Memoirs of a Happy Freier

So I have this friend.  We have a lot of similarities. Both of us came on Aliyah not long ago.  We have similar given names, though with different English spellings. People sometimes confuse us. Not that we look alike. He has red hair, for instance. Also, he has hair. But despite these similarities, we are really, utterly different.

My friend is a Freier.  And he does not seem to mind.

As you probably know, a Freier is a sucker, someone whose clueless naivete makes him almost a pleasure to take advantage of. No self-respecting Israeli wants to be taken for a Freier. Any oleh who wants to eventually fit in here would not want to be thought a Freier.

Yet my friend does not seem to mind.  He almost seems to like being taken for a ride. When it comes to becoming Israeli, my friend has a lot of work to do.

What’s in a Name?

Like many olim, including me, Allen has kept his foreign name, which is the same as mine, but spelled differently. Both of us were given Hebrew names, to be used in shul or among other galut insiders.  (The name he got was Achitophel.) But, like me, he was advised to keep his foreign name; otherwise his Israeli name would not have match his foreign passport and other official documents, making it hard for him to board a plane or get a mortgage.

And so his Hebrew name, like mine, is אלן, which Israelis pronounce, “Elen.”  For some reason he spells his English middle name Cydney. In Hebrew this is סידני, which, besides sounding ridiculous, is a bit long for a Hebrew name. His kupat cholim therefore cut the last letter, so to them he is אלן סידן, Elen Sidan.

“Sidan” is a good Hebrew word, referring to a hard mineral. It is not often used in naming.

Moving to Israel can indeed be transformative.  Through the alchemy of Aliyah, Allen Cydney became Elen Calcium.

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Walking in the shuk and being taken for a ride

I accompanied my Elen to the Mahane Yehuda shuk in Jerusalem. As we strolled the busy aisles he spotted, “Halvah Kingdom.” I like halvah,” said Elen. “I think.” We met its owner, Haim.

Elen was delighted to see they had a sale going on. “I am Elen,” said Elen. “I am Haim,” said Haim.

“Today only,” said Haim. “Sale ends in ten minutes. What flavor of halvah do you want?”

“There are so many flavors,” said Elen. “What’s popular?”

“Pistachio-strawberry,” Haim. ”First kilo, 400 shekel. Second kilo, 700 Shekel.”

“Is that the sale price?” asked Elen.

“Of course,” said Haim. “The sale price is on the second kilo, regular price 768 shekel.”

“I will just buy the first kilo,” said Elen.

“Then you don’t get the sale price,” said the man.

“Two kilos of halvah is a lot,” said Elen.  “I’ll take 60 grams.”

“Sorry,” said Haim. “We don’t sell in such small amounts.”

“120 grams then,” said Elen.

“Still too small, said the man. “If you don’t take two kilos, the minimum is 25 kilos.”

“25 kilos would be heavy,” said Elen. “Do you deliver?”

“Where do you live?” said Haim.

“Here in Jerusalem,” said Elen.

“That will cost you another 1200 shekel,” said Haim. “Plus, it could take up to a month. And it doesn’t come to your door—you have to go downtown to pick it up.”

“But I am downtown,” said Elen.

“So take it home now,” said Haim.

“OK,” said Ellen. “25 kilos of pistachio-strawberry, please.”

“Sorry,” said the man, “the only flavor we have in stock at that size is Bokser Chip.”

“How much will that come to?” asked Elen.

“5,000 shekels,” said the man.

“But what about the sale price?” asked Elen.

“That is the sale price,” said Haim. “Plus VAT, plus the Bokser tariff at customs, plus mail charges.”

“What mail charges?” asked Elen. “I’m taking it home myself.”

“Not the mail charges to take it home,” said the man. “The mail charges to send it here. You think it walked?”

“Do you accept credit cards?” asked Elen.

“Cash only,” said Haim.

“But I just thought of a problem,” said Elen.

“Thank you for coming,” said Haim, turning away. “Besorot Tovot, and have a nice day.”

I felt bad for Elen. “That was more expensive than you expected,” I said.

“No problem!” he said. “I love to bargain!”

He picked up his purchase and started lugging it down the crowded aisles.

I offered to help him, but he turned me down. “I need the exercise,” he said.

“I’m sure they work on very narrow margins here,” said Elen. “And now that I’m in Israel, I’m excited to support the economy!”

I watched as Elen made his way toward the exit onto Agripas Street. He had to jump backwards when a Wolt delivery driver almost ran him over, and he nearly dropped his halvah. He turned to apologize to the driver for getting in his way, but the motorcyclist swept him and his Bokser chip load onto the handlebars and roared off.

That’s my friend Elen, the Happy Freier, for you. He’s just going to have to toughen up and get with the Israeli program.

Thankfully, except for our recent arrival and the similarity of our names, I am utterly different from him in every important way.