It's a sunny June afternoon in Jerusalem, and I'm bargaining with the cab driver depositing me at my friend's apartment in the Katamonim neighborhood. In an ironic twist, I'm not trying to give him less money - but more - than the meter calls for. My poor Hebrew matches his bad English. He attempts to give me change, but I insist, and although confused, he accepts the extra money.
It's all part of my slightly offbeat vacation with "virtual tourists" - friends from home who couldn't come to Israel in person, but were present in spirit. Members of my community in Knoxville, Tennessee, wanted to show Israelis they cared, and sent me with $700 to spend on virtual meals, services and gifts. They wanted me to support businesses suffering economic losses due to terrorism and lack of tourism. I would pay two or three times the amount of a lunch tab, for example, to cover myself and the well-wishers back home whose lives prevented them from coming personally.
Reactions ranged from humility to willing cooperation. At a deserted bar and burger place in Rehaviah one morning, I give my spiel to the server. Let me pay for an extra soft drink, I implore. "No, that's OK. Give it to somebody else," she replies graciously, implying that others could use the money more.
Benjamin, on the other hand, a taxi driver and father of three whose business is way down, is more obliging. Because he can't pronounce Ronda, I tell him my Hebrew name, Rivka, which becomes the endearing diminutive Rivkale by the end of the ride. Benjamin likes the virtual tourism concept. The ride costs the equivalent of $7.50, but sure, he says optimistically, he'll take $200, $100, even $50. "Thank you very much, Rivkale, it's nice. You're good. Call me tomorrow," he tells me and by extension, my fellow passengers.
After my Israeli friend explains why I am paying three times the tab at a vegetarian restaurant in the German Colony, the young server thanks me/us, saying with a laugh that she needs support as an artist.
On a sweltering Sunday, my tour guide blasts the air-conditioning of her minivan as she and I tool around the Old City. The back seats are empty, but I joke that we "all" are enjoying our excursion. "Y'all are welcome," she replies, with a nod to her virtual clients and my Tennessee drawl. Later, she obliges me as I dally in a tchotchke shop, where a ceramic tile souvenir appeals to my Southerner's heart, and to those of my fellow virtual tourists. It is inscribed "Shalom y'all."
[Published in the Jerusalem Report, July 14, 2003]