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Jewdoo Economics
The Israeli economic system belies common sense. So far as I can tell, on average, wages are about half of what they might be in the States. Yet, many things cost twice as much— certainly, anything imported. Electronics, fuel and utilities are significantly more expensive than in North American. How people manage to survive with such a disparity, I haven’t been able to get my head around.
The goal of many is to own their own home. But by home, I mean “condo” as most people live in apartments. The benefits of that aren’t entirely clear. mortgage structures are radically different. The minimum down is typically 20%— with preference to borrowers who put down 50%. Additionally, many interest rates are linked to cost of living, which during the inflationary 80s and early 90s could fluctuate wildly. And after squeezing you on terms, most mortgages further require guarantors.
An older article from the JPost describes some of the options.
Hosteling
Last night I checked into a hostel near the Tel Aviv beach, as the weather was (finally!) expected to be good. The room I’m in is shared with Brian, a 20-something Aussie who had visited Israel years before. He returned because he felt something had been left unfunished here. He’s resolved to learn Hebrew and has started in at a nearby ulpan, an intensive language and cultural school. It’s Hebrew only from day one, and he missed the first day. Back in Australia, he was a self-taught furniture designer. Here, he had been making some money on the side putting down decking for a beach-front restaurant. He also teaches children to surf.
The majority of the residents appear to be from South Africa, but strangely, didn’t come together. I figure it’s because Israel is the closest Westernized country for summering South Africans to visit. At the hostel’s front bar is Kevin, a 30ish bloke from Northern Ireland. I can barely understand him, although it’s not due to his accent. He speaks in a low murmer, which makes his drunken speech even more incomprehensible. He’s spent years in Israel on-and-off, and when prompted can speak Hebrew. Although, I imagine the locals would have even more trouble with his murmering — most Israelis seem to maintance conversations at argument decibels.
I spent the morning exploring the area along the seashore. Its a mix of upscale hotels and run down concrete buildings from the British Mandate period. Then up Allenby Street to the Carmel Market — a street market (or “shuk”) for new goods and produce that runs for about two blocks. On Tuesdays and Fridays there’s a parallel art/crafts fair along Nachlat Benjamin street.
While sending off an email at the hostel’s Internet terminal, I glanced over at a bookshelf next to me, holding the shared library. Hostelers can exchange reading material by taking something and leaving another. I skim the slimmer volumes. Most are in Hebrew or Afrikaans. The book closest to me, however, is a white-bonded paperback titled simply “Kaddish.” I take it down from the shelf.
Another serendipity: it’s an extended examination on the Mourner’s Kaddish — the prayer said exclusively by a son for a deceased parent. The author is Leon Wieseltier, whose own father passed away in 1996. Wieseltier who had fallen away from devout Judaism twenty years earlier, began saying the Kaddish daily, as prescribed by Jewish tradition. He also began keeping a journal of his introspection and research on why he was reciting this strange prayer for the dead, which exults the glory and greatness of God, but never once mentions death. This is the prayer I’ve had to memorize; the one I’ve been saying at every occassion; the one I’m supposed to say for a whole year, as Wieseltier did.
It’s all too much. I stow the book away to read later.