Spectator Sports

As the quarter-final of the FIFA World Cup reached the height of tension, I was taking a leisurely stroll down Spinoza Street with frozen yogurt in hand, listening to the faint squeal of bats overhead, when suddenly the Netherlands scored a winning goal against Brazil and a collective roar erupted from every single building on the block. Israel, like most of the rest of the world, takes its soccer seriously. What I recently realized, though, is that soccer is not the only spectator sport to get this nation riled up. Allow me to introduce two more activities that involve audience participation and occasionally demand crowd control.

Spectator sport #1: public transportation. Israel boasts a fantastic mode of public transport, a cross between the regular bus and the private taxi, known here as a “special," pronounced “spayshel” (the same pronunciation applies to restaurants, incidentally, i.e. “what are the ‘spayshels’ of the day?). It’s called the monit sherut (service taxi), and it’s essentially a minivan that seats a driver and ten passengers.

The fare from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem is 22 shekels, which is a steal if you don’t factor in the cost of unspeakable fear that arises when the maniac driver takes a mere 43 minutes to get to the holy city, an experience so harrowing that it would make even the most secular of Jews drop to his knees upon arrival to kiss terra sancta. (It's a good thing a sign is posted reminding you to "pasten safety belts" ... yet another example of the confusion that arises from the letter peh, which makes either a "p" or an "f" sound.) Audience participation begins from the moment you pay your fare: bills and coins are passed from one passenger’s hand to the next, fingers fumbling with change, voices calling out, “two tickets!” and “driver, I need a receipt!” And then things calm down... until they’re interrupted again... usually by the passenger seated closest to the driver. “Ehh, driver,” began the forty-something woman seated across the aisle from me, “can you please unplug your cell phone.” The driver, a chubby Arab man, looked at her perplexedly, unsure whether he had actually understood the request properly. He paused and said, “What are you talking about?” “Could you please unplug your phone,” she repeated. “But I’m using it,” he said, annoyed. “That’s fine,” she responded, “just please disconnect it from the charger.” I too looked at her perplexedly, preparing for the explanation that was to come. “It’s very unhealthy, you know. It causes radiation.” The driver ignored her. It didn’t work. “There’s been loads of research on this, I’m telling you.” The driver kept ignoring her, until she became really aggravated. “I’m asking you to disconnect the phone! I can bring you the literature from the ministry of health. You’re endangering my health, I tell you!” I made the mistake of making eye contact with her. “Am I right?!” she asked me. “Isn’t it true?” I shyly looked away. But then the guy behind me chimed in: “Give it a rest, lady!” And then the woman behind him: “No, no, she’s absolutely right!” As the commentary accumulated and the complainant continued to harp on about the dangers of cell phone usage, the driver became so exasperated that he finally acquiesced and disconnected the phone. “Thank you,” she said quietly. There was a long, tense pause. And then… “Can you disconnect the other one too?” (Naturally, no cab driver can be satisfied with just one cell phone.) This was clearly the last straw. The driver violently ripped the cable from the second phone and swung it over his head like a lasso, yelling “There! Are you happy now?!” A longer, tenser silence ensued. And then, ever so slowly, the driver looked over his right shoulder, casting a piercing glance at his nemesis, and, mustering all the inner strength he possessed to keep himself from screaming, said calmly, yet ever so bitingly, “Lady, could you kindly fasten your seatbelt.”'

Spectator sport #2: filling a prescription at the pharmacy. Fortunately, I'm fit and healthy and have not had to make much use of the Israeli healthcare system. Recently, however, a persistent bout of leg pain and fear of tendinitis pushed me to see a doctor. Proud Canadian that I am, I have always been, at least in theory, a supporter of universal healthcare. In Israel, one's health insurance is administered by a health maintenance organization known as a kupat kholim (sick fund). It's a great system…until you actually use it. My appointment was quick and painless, and I walked out after a mere 15 minutes with a prescription for an anti-inflammatory drug in hand. I made my way to the pharmacy downstairs... and that’s when the fun began. I should have had a hunch that I was in for it when I asked an exhausted-looking man where to take a number and he simply gave me look of capitulation, handed me his number, and walked out the door. I looked up at the monitor and read 243, then at my slip of paper and read 271. Oy vavoy.

I would venture to say that in most countries patients exercise patience. Not in Israel. The middle-aged man with the frizzy hair and the tank top emblazoned with the Top Gun logo was already at his wits end. “Nu, change the number already!” he yelled. “There is no 243. NEXT!” An elderly woman carrying at least seven plastic bags shuffled up to the counter. “Giveret!" yelled the fellow with the 'fro, "Lady! What number do you have?!” She didn’t hear him. A toddler spat out his pacifier and let out a screech as his grandmother scurried over to pick him up.

“He needs to be fed. He’s obviously hungry,” said the stranger on the other end of the waiting room. The grandmother was annoyed. “He is MY grandson," she said sternly, "and I know what’s best for him." Then, looking directly at me, she added, “Such chutzpah. Have you ever?!”

Top Gun was losing it. “Lady! What number do you have?!” he yelled at his next victim, “Did you wait your turn?” The woman in the denim leisure suit turned to him: “I may be old but I can still remember how to read numbers.” A plump blonde was at the next counter over chatting and giggling with the pharmacist in Russian. At this point Top Gun’s aggravation had infected the old woman next to him. “What is she going on and on about in RUSSIAN?! What on EARTH could be so interesting?! Enough TALKING!”

Somehow, amidst all the talking and bickering and blithering and bossing around, I, ever the quiet Canadian, sat still and waited my turn. I'll stick to spectating, thank you, and leave the action to the true competitors.