From a temporary apartment in Ramat Gan, not far from Ordea Square, I moved this morning into a larger, more expensive and more Tel Avivian apartment. My idea of returning to the Promised Land involved fireworks, a warm Mediterranean Sea or a winter desert celebration full of acoustic sounds, crickets, local liquor and other pleasures. But because your faithful servant is a renowned genius, I found it appropriate to move to the big city for three months, conveniently at the height of a period when it's closed to honour the Corona holiday, which cancels weekends, special events or the fabulous Hanukkah. It made a lot of sense in my head at the time, but now I can't find it.
But I did find that readjusting to the country was not too difficult. Nomads, apparently, vaccinate themselves from reacting to change. As I've described in the post Prince Albert last June, every time I move, I respond physically, especially to another city or country. A few days after the transition, I'd endure back pain, toothache or mild depression that would last for a few days. I know it's going to happen, and still, I keep moving every few months. Fortunately, settling is not yet a law. One day it will be, I have no doubt, law stopped surprising me. But until then, my body has gotten used to change, and I can feel that tingling in the tuches of wanting to fly again.
Instead, I patted myself on the shoulder and said, "Shut up, Moriah. Sit still for a moment. You're home now. Find an apartment for a few months and allow yourself to get grounded, just a little, before you pack again. I say this for our own good."
It made sense to me, and I said, "When you're right, gorgeous, you're right."
As you know, unless you're a child or a tortoise, finding an apartment is one of the most tedious tasks in the world. Like looking for a restaurant to eat at - the more desperate you are, the more you'll compromise. While touring apartment after apartment, you imagine yourself getting back at the end of the day or waking up in the morning, making coffee in the kitchen or sitting in the evening drinking it on the terrace. While searching for apartments and comparing them, it occurred to me what a waste of time it is to search for an apartment. Then pity grew in me for the old people who are going to die and know they are going to die and don't know where they're going after. They have no way of finding out about the area, the neighbours, whether there's heating and how much airflow. And that's forever. They die and receive what is given to them - assuming, of course, that they don't fade into nothing.
It's a pity that there's no call centre for such inquiries. If there was, I guess it would sound something like this:
"Life after death Hello, Raziel speaking, how can I help you today?"
"Hello, I have a question. My husband passed away earlier than expected due to a system failure -"
"Welcome to our gates."
"Thanks. I wanted to know if when the time comes, my place with him will be assured."
"It's saved for two years from the arrival date of the first deceased. After two years, it involves a commission. The newly deceased will have to pay a waiting day surcharge in one of the hell sections we provide for every day we keep your place. In order not to stay there forever, of course, we expect arrival only by natural causes."
"Oh, dear. Is there at least an elevator? I have asthma."
"I can't lie to you -"
"Yes, I'd like your full honesty, please."
"No, I really can't lie, I'm an angel of the Lord. There's no elevator, and there are many stairs. Loads and loads. Although, if you have to wait in Hell's waiting room before you arrive, you can take a short cut via Route 666. We have provided stairs and a highway depending on the expected traffic load."
"And before I go in, can I visit the Pet Wing for a brief moment?"
"Only if you go through the counter and borrow sandals. Just don't forget to take off your sandals at the exit and return them when you leave. This service also involves an additional fee."
"Additional fee? Oh, no way, young man."
"I'm older than time, ma'am."
"I'm not paying that, kid. A long wait, stairs, I was told that the World Cup is also hard to catch, and now this? It's a scandal. I want to speak to your manager."
"The manager is busy dealing with a backlog of inquiries from thousands of years ago, ma'am. I'm transferring you to the complaints department."
It gives some proportion if you think about it. A few months in an apartment in Tel Aviv are nothing compared to eternity in another world. Maybe it's the full half of the glass. But what can I say, me and my affection to finish posts with a Punchline. It doesn't matter if the glass is half full or half empty; The main thing is that the water is not from Tel Aviv. Happy holidays.
