The American Election Disaster

 The most telling aspect of the recent elections was that I was more often asked if I’d voted, than whom I’d voted for. And almost exclusively by Israelis and other non-Americans (like my Russian co-worker who hasn’t stopped talking about the elections for the past 8 months, leading me to further develop my ability to look like I’m paying attention to the discussion, while actually taking a mental vacation). It was as if the subject was too painful for Americans to bring up. I know I certainly grimaced every time an Israeli asked me about the elections. Any time an American did bring up the elections, it was because they were one of the rare people who actually had a strong preference for one candidate over the other and wanted to bring you around to their point of view, as if it were possible for them to convince you that a) Trump is a respectable citizen with good judgment, or b) that Hillary Clinton wasn’t really responsible for all those little SNAFUs during her time as Secretary of State. Unfortunately those are just opinions, and you can’t convince people with your opinions (as opposed to actual facts) unless you’re a charismatic politician or a cult leader (often times the same thing). So the following argument would ensue:

Argument A:

“But Trump is strong, opinionated, and says what he thinks. Plus he really cares about Israel. Not like that liar Hilary Clinton.”

“It’s true that Trump says exactly what he thinks. Which is why most of the world is angry with him at the moment, myself included.”

“But he’s such a great guy! And his daughter is Jewish! Etc...”

Argument B:

“So a few emails got lost, big deal. At least she’s not Donald Trump.”

“So you’d vote for a candidate solely based on the fact that he’s not Donald Trump? Lot’s of people aren’t Donald Trump.”

“ANYONE would be better than Donald Trump.”

“Snoop Dogg’s not Donald Trump. Would Snoop Dogg be a better president than Donald Trump? What about that homeless guy that lives in Grand Central Station? Would HE be a better president? Etc...”

It was especially irritating when people got upset when I told them I wasn’t voting.

“But it’s your responsibility as an American citizen to vote!”

“Really? Because it seems more irresponsible than it does responsible to put one of these buffoons in charge of the most powerful country on Earth (until China catches up). Frankly, in my most uninformed, layperson opinion, being in the middle of a federal investigation and being a former reality t.v. star are automatic grounds for disqualification. In fact, I propose that we add those two questions to the presidential candidacy form. A yes to either of those questions bars you from continuing on to the next round.

The problem for the Republicans started when the entire coterie threw their hat in the ring, confusing the general public and splitting the vote between a few passable candidates, while not calculating the consequences that that would have on the tycoon and former reality t.v. star (who knows how to be the last contestant standing).

The problem with the Democrats began when they failed to find any decent candidates. All they could scare up was a commie (excuse me, a socialist, which is totally different), and Hillary Clinton (from wherever burrow she’d been hibernating in since her last unsuccessful bid for president).

I have no particular preference for any political party. I vote like I go to the hairdresser- don’t expect loyalty from me because I flip flop more than a former KGB agent currently selling his services to the highest bidder in Nigeria. I tend to vote for the person I feel is most likely to leave the country standing and the least likely to bring on Armageddon by the end of his term, and don’t quibble much over the other points. While the Israelis were having their “cottage cheese revolution,” I was focused more on progress with Iran on the nuclear front. Can you imagine how much more cottage cheese would cost for the remaining few humans after a nuclear fallout?

Johnny’s Visit to the Vet

 Johnny needed his teeth cleaned. ASAP. Too much human flesh in his teeth, I presume. So I made him an appointment at the JSPCA animal clinic, which is an 8 minute walk from my apartment without Johnny, and a 20 minute walk carrying Johnny. The plan was to bring him in in the morning and pick him up after work.

I warned my roommates the day before that they might hear hair raising shrieking in the morning, but not to worry, since it was just Johnny carrying on. I took the carrier out the night before so I could surprise him the next morning without having to fish him out from under the bed (sustaining multiple injuries in the process). The method for getting large, obstreperous cats into their carrier when you’re only one person is to stand it up with the opening facing up, and then drop the cat in head first. It may not be the most pleasant method for the cat, but it works.

The walk to the clinic was unpleasant as well. One of the downstairs neighbors came out to make sure no one was torturing babies in the hallway. I informed him I was just taking my cat to the vet and he seemed satisfied by that explanation and went back inside. Carrying a 23 lb. cat anywhere is a trial, and not for the weak of arms. By the time I got there, I was afraid I had lost the use of my arms forever. Ditto with my hearing.

The secretary asked me all kinds of questions while Johnny scared off a few small dogs, one of them being, “has he fasted for 12 hours?”

“No...... was he supposed to?”

“Yes.”

“No one told me that.”

“When was the last time he ate?”

“Twenty minutes ago, before we left the house.”

In the end, the vet decided he would just do the procedure later in the day and let me know when I could pick him up (figuratively speaking, since I wasn’t sure my arms would have recovered by then). I couldn’t even lift him onto the table. The vet had to help me, prompting the question, “whoa, is that all your cat, or is that carrier?” I assured him that it was the cat which weighed that much, not the carrier. He also asked me if Johnny was friendly, and I told him he’d better wait until the cat was under anesthesia before examining him if he had any kind of attachment to his skin.

I knew that there was no way I was going to be able to carry him back to the apartment, so I sent my roommate (the one with a car) a message asking him if he would be around in the evening and if he wanted to do me a favor. He said sure, no problem, he’d bring us back by car. So I sent him the address and a screenshot of a map with a “we are here” arrow.

I got the call from the vet on the way home from work, and called my roommate to let him know I was on my way there. When I got there, I told them I was there to pick up my cat. The first thing they asked me was, “what is that creature you brought us?” Everyone had questions about what kind of cat he is. It was as if the vet had pulled him out of the carrier, and then called everyone over to look at the humongous mutant cat. I explained that he’s a Norwegian Forest cat and that yes, they’re all that big. Meanwhile, Johnny was scaring away a large American bulldog puppy, while high on anesthesia.

I called my roommate to come get us. Thirty minutes later (it’s a 3 minute drive) I sent him a message to make sure he hadn’t been attacked by rabid wombats or something, and he called me to ask me where exactly the place was. I explained it to him and it turns out he’d been wondering around the neighborhood for half an hour with no real idea of where he was going. From this I learned that he requires instructions in writing, and that I need to make him repeat them to me afterwards to confirm that he knows where he’s going.

The vet had told me to give Johnny a small amount of food when I got home, wait an hour or so, and then give him a little bit more to make sure it wouldn’t upset his stomach. I put a handful or so of food in his bowl when we got home, and after he finished it, he just looked at me like where’s the rest? I went into the kitchen to eat something, and heard a loud thud coming from my room. I ran back in there to make sure he was ok, only to find that he had knocked over a 14 kilo bag of food and was gorging himself on what had spilled out. I tried to scoop up the food while he was still munching around my hands.

Watching Johnny stoned on ketamine, was quite an experience. My roommates asked if he could be like that all the time. They were able to walk by him without getting hissed or swiped at. He just meandered around the apartment with no real destination. He kept wandering over to his food or water dish, taking a bite or a swallow, forgetting why he was there, and then staring at the wall for the next 10 minutes. He repeated this procedure for maybe an hour before wandering off. I knew he was feeling more alert when I found him in the bathtub. And he slept on my bed at night as he usually does. By the next morning, my roommates were lamenting his return to normal, after his usual morning hissy fit.

Natania’s Guide On How Not To Sound Like An Idiot When You Speak

 This blog post is going to be more of an instructional guide than an accounting of my recent, and all too constant, bureaucratic hurdles. It has come to my attention over the last few years that the Americans I come across, either tourists or recent immigrants, sound exceptionally idiotic when they speak. This seems to apply mostly to high schoolers, college kids, and people in their young 20s. I don’t know the origin of this pandemic of inarticulate youth, since as far as I can tell, TV characters and media personalities don’t speak this way (though admittedly our soon to be president is hardly the most eloquent of celebrities). It’s unfortunate because many of these people are very intelligent people, but you’d never know it when overhearing their incomprehensible babble on the street.

Case in point: I was unfortunate enough to overhear a conversation between two girls on the bus. One was explaining to her friend that if she wanted to go into research, she’d have to get a PhD, etc. I was having a very hard time taking her aspirations seriously as the conversation went something like this:

“So, like, I think I might want to do, like, research or something. But like, I’d have to get a PhD. And like, my GPA is like, only a 3.3, not like, a 3.5 or whatever. So like, I hope they don’t look at only my grades, cuz like, grades aren’t everything. You know?”

I was just hoping that they aren’t going to base her acceptance on an interview, because if so, she’s pretty much screwed.

So here are my guidelines for all those of you who would like to be taken seriously as an intelligent human being, but face the obstacle of speaking like a teenage girl. Remember, I’m not judging you. I just really want to help. Because listening to you speak hurts my brain and makes me want to stick forks in my ears to both drown you out, and confuse the pain centers in my central nervous system. So here goes:

1) Gather your thoughts: If you don’t know what you want to say, then just don’t. Think about what you want to say and how to say it before you actually do say it. Don’t start talking if you have no idea how to end the sentence. No one has time to listen to you tell a rambling 10 minute story about how the supermarket ran out of milk. If you can’t tell your story in a minimum of words, then don’t bother. It probably wasn’t that interesting a story anyway. Especially if it was about milk.

2) Don’t use fillers: Don’t pepper your speech with words that have no meaning other than to occupy empty space. For example- like, whatever, and my personal favorite- so like, whatever. These fillers are speech habits that can be broken if we are made conscious of them. My sister had a friend who said the word “like” so often that my dad started counting out loud. It took her a while to figure out what he was counting, though my sister was much quicker on the uptake. Have a friend do this to you. Preferably a friend you already didn’t like much since this gets annoying very quickly and may end up with said friend in the emergency room with a broken nose.

3) Don’t end sentences like questions: You know what I’m talking about. That lifting of tone at the end of a sentence signifying either a question or insecurity with the statement just made. The one that makes irritating pedants ask, “is that a statement or a question?” I will freely admit to being annoyingly pedantic. My father knows this well (as he carries the brunt of my snotty observations). And amazingly still loves me. My father is an inspiring man. In any case, at least pretend to be convinced of the accuracy of your statement.

So please, for the sake of America’s reputation, try not to sound like a moron when you speak. You’re only adding fuel to the fire. The Europeans are already laughing at us. And the Japanese have begun referring to us as “the bipedal primate clan.”

The Exceptional Exceptions Committee

 I had mentioned to my Professor that I was interested in doing a Master’s degree at some point. I had also asked him if it was possible to get a raise once I finished my Bachelor’s degree. He thought that there was an automatic raise from the university once you finish your bachelor’s degree but that I should check with the secretaries about it. I did, and unsurprisingly no such thing happens for hourly workers, only for workers with a set monthly paycheck (who are these mystical people and do they actually exist?). So as a college graduate with a B.Sc. who regularly does DNA testing and engineers bacteria, I essentially earn the same amount as the guy who spreads chumus on your pita at Shlomi’s Falafel. Luckily for humanity, my main motivator is not money, which is why I still work there. I happen to love my job and feel somewhat appreciated by my coworkers and boss (less so by the mice). That doesn’t mean that this job is sustainable for the long term. I have bills to pay and mouths to feed (and Johnny’s is a large mouth to feed).

He asked me about it one day, if I had checked with the secretaries about a pay increase and I informed him that unfortunately hourly workers do not receive a raise upon receiving a degree. He thought about it for a few seconds and asked me if I’d be interested in applying for a Master’s degree starting next semester. So I though about it for a few seconds and answered that I just might be. The only problem? My grades. I was 2.2 points short of the acceptance requirements. On the other hand, I have two things going for me- 1) I’ve been working in a research lab for over a year 2) I’m an immigrant who finished university in a foreign country with a foreign language. So it’s entirely possible that they could make an exception for me, as I’ve heard has been made for other olim.

So “we” started the process- first stop, set up a meeting with the professor in charge of advanced degrees to discuss my chances of being accepted. Easier said then done. She was out of the country for a week, then couldn’t fit me in for another two weeks after she got back. When she did finally get around to speaking with me, I was informed that they had decided this year that they would not accept anyone with an average below an 80, no exceptions. Buuuuuuut, if the exceptions committee (yes, HU has a committee for exceptions though there are no exceptions. Unless they make an exception.) decided, they could accept me “on condition” which would require a year of make up classes, and then if I had an average of above an 80, I would be accepted to a Master’s degree. Well that sounds super fun. Another year of school for no reason! All I had to do was write a request letter, send in my grades and a recommendation letter from my professor, and they’d decide what to do.

Well, I didn’t really have much of a choice. This is life for Natania. Jumping through hoops of fire has become something of a habit for me. I suppose if this whole science thing doesn’t work out, there’s always the circus. Maybe I could even bring Johnny. He’s certainly something of an attraction. I would call him “the Mighty Vegetable Hunter” or “the Majestic Biting Viking Cat.” If not, maybe Shlomi’s hiring.

The good news is that in the end, they only gave me two make up classes next semester so I can start the Master’s next year (assuming I don’t completely drop the ball on this one. And then trip over it, falling on my face). I think the university just enjoys torturing me.

Speaking of which, they seem to have “forgotten” to pay me this month. This is what happens in an overly bureaucratic system where every step requires a special form and 3 different signatures of very specific people who are either on vacation/sick/have a sick kid/are out of the office at the moment/etc. I checked my bank account on the first of the month, when I get paid. No money had been deposited but since it was New Year’s day, I figured maybe the banks were on vacation/sick/have a sick kid/out of the office and I cut them some slack. When I still had not received my paycheck the next day, I went to the secretaries to ask what was going on. They looked quite harried and were running around like ADD kids given too many tasks at once. It turns out that when the head secretary had left her post at Ein Kerem to work at Har Hatzofim, she had not quite finished everything that she had needed to do. In addition, her son had been sick so she had been out of the office even when she was technically still working there. I was informed that the head secretary has to fill out a form every 2 months for all the hourly workers to renew their work approval so that they can get their paychecks. This sounds like more unnecessary paperwork to me, but HU has an entire department dedicated to creating more paperwork and other obstacles standing in the way of a generally uncomplicated life. At least in my imagination they do. With a row of elves tapping away at typewriters, and Soviet bureaucrats hovering over them devising more and more ways of making everyone’s lives hell.

In short, the secretary had not taken care of such trivial matters as people’s ability to pay rent and buy food before she had left and no one else had access to her systems. Nor could they decipher the notes and tables she had left on her desk which allegedly documented her activities (though they could also have been bets taken on the races for all I know). Her replacement is only arriving in a few weeks (probably with absolutely no idea of what’s going on) and the other secretaries were swamped (a line of unhappy looking people had begun to form behind me). They tried calling various people (none of whom answered) and looking stuff up on the computer (which froze), so I left them to it and went back to work (which I would hopefully be paid for eventually).

The next day I planned to go back and check on their progress with the matter. But with all the work they had to do, and backlog of urgent matters, they had decided to take a day off. The next day I again intended to check progress but couldn’t get to work due to the drivers of my favorite bus company going on strike and shutting down an entire city. I finally made contact on Thursday and was informed that they were trying to get me an advance so at least I’d get something. I thought that was very generous of them since I hadn’t gotten paid in 5 days due to their bureaucratic incompetence, and general ineffectiveness, but you take what you can get.

In a normal company, this story would have gone like this: “Hey, I didn’t get my paycheck this month.” “Oh, the secretary who deals with finances left and I guess she never got around to it. I’ll call the accountant and have him write you a check by the end of the day. And as an apology, please take this plate of cookies.”

Everyone Settles In

 The day after I moved out my father walked outside to find a small starving kitten on the wall leading up to our building. He had just been preparing sushi and when he stretched out his hand to the kitten, he started licking it. Needless to say, my parents now have a kitten. When my dad picked him up, he fit in the palm of his hand. He brought the kitten inside, and the kitten immediately scarfed down about 3 times his weight in cat food.

The kitten, formally known as Lucky, informally known as “the black devil,” reminds us all of me as a child. After watching him run and jump and play for half an hour without pause, I finally understood what they meant when they said that having me was like having 3 kids. He can go on like this for hours until he finally passes out for his afternoon nap. Then he wakes up and continues running, jumping, and attacking. All night. He gets banished to my room at about 6 in the morning, when he gets rowdy with Pooms. Pooms does not appreciate being jumped on and attacked by a young upstart so when the hissing starts, they have to be separated. This is all well and good, unless I’m sleeping in my room at the time. I was warned one shabbat when I came home for a quiet, relaxing weekend that my room was the new “time out” zone. The door opened promptly at 6 o’clock in the morning, and one small, hyperactive black ball of fur was deposited into detention. He then initiated a cycle of whining at the door, playing in the litter box my parents had so nicely provided for him (in my room. Where I sleep), and attacking my feet. This lasted about 15 minutes until he was ejected into the hallway.

Pooms has not being taking the appearance of a new kitten very well. Lucky attacks anything that moves, especially if it’s small and four-legged. She hisses, swats at him, and then runs away. He is not deterred by this reaction and considers it a game to chase her around the house. Poor Pooms was rescued from one bully, only to get stuck with another, albeit smaller one. So if anyone wants a cat, we’ve got a few available.

In other news, I’ve settled into my new place. I was alone in the apartment the first few days until my roommates came back from wherever it was that they’d been. Which made it difficult to eat since I didn’t know where anything was in the kitchen. I may not have seen my roommates, but I did meet the neighbors the first night. They knocked on my door at 21:30 to request that I stop moving furniture around (as if it was 2 in the morning or something). Which was unnecessary since the only furniture that came with the room was a bed. I assured them that I had no more furniture left to move and they went away.

The next day I assembled the desk I had brought with me from Ma’ale Adumim and lugged up 3 flights of stairs in pieces. The next task was to order a clothes cupboard which I did from Home Center. It arrived “promptly” two weeks late after numerous calls from the delivery guy who kept making appointments to deliver it and then not showing up. I finally had to email the company (they don’t even have a call center) threatening to cancel the whole order unless it showed up by the end of the week. Which it miraculously did.

I decided that the guys had been living in the apartment too long and needed a bit of a shake up. Which I generously provided by gradually rearranging the entire kitchen. Everyday I would move or rearrange something else. My OCD required that I go over the entire kitchen, organizing and making everything more efficient. It was kind of like a game to see how much I could change without anyone’s brain exploding from the shock.

Johnny too settled in, and quite quickly. In fact he may have gotten a bit too comfortable. One of my roommates found him sitting on his bed, staring at him in the middle of the night. Johnny did not appear to be embarrassed by his creepy nightly behavior. In typical cat fashion he refused to sleep in his own bed, the one I had optimistically brought with me. It took him about a month or so to decide that it actually wasn’t so bad after all.

In addition, he seems to have come up with a game where he sees how many toys he can toss into his food or water dish. Of course then there was the morning when I woke up and there was nothing in his food bowl because he had knocked it over during the night.

He has not endeared himself to my roommates by hissing at anyone who approaches him. Even if the only reason they’re approaching is because he’s sitting in the middle of the hallway, blocking access to the bathroom. He doesn’t care. He still wishes plague and pestilence upon them. After finding his freshly made challah nibbled on (it had been wrapped in two plastic bags which did not survive the ordeal), my roommate asked me if I could train him not to jump on the table. I just laughed. Incidentally, I forgot to warn the other roommate about Johnny’s penchant for challah, with similar results for the poor, helpless challah, which was found the next morning on the floor. Clawed open and nibbled on.

Johnny’s crowning moment is what I have designated “the shower curtain incident.” I was awoken in the middle of the night by a loud crash and then a slam. Any pet owner will tell you that the first thing one does in such a situation is try to locate the pet. He wasn’t in my room which told me that there was a very good chance he needed rescuing. Most likely from himself. The bathroom door was closed, which it isn’t usually since his litter box is in the laundry room attached to the bathroom. I tried to open the door, but it was wedged shut. I managed to slip a foot in and kick away what turned out to be the shower curtain rod blocking the door. Johnny was standing frozen in the laundry room. I tried to call him out but he refused to move. Finally after enough persuasion, he hightailed it outta there as fast as his oversized legs could carry him. As he ran by, I noticed he was wet. At this point one of my roommates lumbered out of his room rubbing his eyes and asked me what was going on. My response was “the shower curtain fell down.” This was met by a moment of silence, and then “it just fell?” I shrugged and answered “yep.”

So I’m standing there pretending I have no idea how this happened, meanwhile my cat is wet and there’s a small puddle of water in the bathtub. But the next morning he asked me again, “so the shower curtain fell, huh?”

“Yep.”

“All by itself?”

At this point I felt he was a bit too alert for me to play dumb, so I hesitantly answered, “well it may have had help. Johnny may have had something to do with it. But he’s not talking.”

Later I asked the other roommate (who sleeps like the dead) if he had by any chance heard anything in the middle of the night. Indeed he had. He’d been just about to fall asleep when he heard a crash outside his room...

This was unfortunately not his last bathtub adventure. We find him in there every once in a while, just chilling. As if this is a totally normal place for a cat to hang out. I guess that’s what happens when your cat is waterproof.

Johnny Anoints Himself Supreme Ruler

 I finally got a response from someone in Baka on one of the apartment hunting groups on Facebook. In addition, a friend had gotten me in touch with a friend of hers who was looking for a third roommate. I took a day off from work and went to visit both places, which happened to be in a 10 minute walking distance from one another. The first place was a really nice apartment, big kitchen, clean, big bedrooms. The woman living in the apartment seemed friendly enough, but didn’t seem too thrilled with the idea of a cat. The deal breaker was keeping the litter box in my bedroom. Truthfully there wasn’t enough room in the bathroom for a litter box anyway, but no one wants to sleep with a toilet in the room next to them. And litter has a tendency to get EVERYWHERE. Which is fine when you can just sweep it up from the bathroom floor every few days. But now imagine finding it in your shoes, and in your bag, and in your bed, and in your socks. It turns into living in a sand box which has been pooed in. That was not what I had imagined when I pictured leaving the nest for a world of exciting new adventures. At no point did brushing cat litter out of my hair every morning figure in to the picture. Although to be totally truthful, I didn’t so much as leave the nest as fall out of the nest onto my face. But the last thing I need is to fall onto my face into a pile of used cat litter.

The second place I went to to visit was in Mekor Chaim, behind the Hadar Mall. The place was 3 flights up with no elevator, but I do that ascent every day at work just to wake me up and get some exercise. The two guys living there were looking for a roommate after their previous one got married. The old lease was up at the end of July, and they needed someone to move in August 1^st (which was the next week). They seemed like pretty laid back guys. The kitchen was big and functional and both guys cooked. They seemed a bit wary of living with a cat, and I wasn’t sure how they felt living with a female since they were both religious. They had agreed to meet me though, so there was hope. I on the other hand required a place where I could bring Johnny and where there was a kosher kitchen, and no smoking. I have pretty low standards, what can I say. Incidentally, I had written a message to one of the guys who had posted the apartment on one of the many Facebook groups I had been thrust into, but had not gotten a response. I didn’t discover that this was the same apartment until after setting up a meeting with them.

To my surprise, I got a text message that Thursday evening that the room was mine if I was still interested. And thus, we had a match born out of desperation. One of the guys had never lived with a woman before and the other had been married for 5 years and so had some experience (though how good that experience was I can’t say). I did live with a male roommate in Talpiot, along with a 39 year old Polish woman (actually they were both Polish) and her dog (who was not Polish but understood many languages due to the variety of nationalities of the woman’s friends). Frankly the dog was the best roommate I’ve ever had (aside from literally eating my homework one afternoon), but the only demands she made on me was my dinner and a belly rub now and then. The guy was in the army at the time though so I saw him for a total of maybe an hour or two a week, since he came home Thursday night or Friday and I went back to Ma’ale Adumim for shabbat. I only stayed in the apartment twice over shabbat and one of those times the electricity shorted 5 minutes after shabbat started. That was a very dark shabbat. So it would be a new experience for me as well. I couldn’t see that it would make much difference though since it’s not like I walk around naked or anything. And I tend to get along better with guys anyway, since there’s always less drama.

Which brings to mind a particular scene at a female friend’s place, when her new (23 year old) roommate announced that she had invited 2 guys over after lunch. We’re like, “ok, cool.” The friend had invited a bunch of people over after lunch anyway for games and such. The roommate proceeded to tell us why this was a HUGE problem (all while twirling her hair around a finger) because she invited the first guy over, whom she’s not into, but now maybe he thinks she’s into him, but she’s really into the second guy she invited, but she doesn’t know if he’s into her, and maybe he’ll think she’s into the first guy, and so on. The rest of us in the room just stared at her, failing to comprehend where the problem lied, and why she required alcohol to deal with two guys she’d invited over after lunch. I commented, that I couldn’t remember being like that when I was young, and my friend promptly replied, “you weren’t.”

So the next week saw me moving in my two carloads of stuff (ok, some of it was Johnny’s) and carrying it all up 3 flights of stairs with the much appreciated help of my dad. Johnny adjusted fairly quickly and was happy to be the sole feline in the house (and supreme ruler of the apartment which is what happens when a) you’re a cat; b) you’re a 10 kg cat). All that was left was to get some additional furniture and for my roommates to adjust to having a cat in the house (which Johnny didn’t make easy owing to the shower curtain incident and his formerly unknown love of challah). But these are stories for another day.

The Jerusalem Housing Crisis (and Pigeon Poo)

 Thanks to two quarrelsome cats, I was apartment hunting a few months earlier than I had anticipated.

I started cruising the Yad2 website again to see what kind of apartments were available in which neighborhoods for what price range. I was debating between finding an apartment and then looking for roommates who don’t mind cats and finding a room in an apartment where they don’t mind cats. I was also aiming for a place that was not too far from work or at least on one of the bus lines. The one and a quarter hour trip to work, via 2 buses and a train, was driving me crazy. Not to mention the unexpected road/tunnel/checkpoint closures that occur between Ma’ale Adumim and Jerusalem, and the daily traffic on the way to the central bus station within Jerusalem.

I contacted a few people to arrange to see available apartments in my price range, either 2 or 3 bedrooms. The first place I saw was a really nice apartment not far from Yad Sarah and Sha’arei Tzedek Hospital, a relatively easy journey to work. The family had made sure to let me know that due to the government earthquake proofing construction plan, there was a lot of construction going on in the area. What I didn’t realize until I got there to look around, was that the construction was going to be in the building. On the apartment. For 4 months. Which explained why the family was leaving. I decided however, that I want to live in a construction zone for 4 months as much as they want to live in a construction zone for 4 months and passed on the apartment. The visit wasn’t a total waste though since I got to pet their adorable Labrador.

The second apartment I went to visit was in Katamonim. The building itself appeared to be in the process of decomposition. Things were dripping from the walls outside and pieces were hanging off the sides (hopefully not important pieces). The woman who answered the door was the tenant who was moving out and had no idea who I was or why I was standing there. Apparently the landlord expected her to show me around but hadn’t informed her that I was coming. The apartment was in complete disarray, the entire floor and the remaining furniture were covered with what was obviously the contents of the furniture and all shelving units and cupboards. There was a pungent odor coming from the kitchen, from underneath a pile of heaped up garbage. She gestured to where the oven allegedly was but it too was hidden underneath piles of various and sundry household items.

The third place I looked at in Talpiot was being shown by a realtor. It was not advertised as such on the appropriate section of the real estate listings so I did not know this until the realtor replied to my message. I didn’t really know what this entailed although I assumed there would be some fee involved on my part if I wanted the place. After setting up a time to meet and then changing it 3 times, she arrived late to the apartment, and made me sign a bunch of documents before she even let me into the apartment. Which is good, because she couldn’t remember which apartment it was. There were three apartments on the floor; she tried opening two of them with the key she had and then gave up and called her coworker to ask which door it was. I had already figured out which apartment it was based on the process of elimination but her brain had not yet made that connection. When she finally did let me in, I was speechless. Why she thought anyone would be willing to pay an extra month’s rent as a realtor’s fee for an empty apartment inhabited only by pigeons, I can’t imagine. She showed me around a bit after she finished shrieking and waving her arms around at the pigeons. The place could most kindly be described as a dump. Missing toilet seats, sockets and wires hanging out of walls, a window in the living room looking out onto the pipes of the service shaft in the center of the building. The pigeon poo did not help matters. Obviously the owners had been unable to rent out the place themselves, so had decided to try to rent it out with the help of an air headed real estate agent. I had enough experience with old unrenovated Talpiot buildings in the past to know that I was not in the least interested. Waking up every morning and thanking G-d that your ceiling has not yet collapsed upon you as you slept is not a prayer anyone should have to say.

That was the last straw. This spiraled into a deep depression on the literally deteriorating state of apartments in Jerusalem for reasonable prices.

I decided to try my luck with people in already established apartments looking for roommates. My logic was this: a) If people are already living there, there must be a minimum of furniture in the apartment, at least enough for functionality; b) The apartment is probably at least somewhat livable, otherwise there would be no one living in it. This seemed like sound logic. And so I began the next stage of my research.

It turns out there are some 20 odd Facebook groups dedicated to helping people find apartments or roommates or sublets, etc. in Jerusalem. There are groups for apartments/roommates in Jerusalem in Hebrew, groups in English, groups for kosher apartments, groups for inexpensive apartments, groups for apartments in Rechavia, groups for apartments in Baka, groups for apartments in Rechavia/Baka, etc. A friend offered to add me to a few groups. Three minutes later I was a member of about 10 different Facebook groups. I quickly discovered that there are no groups for apartments looking for a roommate with a cat. This was obviously an oversight on someone’s part.

I posted on a few of the more relevant groups that I was looking for a kosher apartment, but that I also have a cat. I even uploaded a picture of Johnny, because who can resist that face?! The responses I got were either from people who already had a cat, or from people tagging a friend who already had a cat. I was forced to amend my original post with “Cat does not get along with other cats!” Unfortunately cats are not like children. You can’t put them in a room together and expect them to being playing peacefully with Legos when you come back. The most you can hope for is a relatively low bill for damages and no need for a vet visit.

I messaged a bunch of people with promising apartments and asked them how they felt about cats. The response was overwhelmingly negative. I started to take personal offense at people’s obviously misguided perceptions of felines. This spiraled into a deep depression on the deteriorating state of humanity.