A Man Named Victor

The alarm rings at 7:20 in the morning. Our intentions are in the right place, but our minds are not. SILENCE!

“I keep having dreammmmms. Of pioneers, pirate ships, and Bob Dylannnnn” bursts from Matt’s phone across the room. SILENCE!!

Alarm, your smug reminder of the dreams we are currently not having only furthers our early morning angst. You might have the power to wake us, but we have the power to silence you.

“I KEEP HAVING DREAMMMMMS OF PIONEERS, PIRATE SHIPS, AND BOB DYLANNNN.” Somehow the alarm seems to have gotten louder. The familiar tune crushes against my skull.

“I KEEP HAVING DREAMMMMMS OF PIONEERS, PIRATE SHIPS, AND BOB DYLANNNN.”

“I KEEP HAVING DREAMMMMMS OF PIONEERS, PIRATE SHIPS, AND BOB DYLANNNN.” The line barely escapes before Matt hits snooze again. We are in danger of getting caught in alarm limbo.

I roll over to look at my phone.

7:40.

What seems like an eternal battle has come to an end. You win alarm, yet again.

Sleep still wistfully reflected in our eyes, Matt and I mechanically rise, dress, and step out the door. At this point, muscle memory is solely responsible for our movements. Our eyes may be open, but we aren’t conscious.

As we move towards our school, kids walking past cast hearty greetings “ARSENAL ARSENAL!” Having grown up with a mother that called me “Tate, Stephanie, George, Bob” and any number of names except my own, I’m fairly used to being addressed as someone other than Jamie. Being called “ARSENAL” took some time getting used to. However this morning, after 3 months of owning this unusual moniker, I hardly bat an eye. “Boker Tov. Good morning good morning.”

After 20 minutes of wading past kids on their way to various schools, we arrive at our destination for the day: Eskol. As soon as we set foot inside the gate, the notorious nursery rhyme-esque bell sounds, indicating the start of class. We saunter to the large tarmac basketball court to the far side of the school where we hold our sessions. The court, which is situated just behind the school’s bomb shelter, is covered by a large roof that helps shield the ground from the elements.

(Eskol)

The first class arrives at the court in a whirlwind. I can’t be sure exactly what happens. I think I say some words to them and they respond with action. Regardless of our exchange, they are playing a game of handball before moving on to end zone football. Whether we were responsible for that or it just happened, I’ll never know.

When the session ends, we are graced with a free period, an hour break, to gather our senses. We move to the teacher’s lounge and make some coffee.

COFFEE!

I spent most of my adolescent life lecturing my mom about her coffee habits. “Coffee is a drug mom. You have a dependency on it. You need to stop drinking coffee every morning. Look! I don’t need it. You don’t need it.” I think it’s fair to say I owe my mom an apology. There isn’t a whole lot to say here except well, sorry mom, and coffee.

Actually awake, Matt and I decide to walk down the street and enjoy the early morning sun. We stroll around the corner and see two men enjoying some… coffee! inside a little convenient store. We like coffee! And some snacks sound good right about now too, so we head in.

The men jump up from their seats as soon as we enter. “Hello hello! Good morning. English?” Clearly this small, local grocery store is not frequented by foreigners. In fact, we might be some of the first to step foot in here.

We smile at the men. “Yes, from the US and England.” The man behind the counter steps forwards and takes us in turns, clasping our hands in both of his, signaling his delight. He begins to point at different items in the store, attempting to satisfy our cravings. We ask him if he has any sandwiches. An inquisitive look springs across his face, and his smile falters slightly. “Ma? (What?)” “Ummm, Sandwich” I pantomime what I think a sandwich might look like then start chewing fake bread. “Hmmm” he holds up some sort of meat stick. I shake my head no. Then, spotting a roll on the counter, I point and say again “Sandwich.” His eyes light up. “Ahhh Yes Yes.” After a brief exchange with his friend, they both leave the store.

Matt and I are left wondering what our request has set in motion. Seconds later, the man from behind the counter returns with a table in his arms. He wedges by us and sets the table down. Before I know it, I am whisked into a chair. The man starts placing various condiments on the table: ketchup, mustard, hummus, tomato sauce, pickles, tahini. He buzzes around the shop, opening up a pack of paper towels, plastic plates, and cutlery. As the spread is being prepared before us, the second man, who has been gone for about 6 minutes, enters with some sort of parcel in his hands. He folds back the paper to reveal four hotdogs. Based on the length of his absence and the evident lack of hotdogs for sale in the actual store, it’s safe to assume the man had either gone home to quickly prepare the hotdogs or had purchased them from a competing shop down the street. Regardless of how he obtained them, he places them in some rolls before us to complete the scene. Bon Appetit!

The men walk out of the store. Matt and I start eating the meal. Intermittently, other patrons enter the shop to purchase items. Some have to edge around our table in order to reach the food they are trying to buy. But no one seems particularly bothered by us. Nobody actually seems to think anything is amiss at all. Our impromptu in-store dining experience seems relatively blasé. We even exchange greetings with most of the costumers as they scoot by our table. “Oh English, where from?” They ask as their bellies loom dangerously close to the hummus container.

As we near the end of our meal, the man from behind the counter returns. “Everything good?” He beams. “Yes thank you so much. It was amazing.” We respond. We exchange minor cordialities before we ask him “What’s your name?”

“Victor” he says.

Despite apparent language barriers, we speak to Victor as best we can for some time. He is an Akko native and the owner of the shop. The other men smoking cigarettes outside are his daily coffee friends. Eventually, as time runs short, we have to make our way back to school. Victor hugs us good-bye as we leave. On the walk back, I can’t help but feel privileged. Not because I am working for Arsenal or just received a specially catered meal, but because I had a chance encounter with a beautiful soul. Victor didn’t know anything about Matt or me, but he went out of his way to make us as comfortable and welcome as possible. His gentle and raw compassion was a nice reminder of the real reason I love traveling so much – to see and meet humans acting not as Israelis or Jews or Arabs or Mexicans or English or Tottenham fans or Christians or any other label or definition but instead acting as humans, caring for each other as complete strangers from totally different backgrounds.

Matt and I finish our day of coaching at Eskol. We head home for some much needed reprieve. The next week, we return to Victor’s shop to say hello. Sadly, we find his shop has closed. The lively store has been emptied and gone out of business. Although we didn’t know it, our first encounter with Victor was also our last. Despite our regret in not getting to say thanks one last time, we smile, happy to have at least met the man named Victor.

#Israël