softly, softly

So, as expected, things have calmed down quite a bit. Yesterday afternoon we went to the beach, not just to have a quick beer in between apartment viewings, or for a nice view on our way to do some errand, but for the first time to actually sit and swim and play. We've signed for an apartment and put as much in motion at school, at the bank, and elsewhere that we realized we have no more commitments for the next day or so. We had promised ourselves that once we had a place lined up we'd spend a few days at the beach, and now it's finally time. (We plan to spend all of today there -- Woohoo!)

What a relief it is to know that we've got a place set up. I don't do so well without some kind of support structure or safety net; not having a place bothered and stressed me out from the moment we touched down. It's a big weight off my mind to know we'll be self-sufficient soon. My introvertedness tells me that no one should be burdened with my problems, so I'm extremely uncomfortable relying on others' hospitality, as we've been doing. From the moment we arrived, I've been eager to move out of the apartment we've been house-sitting, mainly because my instinct (irrationally) says I must be causing a lot of inconvenience for someone.

But enough of that. Our new place is going to be great. It's in a perfect location -- a 10 minute walk to the beach (which actually is considered a long way, but I'm not counting...), close to the bus lines, and right in the middle of a vibrant neighborhood. It's NYC-sized -- just a bedroom and a living room. We managed to find a place which includes all the fixtures we were worried about having to buy: a fridge, a tiny gas range, sink, and even a dishwasher (a dishwasher is considered an almost unheard-of feature for an apartment of that size and price). There are no screens on any windows here, so the floor-to-ceiling windows on one short wall of the living room can be folded back and the entire wall opened wide to the small garden below.

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One big culture shock for me has been the way in which business is conducted. (Haha, yes, it's really all I've been talking about so far.) People want to negotiate. They want to hear your life story and it's expected that you ask for theirs. Written contracts mean less than a well-timed joke and a handshake.

For instance: to rent the apartment, we first were required to have a drink at our landlords' apartment (I think we made a faux pas by refusing the ice cream they offered), talk about the news, the weather, and a little bit about ourselves before a copy of the lease even appeared on the table. It was then expected we ask for their identification (only to appease Keren's father, however. Apparently it's not uncommon to pose as a landlord, then take the deposit and run), and then debate a few clauses of the lease (which we were happy to do: rent in Tel Aviv is calculated in US dollars(!) but paid in shekels, so one's rent fluctuates with the strength or weakness of the dollar. Don't ask me why, but it's standard practice. Keren managed to convince them to tie our rent to something more stable -- the national "cost-of-living" index. Beats me why they don't just set a rent price in shekels and stick to it). An hour-and-a-half later (and after a tour of their apartment, which they recently renovated), a lease was in hand and a deal made.

At least I'm starting to understand the pace of life here, and why no one else can understand our drive to take care of things today instead of tomorrow. "Piano, piano, -- softly, softly," is the advice we've received from most of the university staff. I've been repeating that mantra to myself, and it's magic has yet to catch on. But it's beginning to.