January 21, 2005

Alison on Aliyah:  Directionless in Be'er Sheva

            This week I decided to dig in a little bit more to my new city, Be’er Sheva, of whom I am not particularly fond.  I have been traveling back to Jerusalem so often that I find myself waiting to do even the most basic of chores there because I know the city so well.  Only recently did it dawn on me that the reason I know Jerusalem so well is precisely because I had to do errands and find specific things there, and I didn’t have the option of going somewhere else.

            So I made a tough decision and decided to pick a new general doctor in Be’er Sheva.  I figured it was time for a check-up and it might as well be near home.  I did my dutiful research, asking friends for recommendations and checking with my insurance company.  After making the appointment and requesting directions to the office, I was given two seemingly sufficient (and yet slightly mystifying) pieces of information:  “Golda Meir Center” and “Asia,” along with the name of the neighborhood.  Putting my trust in the receptionist, I presumed this would be all that was necessary to get me to my destination.

            On the day of the appointment, I pulled out my trusty map and found the name of the neighborhood, which was fairly close to mine.  “Golda Meir Center” was nowhere to be found, but I did manage to track down Golda Meir Street, which I figured must be related.  I set out in the car and followed the map with little difficulty.  Not having a clue what to do after that, I began asking people on the street, not a single one of whom had heard of a center by that name.  When they asked for further clarification, I realized I didn’t know whether it was a fitness center, a shopping center, or just a park of some kind.

            I had been trying on a fairly constant basis to call the office on my car phone, to no avail and with steadily increasing frustration.  I could not fathom of a doctor’s office that didn’t answer their phone.  When I finally got an answer, I was told I had been dialing the wrong number (the only number that had been given to me).  I continued to circle the neighborhood, already a full thirty minutes late, in tears because I didn’t even know what I was looking for.  I took a shaky breath, grimaced in desperation, and drove home.

            There I found the correct phone number and called the receptionist.  After yelling at her for five minutes about the lack of necessary information, she calmly gave me the street address.  Why hadn’t she given this to me the first time?  I wasn’t able to get a clear answer on that one.  Again, I found the street name on the map and, with a potent mixture of fury and dejection, I set out from home again.

            Once I returned to the area, I noticed that there was no easy way to actually access the necessary street.  I saw it on the map, and I had driven down a few streets that seemed close to it, but I was unable to find a street that connected with it.  Another phone call.  More yelling.  More searching.  More tears.  At over an hour late, I wanted to find the office more to give the receptionist a good punch than to actually see the doctor.  Never is my Hebrew so flawless than when I am screaming at someone for their incompetence.

I called one final time and attempted to ask her calmly, are there any streets near the office that she can think of?  The answer was no.  The woman did not know a single street in the area surrounding the office at which she has worked for probably most of her life.  I asked her if she had heard of the street I was currently on.  No.  Then she dropped the final bomb:  “You do know that “Mercaz Golda Meir” is a supermarket, don’t you?”

            Finally I decided to look out the window.  Through my tears of frustration, I could make out a sign that indicated a store.  Further to the left and up a small hill I read the word “Asia” on a nondescript building.  The infamous “Asia,” the meaning of which still eludes me.  I realized that I had been sitting in front of the office during that last phone call, on the very street that runs in front of it, the name of which the receptionist was unable to recognize.

            So I parked my car, gathered what was left of my dignity, and entered the office.  “Alison Golub, yes, yes, I know I am an hour and a half late,” I admitted through clenched teeth and steely gaze.  The woman had the common sense to leave it at that.

            As I sat and waited another hour to be “fitted in” to another appointment slot, I wondered what had just happened.  Why did it take repeated attempts to obtain even the street address?  Why was not a single person able to give me directions based on street names, rather than “Take a left at the light, no, I don’t know what street that is”?  I felt as if I had stepped into a “Twilight Zone” episode where everyone was behaving according to some strange cultural norm of which I was totally unaware.

            Later in the week I had the exact same experience on another errand.  Another hour of circling the area, another set of five phone calls before I finally managed to beg enough information out of the receptionist in order to direct myself.  I have begun to wonder if this is simply another major cultural difference – perhaps maps are simply not used here.  Perhaps Israelis just assume that everyone else knows all the major landmarks in a given city.  Perhaps I am trying to superimpose my own still-painfully American way of thinking onto the Israeli way of life.  Once again, I have learned another lesson in humility, and patience, and submission of my own understanding of how the world around me works.  Once again, I have found myself wandering around in a virtually unknown world – with no street names.