Yoram. Who is Yoram (pronounced YO-ROM)? He's a moving guy. Yeah, not exactly the most glamorous title for someone who moves people's furniture and valuables, but well, I continue to learn everyday that all sorts of people can teach you lessons about yourself and life. Most of the time life here in Israel is no more exciting than an average day in the United States, but sometimes (yes, ahh, those beautiful "sometimes" days) it gets crazy. The following is my story of a "sometimes" day.
I found a closet (for those of you in America, this means a giant cabinet that holds all your clothes--hanging and folding; they don't know what a walk-in closet is in this country). Usually, to buy a closet like this costs around 800 shekels. I found one, used of course, for 100 shekels. I thought, "Hey, what a deal!" so I bought it. Here's the interesting part--the move. My boyfriend, Asaf (yes, he's Israeli and a handyman, so I put my trust in him concerning this issue), assured me, when I told him the measurements of the closet, that it would fit in his car. Now me, I have no mind for size/packing/fitting leftovers into tupperware sensibilities, so I trusted him. The big day arrived--time for us to pick up the closet. Turns out it is about 27 feet too big for the car (at least we figured it out BEFORE carrying it down 3 flights of stairs). "So, we'll take it apart to transport it," he said. Then we realized it is pressed wood, and old, and if we take it apart, we're pretty much doing it for the exercise and entertainment because there's no way in hell it will go back together. "So, you'll call a moving guy, chik-chock (which as best as I can translate it means "lickety-split!")." "Ok," I'm thinking. "This is still do-able. I'm still getting a great deal," I say to myself, as I contemplate the crazy amount it cost me to move from my last apartment.
The fun of calling "moving guys" began (in no way do I mean to be sexist, but I simply haven't run into any "moving girls/dudettes/women/etc." here in Israel; note: nor have I seen a female bus driver). It's 3 days before Pesach (Passover), everyone in Israel is remodeling/moving/hiring moving guys just so I can't, and it's tough, to say the least, to find someone with availability this week. The lady I bought it from is already starting to get antsy (she's awaiting a new closet of her own), and I have to move this thing pronto. Then, I speak with Yoram. From the telephone he struck me as your typical Israeli sabra (native-born Israeli) who has probably never worried a day in his life, except maybe a tiny bit when he was being shot at by Egyptian soldiers in the Six Day War.
(I've translated the conversation into English for your enjoyment).
Me: Hello, I want to move a closet and I'm just checking how much it will cost.
Yoram the Wise: I can do it tomorrow at 11 am.
Me: Ok, um, great. But how much did you say it will cost?
Yoram the Wise: Give me the address.
Me: It's ____. But again, can you tell me how much it will cost?
Yoram: What's your phone number?
Me: It's _____. How much, Yoram?
Yoram: 200 shekels.
Me: That's kind of a lot, and you don't even know how big it is. We already took everything except for the frame, and someone else told me 150?
Yoram (suspiciously): Who told you 150?
Me (not revealing that yes, someone else quoted me 150 but no, he didn't have time to do it this week): A guy named Isaiah, why do you KNOW him? (pause while Yoram thinks about my honesty/my poor bargaining skills) How about 180?
Yoram (not agreeing, but not disagreeing): Al tid-agi, motek (something like, Don't you worry, darlin')
The part I left out of this conversation is where I told him I wasn't sure and I'd have to call him in the morning, because not only did I want to move a closet from a house that is not mine (meaning I have to cooperate with the already antsy lady), but I was also supposed to do a cleaning job for people I didn't know, so I wouldn't be at my house. Anyways, we ended our conversation with him thinking I'm the typical American woman in Israel, complicating things and worrying about them needlessly.
After this, a lot of things happened in my favor:
1) My friend Joseph agreed to come to my house to be there when they delivered the closet.
2) Antsy lady would be waiting for her new closet at 11 am, too, so she'd be in the apartment.
3) At 7:30 am, the day of the big move, the people I was cleaning for cancelled on me.
4) A guy, also named Yoram, rode by my house on camel and said he could move the closet for me for 25 shekels.
5) Someone sold me a truck yesterday, and now I can move it myself.
(Note: #4 and #5 did not actually happen)
(Note: My dad did tell me when he died I would inherit the SmurfMobile, his 1984 bright blue Chevy truck. While I always shook my head in disdain at his offer, I am beginning to think it's a good idea)
So, everything's fine. And Yoram was right, I didn't need to worry.
But now, there's been a slight hitch in the plan:
1) Yoram can't come at 11.
2) Martians have invaded the holy city of Jerusalem.
3) I broke my leg.
(Note: #2 and #3 are false, but I wrote them to emphasize how much we worry about things and how we can blow the smallest thing out of proportion)
But I've made a conscious decision that I'm not going to worry. Why? Because Yoram told me not to, and well, he was right the last time.
