Splash!
In columns before, I have shared tales from the beautiful country of Israel. This year, I was fortunate enough to be there twice in a very short span of time. I had booked one trip in June, when United still wasn’t flying, because Danish had a new sister and I was hopeful that we would meet her this summer.
Because we weren’t sure if we were going to make it there this summer, we booked a trip on El Al, so that we knew that, God willing, at least we would be going in October. People who have children living in Israel have expressed the importance of always having a trip “on the books,” so you have something to look forward to.
So, what happens? United flies us there in July and then has the absolute nerve to leave us there!!!!! Ten days later (35 days in total for me) El Al, for a tidy sum, God bless capitalism and airline monopolies, returns us back to the US of A.
In any event, five weeks later, we were back on a plane to the Holy Land a few days before Yom Kippur and we were able to, thank God, spend two weeks with Danish and her extremely edible 4-month-old sister. And their very adorable parents. (And Son #3 and DIL #3, who are also there.)
Israel Banji is very different than America Banji. Maybe it is because I know less people in Israel. Who knows? Israel Banji has an extraordinary amount of patience when it comes to waiting on lines in the supermarket (which is her favorite place in any country).
So I have two stories to share with you. And, of course, both of them take place in a supermarket. And I wonder why I can’t lose any weight.
Tale #1: The lines are long at the quaint little market near where my kids live. It is erev yom tov, after all. I am standing, patiently, trying not to make any eye contact with any of the Oreos on line who are not related to me. And then, all of a sudden, some woman pushes in front of me.
I glance around, thinking, perhaps, she had left a cart in front of me and she was just returning to her rightful place on line.
Nope. “Eh, the man over there say to me that I should go here,” she mutters to me. Umm, ok.
Apparently the other cashier told this woman to go to my line. Did he actually tell her to cut in front of me? I will never know, but Israel Banji just smiled and said, “Am Yisroel Chai.” And I patiently waited my turn.
Tale #2: This one is a little better, so I hope I haven’t lost your attention yet.
Poor Husband #1 is not fond of the Fanta in Israel. He can only drink it from the can because, if we buy the bottle, he can see that the color of the soda is more yellow than orange. (No, you cannot make this stuff up. My newest DIL has a whole new respect for me after being subjected to Husband #1’s cuckoo-ness when it comes to food and drink.)
So being the dedicated wife I am, I head to the supermarket to buy him one last bottle of Coke to last till the end of our trip. The bottle is all the way on the back of the shelf, so I have to use a bottle of a different soda to push the Coke forward.
Unbeknownst to me, someone had opened a 12 pack of seltzer, but you couldn’t tell that it was open and the bottle I was using must have jostled the open box. Yes, you know where this is going.
Five or six cans started pelting me in the head and then continued their journey to the floor where they exploded all over me. All. Over. Me. My hair, my clothes, my shoes.
And, because I was in Israel, no one even tried to help. And because I was Israel Banji, I just started laughing. Unfortunately for Husband #1, I did not buy the Coke, because the lines had gotten too long and now I was soaking wet.
But don’t worry, he had orange juice with his meal. And I was fine too. (But thanks for asking.)
Banji Ganchrow of Teaneck was very sad to leave Danish and crew, but, baruch Hashem, got to spend the rest of the holiday season with Strudel and crew.
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