A Tel Aviv Blunder
By Todd Nothstine
25 Mar 2009
He came at me out the doorway of his shop, large heavy footfalls, the neon and incandescent lights of my first Tel Aviv night revealing a face not happy to see me.
"Why you take pictures of my shop?" the big Israeli bellowed in stride, a burly buddy on his heels, arriving a second later to tower over my slouched position at one end of the sidewalk bench.
"Who are you? Where you from? Let me see those pictures!"
The interrogator is on my left, his friend standing jean-legs spread, arms akimbo a few feet in front of me, mute and looking far less peeved but ready nevertheless to put a quick halt to any silly notions I might have of splitting before this interrogation is over with.
My world is suddenly a-wobble. I notice it takes considerable effort to present the illusion of unruffled calm even while the adrenalin screams for me to be otherwise. From my still-slouched position I casually field Mr Angry's rapid-fire questions.
"Tourist? What is tourist? Alaska? where is Alaska?"
He stands over me, glowering, while I entertain unpleasant and involuntary visions of my hapless self being summarily tenderized or dragged to the police station, or both, and I regret that my Middle East adventure might be over almost as soon as it began.
"Why you take pictures of my shop? Let me see those pictures!"
Eager to oblige my spirited friend, I thumbed through the pictures I had just taken of his shop on my little digital Canon point-and-shoot, noting that the pretty blue and red neon City Mobile sign on his store front, and the passersby, were the stuff of general photographic interest, that was all. He thrust his head lower to get a better look at the camera's small screen, quiet for a few moments while he studied the images. Abruptly he stood up, gave me his back, and with a disgusted "phsss" and palm-down thrust of his right arm flung backward in my direction, marched off quickly as he had arrived, back into his shop, his white shirt akimbo buddy following suite.
Was I off the hook? Just how was I to take that last angry gesture, that stormy retreat? For all I knew I was spared a pummeling only to have a phone call being put through to the police to come give me a once-over. My rationale went something like this: if this isn't over and the cops are on the way, then leaving the scene would only make things worse. But I was also exceedingly keen to move along if indeed I was free to go. In lieu of staying put like a buffoon and being left to wonder, there seemed to be but one thing to do. I headed into the shop to dish out a few questions of my own.
My pre-trip arrangements had included a little reading on Israeli culture and the do's and don't to be aware of as a traveler in the region (of course, it seems I missed at least one important memo). One cultural idiosyncrasy is this tendency for locals to be a little tightly wound, a bit high-strung. And who can blame them, when any given day brings with it the possibility that the morning latte stop could blow up or that your bus won't make it to the end of the street without being ripped asunder. A jarring manifestation of these general jitters is that Israelis can be given to confrontation and raising their voices at one another. It was this cultural norm of general edginess I thought it not far fetched to have just encountered first hand in my tangle with an explosive shop keeper. And it was this local penchant for the animated that I thought I ought to try and mimic as I shuffled gimp-legged into the lion's den (pre-trip arrangements included a painful sciatica episode that left part of my left buttocks, entire left calf muscle, and various toes down limb numb and powerless to get involved with my locomotion).
In the moments since the shop keeper had reentered the store I had become the subject of discussion. At least this is what I gathered when three sets of customer eyes all turned to stare daggers at me as I approached the counter. The shop owner was behind the till. And with far more gusto than was in me:
"What's going on? Are we okay?"
"No, we not okay!" He was leaving no doubt he was peeved.
"You want to take pictures? You take pictures like this!" holding an imaginary camera over his head. "Not down here, like secret!" he held the camera down low at his waist.
While from the get go it had been obvious my photographing this man's shop was the reason he was off kilter, it had not been so clear to me just why it should be so. There were cameras everywhere, buildings and store fronts up and down the street had surely had their portraits taken by people just like me. But it was at this moment that I understand the subtle folly of my recent ways. It hadn't been so much that I was taking pictures, but how I was doing it. I had been too discreet! Sure, I had used my smallest camera, a diminutive point and shoot, and not my much larger and more conspicuous Nikon. And although that couldn't have helped my case, that wasn't the real issue: most people used compact cameras. It was more fundamental than that. It was a matter of posture that got their worry juices flowing. I had taken too low a profile—literally. I had been slouched on a bench, held the camera down low, "like secret," steadied on a knee, this to ensure not just sharper pictures but also, ironically, and the very reason I was in hot water, to keep a low profile and avoid the gawky tourist stereotype. Nor could it have done me any favors to have spent several minutes in this fashion trying to "get the shot," as they say. In all this I had unwittingly been given to the appearance of being sneaky, of scoping out the place.
"Why you take pictures like that anyway?!" he demanded, sounding still unsure that I wasn't a genuine problem.
"I'll tell you why. It's because I'm shy with a camera, and I don't like confrontation and people yelling at me, like you are doing right now."
I thought for a moment I might have stepped over another line, presuming now to raise my voice at the person who moments ago might have been forgiven for trouncing my ignorant derriere into the Tel Aviv concrete. But that was also the instant I saw a measure of ire leave his face. He had "got it" and understood, at some level at least, why I behaved the way I did, or perhaps he merely respected the weight of my response. Maybe both. I knew now though I was probably out of the security-threat woods.
But in that moment I had also realized my ignorance, and I cursed my stupidity. I apologized for my behavior and for the alarm I had incited, and asked again if we were okay. A reluctant nod, something mumbled—he seemed ready to be done with me now and turned to leave the counter as I extended a hand in reconciliation. It was ignored. Perhaps not yet fully convinced I was off the hook, I followed a few steps, hand still extended as we moved towards a doorway at the back of the shop. I wanted the handshake, I wanted it sealed. I pressured him again, asking if we were okay. A bit begrudgingly, but this time he reciprocated, proffering a hand.
That's when it was over. I turned, and with the weighty crisis of the past few minutes falling from my shoulders, I made my heart-pounding, ego-bruising, sciatica-induced limp out the door and back into the Tel Aviv night from which I had crawled.
4 responses
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Oren Shomron said (25 Mar 2009):
Good story, but for one thing. I admire your trying to smooth out the situation, but being from Tel-Aviv myself, I can tell you that you overstepped no bounds. That shopkeeper was just being a jerk, and you owed him no extra courtesy. Police would never have been involved. Next time just walk away.
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Gloria Childers gave props (29 Mar 2009):
I would say- it was a night to remember- or forget. ..voted.
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Dorothy Menosky gave props (29 Mar 2009):
I'd love to see the pictures you took.
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Brittany Butts gave props (4 Apr 2009):
Well written, very entertaining story. I wish that there were some pics added!
