Pontsher!
Po Ba’aretz—Mamshichim! Here in Israel, We Proceed!
A lesson in Israeli resilience from the man who fixed my flat.
We don’t have a car, but my wife and I have Israeli licenses. To attend a family brit milah in Bet Shemesh, we borrowed our daughter’s Prius.
The drive was smooth. The celebration took place in a Bet Knesset set on the hill. Along with everyone else, we parked right in front, on the wrong side, facing downhill.
Like many mohalim, this one was a showman. When he was done, he turned to the baby’s mother and, with great gusto, declared, “I expect to see you again here next year!” No US mohel would use that line.
After the meal we headed out, found the car in good order where we had left it, put “car wash” into Waze, and headed off. Waze took us to a shopping center in town. As we passed it, it told us we had arrived. In no mood to hunt for an indoor car wash, I drove up the road and turned into what looked like an industrial area so I could turn around and head back home.
This turned out to be trickier than I expected. The area was a warren of narrow, curving lanes with stores and businesses on both sides. I found myself at a dead end, turned around and made a right. Heading back toward what I hoped was where I came in, I saw up ahead something that looked to me like it might be a car wash. I drove in.
A tall man with a ponytail, his small gold kippah fastened to the back of his head, and tattoos on both arms, waved me over. I rolled down the window and said that I wanted to wash the car.
“You can wash the car,” he said in American English. “But you might want to do something about the tire first.”
I got out and looked at the left front tire, which was flat as a pancake. When we had left the shul 15 minutes before, the same tire was in perfect shape. I had been driving on it until 2 minutes ago, with no problem. The flat made no sense, but there it was.
“No problem,” said the man. “We will fix it. Then we can wash the car.”
He motioned for my wife and me to take a seat on a bench across the way. A few minutes later, the tall man waved us over. He had put the tire on a wheel and wanted to show us the problem.
Which was obvious: the tire had a big, round hole. “This has been patched before,” he said. “The patch must have just popped out.”
“Can you patch it again?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, “it will just take a couple of minutes.” We stood by as he climbed upstairs to get something for another customer. Then he returned to the wheel, held up a folded piece of rubber, stuck it into the hole, and began massaging it so that it would stay in place.
On the wall behind him was a dollar bill.
This went some way to explain the confluence of kippah with tattoos.
He asked me to take a seat again, so Udi could wash the car.
I was used to mechanized car washes where you left the car to watch it propelled through a succession of sprayings, buffings and flashing lights to tell you that wax was being applied. Here one man did the wash himself with a power hose and vacuum.
Another customer who had pulled in after me went over to the car washer, but the proprietor intervened. “These people were here first,” he said.
Beside me on the bench set a young haredi man in dark pants and a white shirt. He was reciting Tehillim with great concentration. Next to him was another religious volume that he was presumably going to read next.
Another man drove up. He was obviously Ethiopian, also dressed in a haredi garb: a suit and white shirt, no tie. The other customers waiting for service were either secular or from the Religious Zionist sector. A very Israeli assortment, united by car trouble.
When our turn came, Udi went to work power-washing the exterior. He was a slightly built man, with a shaved head. He opened the door and looked inside, he closed it and came over to us.
“Look, he said, “whatever is in the car gets thrown out when I clean it. I cannot manage a tallit and tefillin. Take care of it.”
I apologized. I’m slowly learning the ropes around here, but missed the class on car wash etiquette. I extracted my tallit bag and sat back down.
When the car wash was done, I went over to the proprietor. “Can I pay you?” I asked. ”Anytime!” he said with a smile. The cost was quite reasonable.
“Can I drive this on the highway?” I asked.
“Of course!” he said. Po ba’aretz mamshichim. Here in Israel, we proceed!”
I was expecting information, not exhortation. Becoming Israeli takes time, and we have some ways to go.
Yet we proceeded.
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The whole episode was pleasant and efficient, but left us perplexed. It was like going for a haircut and finding out that you have a kidney stone and the hair salon is really a Urology Center. And what would we have done if the tire went flat on Route 1?
A week later we found ourselves back in Bet Shemesh. We pulled over on the main drag to check something, looked up, and saw the place where we got our flat fixed.
From the narrow lane when I approached it, all I could see was this:
But from the road, what I saw was this:
Yes! No mere car wash, this place was a full-fledged Pontsheria, with a full array of automotive services.
My first thought was that Pontsheria sounded Mexican. But that was because I confused it with Mexico’s bandit hero.
Hebrew for flat tire is pontsher. Hence: Pontsheria.
How would that sound in English?
So: the next time life throws you a flat, make like an Israeli—plug the hole, pump the tire, and proceed!