20 September 2006

Yesterday a friend and I traveled to a sight for sore eyes – IKEA. In the bus from Tel Aviv driving along side the sea and multi-million dollar condos, the yellow and blue sign finally rises in the horizon, a beacon for yuppies all over the country. While the furniture is very similar to the models sold in the States, the sample rooms are set up to better fit Israeli homes – think compact. I walked around with a pencil and kept two different lists – the practical one which included my minimum needs and items on sale, and the I'm Bringing Half the Catalog to Jerusalem list. I ended up with five bags of non-furniture basic necessities – lamps, a small table, a tool box – and picked out a kitchen table, bed, and small couch and/or chair. As the store is restocking the bed I want, I'll probably go back next week.
The ride from Jerusalem to IKEA is less than two hours, but on the way back we got stuck in some of the worst traffic outside of Jerusalem for the middle of the week. Struggling to stay awake, I grabbed dinner and went to sleep.

Today was all about Hebrew University. My intention was to go up today to get my student ID, and meet with my admissions advisor and departmental advisor.
The admissions advisor lodges an angry call with the person over at Student Authority in charge of making sure the government pays for my tuition, claiming that a letter of acceptance in English is as good as one in Hebrew. Then she fills in a form in Hebrew which was the letter of acceptance. Fine, I said. I then arrive at my advisor – we talk; he asks me if I know what track I want, if I want to pursue a doctorate, and if so what topic it would be (Modern MidEast, yes, and it's a secret for now); he's impressed; and then I ask about my supplementary courses and Arabic language placement. I have two supplementary courses that are a joke (Islam 101 and MidEast History 101) which he said I'll finish in no time.
But Arabic? Where's your Arabic placement results, he asks? I never took a placement exam, I answer. The departmental secretary comes in, looks at my acceptance letter, and they both tell me that the International School (and not the regular school where I'm sitting) accepted me. Somehow despite the fact that I filled out the regular school's application months ago and made it clear that was my intention, coming from the States meant that the Int'l School was my choice. No wonder I wasn't getting any info all these months – each school thought I belonged to the other.
The secretary called up the Int'l School and explained the situation – we'll know in a few hours, she said, seriously trying to help me. There would be a chance that you won't be able to register with the other students until next month, she says. As for Arabic, there's a placement exam next week that you'll have to take. OK, I answer to everything, thinking I should have had that cup of coffee this morning and done my superstitious ritual of not assuming anyone would be helpful. At least it wasn't my fault, I say to myself, thinking that comment will somehow bring forth a bright warm light on the situation.
I drop off my stuff to meet a former colleague from DC, a shlicha (an "emissary" from Israel that works with a Jewish communit yabroad for a short period of time) that just returned home. She's on the other side of town, so I hop in a cab that decides to drop off a friend's wife on the way. at least the driver let me pay whatever I wanted for the scenic tour of Western Jerusalem. I finally find her, and she drives me home along with a donation of all sorts off house goods that I somehow managed to avoid making eye contact with at IKEA, for fear of buying.
As I'm showing her my apartment, the secretary calls back, saying everything's taken care of – you can register next week with the other students and take the Arabic exam, if there's any problem don't hesitate to call me or come up to campus.
The string of curse words going through my head all afternoon comes to an end, having just survived my first attack of Hebrew bureaucrazy. Finally it's time for that cup of coffee.