Why does everything have to be a fight?

So anyone who has spent more than a day in Israel will read the title of this post and know exactly what I’m talking about. I was on the ground less than 24 hours and had already experienced several cases of “why does everything have to be a fight?”. It’s the little things that get you here. I went to meet a friend at Aroma in the Mamilla mall down by Jaffa Gate for a good cup of coffee. Beautiful place to enjoy a latte. Seriously. Does it get any better than sitting outside in the sunshine looking out over the Old City walls with a cup of coffee and a friend? I digress. I took the scenic route because I wanted to see how things have changed. And yes, how things have changed. Mamilla was quite new when I left and wasn’t a very happening place but it seemed to be hopping yesterday. So anyway....scenic route...took one of the side entrances and needed to go up a floor. I’m a stairs person and will usually avoid the elevator if for no other reason than it’s quicker to take the stairs. Stairway was gated off...who knows why? So I’m left with the elevator. It’s going down. I want to go up. Fine. It’s a small elevator and this is Israel. You want to get somewhere...you have to fight for it. So I got in the elevator going down, thinking at least I’ve got my spot in the elevator and it’ll go up eventually. The button for the floor I need doesn’t work. Naturally. This would be the same floor that has the stairway closed. But of course. So it’s back outside the mall...walk around...find another entrance with a stairway that’s open. And right about that time I once again found myself asking the question I’d asked a million times when I lived here...”why does everything have to be a fight?”.

I got to Aroma, ordered my coffee in Hebrew...answered all the appropriate questions about the coffee in Hebrew (my Hebrew is rusty, but let’s face it...the coffee thing I had down pretty well and it never really goes away). And as is always the case, the barrista has no idea I’m an English speaker until they ask my name. When I tell them my name is Lori, without fail, they break out their very best English and any Hebrew is put away until next time. And can I just say...that first Aroma coffee I had yesterday was delicious. It’s better than it looks. And that’s saying something.