying the damn thing was not at all painless.  The rights for new immigrants were about to suffer a drastic budget cut this month, leaving me scrambling around, trying to take advantage of the larger tax break before the year was up.  And then there were the helpful officials at customs, who refused to process the car without custody (for two weeks!) of the originals of my US passport, Israeli identity card, and driver’s licenses from both countries.  People don’t write checks here anymore; bank transfers are the preferred method of payment, and God help you if your money is in the States instead of here.

            The biggest disappointment in the process was the fact that I didn’t have much choice in the matter – any of the matters.  I had always fantasized about that glorious moment in my life when I would have enough maturity and wherewithal to walk into a new car dealership (as a bona fide adult!) and make such a purchase.  I imagined myself strutting in, sitting down authoritatively, and dictating exactly what I want and how I want it.  Dark grey exterior, red interior, standard shift, four doors, sunroof – the sky would be the limit.  “Yes, Ms. Golub,” they would nod in deference, “It’ll be here tomorrow.”

            But here in my new home country, my fantasies were thrust to the dealership floor and promptly trampled by every available salesman.  I shopped around at three different dealerships, and each time, after expressing my preferences I was told in no uncertain terms that I was either: a) dreaming; b) insane; c) woefully uneducated with regard to reality; or – the most common response – d) all of the above.  Then I was told, quite unceremoniously, what my real options were.  “Standard shift?  I think we have one in the warehouse.  White, I think.”  “Special-order radio?  Doesn’t exist.”  I was told that I was to take whatever comes with the car, and oh, by the way, nothing can be modified.  Ever.

            All of a sudden I realized that I was going to have to take what I could get, rather than actually getting what I wanted.  I had to make some major decisions, and fast.  The last shipment of Mazdas for the year was coming in next week, I was told, and if I wanted to take advantage of the tax break, I had better pick one of the cars that was on it.

            In the end, it all worked out.  I have a beautiful new car – bright blue, four doors, sunroof, and a radio that isn’t half bad.  I had to compromise on a few issues, and I had to do a lot of dickering and a lot of sweet-talking.  The best part is, I am officially mobile – and yet, immobile at the same time.  No longer am I a “wandering immigrant,” with just the clothes on my back and the ability to pick up and go back to America whenever I please.  Just as my professor had feared, I have become officially stuck here, and I am here to stay.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.