You haven't experienced a foreign country until you've dealt with their postal service

The only task of any importance I had on my last day in Israel was to mail 10-15 pounds of useless stuff to Barcelona. Since I’d already unsuccessfully gone to the post office the day before only to find it closed, I at least knew where I was going this time. I didn’t have boxes or any packaging material, just my big blue oranim backpack full of stuff. I got to the post office and took a number – 37. I look up at the counter – 25. Ok, so I’m gonna be here a while. You could tell, just by looking around and the  “ready to pounce” look on people’s faces around the two tellers that sitting and waiting their turn in a system that actually enforced it was just contrary to every fiber of their being. Finally it was my turn and luckily, the lady spoke English. She stared at my backpack for a long time, trying to figure out how to mail it. Apparently, the post office doesn’t sell boxes. She thought about putting the label directly onto the backpack, then realized that probably wouldn’t work. “You know what,” she says to me “ go outside and find a box, and we’ll tape it.”

“Outside?” I ask, making sure I’m understanding her correctly. The only thing outside is trash bins.

“Yeah, outside. You should be able to find boxes there. Then come back to me, you don’t need to wait in line again.”

So, off I go, outside. I walk past 5 or 6 trashbins, all of which are empty. It looks like the trash was just collected. Then I go towards the other stores in the strip mall. First I find myself at the back entrance of a bakery, and I see a stack of folded down boxes. I ask the lady baking bread inside if I can take a box, and she tells me she needs the boxes. Strike 1. I then walk into a convenience store that looks like it gets stuff delivered in boxes. The man behind the counter speaks no English but, SHOCKER, speaks Russian. I ask him for a box and he says to come back tomorrow, tomorrow he’ll have boxes. Tomorrow doesn’t work for me. Strike 2. Finally, I walk into the small grocer/vegetable stand where Katie and I buy fruits and vegetables on Tuesday (they have the nicest looking tomatoes) and I ask the man , who informs me he speak no English, for boxes. He takes me into the back where he and another old man start digging through piles of boxes of different sizes. They find a box that’ll fit my backpack, but there’s no lid. So off they go into the back and emerge eventually with a lid, but definitely not for that box. That doesn’t phase anyone, though, and after some shoving and squishing and taping, I have a package I can send to Barcelona. Thank you, grocer man!

I come back to the post office but, alas, the lady that told me to come to her and that I wouldn’t have to wait in line again was no longer there. So, I take another number. 54. I look up at the counter. 42. Great. Nevertheless, 2 hours later and 200 shekels poorer, I had succeeded in shipping my completely useless crap to Barcelona. I hope it gets there.