Hebrew has an expression for shoddy work: "He works like a shoemaker." I think I found the origin of the expression: his name's Yossi and his shop's located at Dizengoff Square. A little background: in New York last month tango obsession met shoe fetish, resulting in a shiny new pair of hot pink stilettos. Realizing they pinched a little around the toe after my first spin with them on, I brought them to Yossi to stretch them out. When I returned to pick them up yesterday, I found them right in front of the shop strapped to the stretching device. Yossi was busy chatting with his friend, who was puffing away on a cigarette, carelessly infusing hundreds of shekels worth of shoe leather with smoke. (This didn't phase me, incidentally. Ever since I brought a new dress home that had to be aired out for two days because the sales clerk was essentially chain-smoking directly into my shopping bag at checkout, I know a little carbon monoxide never hurt the merchandise.) Yossi released the left shoe from a device that looked like it belonged in a 13th century dungeon and handed it to me to try on. The entire inside edge was stretched right out of shape. I told him he'd overdone it. As I've learned to expect from Israelis, he had an answer ready: "But it's hot out. Your feet will swell." I cast him a look of doubt. Now his friend chimed in: "Listen, it's like taking medicine." I didn't follow. "That's right, like medicine: there are always side effects." I told him I didn't appreciate the comparison.
The experience elicited a flood of memories of similar encounters. I have, on multiple occasions, been in a Tel Aviv shoe store and either (a) reported that the shoes don't fit well, only to be told, "no, no, it’s the style; it's more comfortable when the heel slips," or (b) been informed that the shoe I like is out of stock, but another model should interest me which is "exactly the same, except for the style and the color." Lest you get the impression that only people in the shoe industry are susceptible to, well, working like shoemakers, allow me to offer another example. When my parents wanted to mount a framed lithograph of my grandfather's outside their front door, the local framer said he could do it in a flash. He arrived with a drill in hand and, indeed, got the job done in a jiffy. The only downside was that he used an uneven number of screws, each placed at a different height. When my dad pointed this out to him, he offered a look of incredulity, and said, "I know it's not perfect, but it's stuck to the wall, right? Isn't that what you wanted?" Go argue with that!
My friend Natalie says it's the Israeli modus operandi. She even has a term for it: "patching." The idea being, if a tear can be fixed at home with a scrap of fabric, why send it to the tailor, who will just take longer and charge more? So the frame looks like shit. What's the difference if it keeps the picture in place? The shoes don't fit. But are they a good price? Not what you ordered? Nu, why be so fussy? The sweater has a flaw? That should be the biggest problem facing the State of Israel!
It's aggravating as hell. At the same time, though, there's something sort of inspiring about it. After all, it takes initiative to patch up a problem. It's the exact opposite of perfectionism, really: you may lack the experience or expertise needed to get the job done right, but at least you have the confidence to get it done. An old family friend, who has become something of a family legend, exemplifies the positive side of this attitude. When he came to Vancouver just before our departure for a ski vacation in Whistler, my mom invited him to come along. "Do you know how to ski?" she asked. "Ehhh... I don't know," he responded in a thick Israeli accent, "I neverrr trrry. Maybe I can!"
