Give Me A Little Credit

Flying back to Israel on El Al can be a chaval al hazman (one hell ov an) experience. I don’t mean to be snooty but a ten hour flight in 2009 without a personal screen and old fashioned pre laptop overhead storage (small) either assumes that your average traveller from Bangkok is strung out from one form of self abuse or another or has never indulged themselves in any sort of non party approved extravagance since a long weekend in Tiberias in the 1950’s.
But its not all despondency flying on an airborne version of an Egged bone rattler. At least you get pre 11/9-leg room.
However, and notwithstanding, if they do decide to press charges against me, I doubt all that would count for mitigating circumstances.
The predicament really starts a few weeks beforehand. I don’t know about you but in the past my experience in Australia with Israeli credit cards had not been user friendly. The ATMs have never recognised my secret card code. You can note that Israeli caspomats, not to be outdone, and in typical fashion, returned the favour tit for tat and didn’t honour my father’s Australian credit card either. But this time mysteriously enough, I did manage to take money out from the ATMs in Australia with my Israeli card, starting at Bondi Junction. That was good news, it's the first time I’ve had that convenience out there in Oz.
However if you want to evade the heavy bank commission on OS withdrawals you do tend to do your retail shopping transactions directly onto your credit card instead of in cash. But that can be an anxiety causing experience too.
With every retail transaction you make the salesperson swipes your card through the gizmo and then asks you is that on credit or savings? I mean who in Israel has savings in a bank and who’d pay you interest if you did, anyway?
What does an Israeli answer to such a question?
“Oh please just add it to my overdraft.”?
But by trial and error and no insignificant amount of anxiety I concluded that its best to answer-credit. It worked for me.
Well most of the time. There was the incident in David Jones nonetheless, when I bought an expensive suit and my credit was rejected. How did I feel? Let me tell you. I felt very suspect. Here I was intending to attire myself like a mench purporting to pay a pretty hefty sum of money, and on my own account, whilst unshaven for two weeks, with alopecia patches in my beard, looking as scruffy as an Israeli character actor in a Hollywood action movie; but nevertheless incongruously speaking fluent English. I was sure they’d call security any second. Luckily my sister was there to bail me out.
Not withstanding that trauma, the rest of the time my transactions all went through, all right. Oh and lest we forget, the latest innovation in Australian credit card transactions is, lo and behold, “Will that be by signature or on your PIN?" I took to typing in my PIN. As it is I’m no longer used to signing my name in English. Luckily for me the PIN worked every time, not counting the David Jones incident.
The other potential trauma in Australia is inadvertently bringing foodstuffs undeclared through customs, much worse than accidentally buying a vegemite horseshoe roll at the school canteen on chol hamoed pessach. You’re strictly limited on liquid quantities too. That can put you in a bind if you've purchased the Glenlivet deal and bought 2 bottles of it, a sorely tempting promotion for wayward types like me, offered in every duty free location I stepped into on my travels. But the Aussies have a duty free arrangement providing a simple way around those alcohol customs hassles. They have a duty free shop, plonked right in your path just as you embark from the plane. It makes for some lucrative business opportunities for some folks, but I settled for deferred gratification when it came to the Glenlivet deal.
As my return date approached all this stiff upper lip customs attitude in Australia was unnerving me a bit, even though we're talking about a return flight to Israel. I was perplexed as to how many bottles of Glenlivet I could bring into Israel. I hadn't thought to check it out ahead of time. I guess I was too busy with prezzies for everyone else. (dumb metrosexual stuff) So I compromised and didn't do the 2-bottle deal on that very nice single malt at any of the airports I passed through, but settled for a good ol' Chivas, bought on the El Al plane. Figured that'd be safe enough.
So with the duty free call I toddled off to the back of the plane to place my order. I gave the stewardess my credit card and while she swiped it through the little credit card machine I was wondering if I should say credit or savings account. But she asked me a trick question i.e. should she charge it in dollars or shekels? “Whichever comes out cheaper,” I said. Meanwhile I was still wondering if I should say credit or savings account. But she didn't ask that. Instead she just passed the little machine in my direction, with the slip of paper sticking through. So I asked her if I should put in my PIN?
Of course all of that duty free transaction, except for the word PIN, was carried out entirely in Hebrew, and it took me a minute before I realised my mistake. Then I started apologising profusely.
I'm still nervously watching my mail for a sexual harassment indictment.
And for the uninitiated, as anyone who has had a kid go through Israeli kindergarten knows, pin is the Hebrew word for penis.