Our first attempt at ‘Let’s Pretend’ went so well, that I’m encouraged to give it another go. So let’s do it. Your significant other is hell-bent on taking an ocean voyage, something that doesn’t float your boat – if I may use that expression. You’d rather remain where you are, enjoying the comfort and security of terra firma. But of course S.O. is going to prevail; you know it; S.O. knows it; anyone who’s paying attention knows it. You grudgingly agree to the premise – as long as certain conditions are met, so you won’t be too put upon. You sign up for a cruise that meets both of your needs, and to save some money, you sign an agreement to let another family stay in your apartment while you’re gone. So far, so good.

However, you don’t hear from the cruise company. Something about refurbishing the ship and then they’ll contact you. Time passes, and S.O. starts to get a little nervous. What happens if there’s a problem and the ship won’t be ready on time? We’ll have no place to go. S.O. calls your travel agent. Don’t worry, you’ll hear from them. Plenty of time before you’re set to sail. Of course, distress is contagious, and after a while, you begin to get a tad concerned, although you figure everything will work out in the end. But in the meantime, you’ve been thinking about the cruise. You start to think about some of the events listed and places you’re supposed to visit. Not too shabby. OK, you’d still rather stay home, but that’s not an option, especially the weeks you’re supposed to be away. It’s no longer a matter of wanting to be on the cruise; in fact, you NEED to be on the cruise or you’ll both be sleeping on other people’s couches. Which just goes to show…

When the facts change…

‘When the facts change, I change my mind. What do you do, sir?’ That’s the famous quote from the British economist John Maynard Keyes, the remark he never made (joining a long list of well-known quotes that were never made or were made by somebody else). Sometimes you get to change your mind; sometimes your mind gets changed for you. When reality does what you don’t want it to do, if it’s too painful, you can fight it; otherwise you have a choice, accept it grudgingly, or you can roll up your sleeves and start making lemonade. (Maybe just a twist of lemon with the gin and tonic.)

It all happened in the twinkling of an eye. We’re going to move, said the wife; whereupon she found a real-estate agent to make it happen; and against all odds, she came upon THE apartment, which the building contractors had done almost nothing to sell and was there for the taking; a buyer for our apartment appeared out of the blue; we signed on the dotted line, and we will be the former owners of said apartment in a few short months. Asaf, the middleman, the only one who seemed to know what’s going on, kept assuring us that that THE new apartment is ours, but we (especially the wife) would feel a lot better once we have officially signed a contract. And it seemed to be taking longer than it should. THE apartment had to be made ready, then the contractor’s lawyer was off siting shiva, and then our lawyer was on vacation. All the while, Barbara was becoming more anxious every day. What happens if…

I maintained my composure by remembering where I am. This is Israel, where things move at their own unique speed having nothing to do with you. FINALLY, Emanuel, our lawyer, let us know. We were to meet at the contractor’s office, Wed. Sep. 4. Esther Cohen, our real-estate agent, would pick us up at 9:30 and take us there. (A sigh of relief was heard throughout the neighborhood.)

Twiddling our thumbs

Talk about being in a hurry to stand around and wait. We arrived at 10AM and twiddled our thumbs (or looked at our phones) until 11. Then we were ushered into the lawyer’s office – not the woman we had met before, thank God – and we got to be part of a signing party. You haven’t lived until you’ve done one of these. They sit you down at table and give you a pen. Then they hand you some forms to sign. You’re an accommodating sort, so you do the illegible scrawl that is your signature. Oh, more forms? You keep signing. Still more forms? You keep doing it. (Actually, it’s just your initials they want, but my full signature and my initials are exactly the same.) It’s not just that you have to sign every document; you have to initial every page of every document, and there are a lot of pages. Didn’t I just do this one? Silly me, imagining there would be only one or two copies of everything to sign. Just keep signing.

An hour and a half later, and we were almost done putting our initials on every piece of paper in sight: contracts, schematic drawings of what we were buying, attestations as to where we were getting the money and what we were getting for it. If some lawyer or bureaucrat thought of it, there was a form for us to sign. We were fortunate to have Esther with us to explain some of what was going on, as Emanuel’s English is sketchy at best. I suspect that Liat the lawyer’s English was better than she let on, but she wasn’t all that interested in using it. To be fair, a lot of what was in the contracts was for our protection. No way the kablan could put our money in a suitcase and head to the Galapagos – as has happened. And we were being told what we were getting (including the two parking spots for the cars we don’t own), and what we weren’t getting, as in an actual kitchen and air-conditioning. I had hoped there would be time to ask a few questions and get some useful information, like what the warranty on the apartment covers and how long is it for, and is the elevator in the building operational? Things like that. But by 1PM, everyone had had enough, and Emanuel was late for his next meeting, so on cue, everyone got up to go.

Not so fast

Not so fast. If nothing else, I’m not leaving here until you tell me who we’re supposed to contact if there’s a problem with the apartment, if there’s a leak, if one of the doors that wasn’t there, still isn’t there. Liat took a marker and wrote a phone number and two names on the cover of the folder we were given with our copies of everything we had just signed.. Now we can go.

(A week or so later, and Barbara and I decided it was time to take out the folder and take a peek inside. We began to sort through the documents as best we could. Barbara figured out that this 19-pager must be the actual contract because it had all these ‘ho-ils, which is the Hebrew version of ‘whereas.’ What’s next? Something entitled ‘mifrat machar,’which is a description of the property. This baby, replete with charts, comes to 28 pages. Then there are twelve additional pages, which we figured are changes or additions to the originals. You can never be too careful.

That take care of the documents. What about these drawings? This one seems to be THE apartment, at least it looks like it. This one? Seems to be a plan for the floor we’re on. It’s got the two apartments, the three storage rooms, the stairwell, and the elevator. So then what’s this diagram? It looks just like the others. What does it say? ‘luvi?’ LOBBY! That must be for the entrance level. In case we couldn’t figure out how to get into the building on our own. Actually it does make sense. Most of the business these contractors do is ‘on paper,’ selling to people before one bit of foundation dirt has been removed. You gotta give them something, even if it’s a drawing they can show friends and family. This is what we’re getting – whenever it’s ready.

Ein li musag

So far, so good. But these two diagrams? Ein li musag. (haven’t got a clue.) Thank God Barbara was paying better attention. That’s the roof and those rectangles, those are the solar panels. (Which ones are ours, it doesn’t say.) And this drawing? Equally as weird. Those six circles? Those are the dud shemeshes. (dudei shemesh? Let’s just say water heaters and be done with it.) There’s an area above our ceilings and below the roof where they’ve put the water heaters away from the elements. Good idea and aesthetically pleasing. But they didn’t mark which heater is ours and how big it is. We could have asked if we weren’t overwhelmed with the exercises in penmanship.

This diagram is easy; it’s the parking lot. They did mark off #52 and 53, the two spots allocated for the cars we don’t have. Last but definitely not least, this enormous drawing, folded up like a road map. (Remember those?) What in heaven’s name is it supposed to be? Oh, I’m holding it upside down; no wonder… It’s the entire complex, all right, the four buildings, the parking spaces, the stairway that replaces the winding snake path of recent memory. I can imagine someone having this doozy framed and hung on their wall while they’re waiting.  You gotta give them something.)

Out of idle curiosity, I began counting. Nineteen and twenty-eight and twelve, plus another five. That’s sixty-four pages on which we signed our name or initialed. That’s just what’s in our folder. Barbara, as best as you can remember, how many copies of each document did we sign? You think seven or eight? Times sixty-four. I’ll let each of you do the math if you’re so inclined. Let’s just say I left the meeting with some unanswered questions and a developing case of writer’s cramp. All in a day’s work? Maybe. Let’s just say we’re one step closer and leave it at that.

(More to come. I’m on a roll.)