The Easy Life

There are a few recurring themes in conversations I tend to have with people here, especially as many of us contemplate going home (or as people who have gone home come back to visit).  One of those conversations revolves around the comparison of life in Israel and life in the States.  It is generally agreed that life in the States is easier.  Not better.  Just easier.

I am constantly reminded of this fact when I go get groceries, as I did today.

In the States, getting groceries is relatively easy.  I would make a list, hop in my car (at just about any time of the day or night, any day of the week) drive a few minutes to the store, wheel the cart around gathering whatever items I was in search of, go through the checkout line with a cashier who spoke English, load everything in my car, and drive home.

Here I also start by writing out a list.  That's where the similarity ends.  The lists themselves won't even be that similar, with very different foods available.  Once it is decided that food is needed, I have to plan a time to go purchase it.  I can't go when I have class, but I also can't really go in the evening, so I need to find a day when I'm relatively free in the morning or afternoon.  Then I have to make sure that the day is not Saturday (when everything will be closed) or Friday (when everything will be busy with people buying last minute supplies and will close early) or a holiday about which I may have forgotten.

Once I have determined that the current day is a proper one on which to visit the grocery, I load up a cart and some bags and begin the trek, hoping the cart wheels are firmly affixed this time.  

Our carts and shopping bags.

Yes, that's right, I walk to the grocery store, probably about a mile away.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm not complaining.  It's just that in the States, assuming there was a grocery store that close to my house, I would still probably take the car because of the time saved and the advantage of being able to transport more goods than I can comfortably carry by myself.  

Anyway, after 15 minutes or so I arrive at our produce guy where I'll get all the good stuff: peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, garlic, potatoes, nuts, and whatever fruits are in season.  

The outside of the produce place.

Those are our staples, since produce is relatively cheap here.  After having gathered all the foods I want there I'll take them to the counter and hope that the guy there doesn't ask any questions because he doesn't speak English and I don't speak Hebrew.  

Once this endeavor is successfully completed,  I take myself and my produce across the street and down the hill to the grocery store.  

The grocery store inhabits the bottom story of this building (below street level here).

Leaving the produce in the cart by the door, I have the option of renting a shopping cart for my shopping, or of using my grocery bags to carry everything around the store.  Usually I'll use the bags, trying to move quickly before they get too heavy and I get too tired.  I'll try to avoid getting cheese because I'm not very good at communicating what I want to the lady at the cheese counter.  I'll hope (in vain) that products haven't changed or been moved around, because I won't always be able to understand the Hebrew labels.  In vain because, for example, the dairy section is always in a different order than it was the previous week and includes slightly different products.  

The frozen food isle looks fairly normal, though I rarely purchase food from it.

Once I have everything, I'll check out, again, still hoping to not need to communicate much.  Usually they'll ask me a question in Hebrew and I'll look at them blankly or say "lo" and hope that was the right answer.  

Waiting to check out.

Just in case you need pots, pans, underwear, or children's books, the store has all those things as well.  

With everything purchased I have the task of loading as much into my cart as it will fit, and then carrying the rest in bags as I trek back up the hill, down a hill, and up another hill, on my way home.  I'll hope that the eggs are secured and not squished, that nothing will fall out, and that my cart still won't loose a wheel.  Again, it often happens that these hopes are in vain.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later I'll arrive home, hot and sweaty and out of breath from lugging 50 pounds of groceries up that last hill.  Fortunately, my apartment is basically the same level as the street, so at least I don't have to lug everything up a bunch of stairs. 

I don't say all this to complain.  It's enough of a hassle that I'm glad when one of my roommates gets the groceries so I have a week off, but it's not a bad way to live.  It's just a good reminder of the relative ease of life in the States that we often take for granted.