Those of you who read me here regularly have probably already been exposed to the extraordinary personality of my partner, my life partner, the father of my children, the love of my life - Adam.
A man of many actions and contrasts, an artist, a man of letters, an autodidact, a wrecking stud. When we met, more than a decade ago, he used to buy new clothes at the Carmel Market once every two weeks, because he was lazy to wash the ones he already had. The greatest feminist I've ever met, and yet, when we bought a dishwasher, I had to explain to him that glasses were in heaven with the opening *down*. I swear he's the sharpest man I know, yet when we once passed by an orchard he asked me, "How did the trees grow like that, arranged in rows." He's not dumb, he's just Tel Avivian.
My mother raised me to think that Tel Avivians are stupid, spoiled, corrupt and narcissistic creatures who will sit in a café all day and pay their entire salary to a psychologist. Kat - 25 years later I'm writing this column in a café (self-roasting, beans collected from the dirt under the claws of Colombian bats), and I don't order an oatmeal and chia cookie for 37 shekels, because I've already given my entire salary to a psychologist.
25 years later, both my mother and father are in love with Adam, and like me, I don't miss the string of veterans of the cruisers, campfires and mapmakers I've dated all my life.
My parents also long ago accepted the fact that their son-in-law is not closed on where Hadera is. And it's not that he wasn't in her room. Or in Tiberias. Or Arad! As a busy musician, at least two or three times a week he boards a van that takes him to a concert somewhere in the country. He sits down, falls asleep, and wakes up when he is told, "We've arrived." If I call and ask where he is, he'll say something like, "Hazor? Maybe... Wait, isn't it, premises?", and then I'll have to ask him to describe to me what he sees and guess by the description: "There's a lot of sand, but there's no sea."
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The person does not have a driver's license. Which surprises most people, since he is 38 years old and has all the organs he needs. They probably don't know the rare breed of Tel Avivians from central Tel Aviv (not to be confused with Tel Avivians from places that aren't considered Tel Aviv, like everything north of Rokach), who never bothered to learn to drive, because they never had anywhere to go.
It's a rare bird that speaks in single syllables, smokes two packs a day, and the only real job it ever had was in a blast that lasted three months. In recent years, it has been endangered with the takeover of central Tel Aviv by the top percentile, and now it migrates to places like Holon and Ramat Gan, where it can still sometimes be heard exclaiming, "Dude, that was a rare solo, dude, yes, dude" – but no one answers.
But this year something happened: Adam's many acquaintances and admirers were shocked to discover that he intended to obtain a driver's license. Maybe it's the bourgeoisie that comes with two children, maybe it's the fact that every time we go to my parents in the north, my father completely ignores my existence, sits Adam on the balcony and gives him treats, while I clean the toddler of ice cream and carry the bags out of the car. Either way, I'd love to share the pleasure of driving in traffic while being screamed "when will we arrive?" and fall asleep in the driver's seat.
Still, when Adam informed me that he was issuing a license, I said "great" and continued folding laundry and watching Dawn Hasson on YouTube. I assumed he would get a license when he started playing tennis, eat only green vegetables and learn to play the violin. It's not that he doesn't want to—he really wants to, but not enough to do it. Since a woman my age already knows a thing or two about life, I didn't ask questions or offer to help. I have enough things on my plate, and none of them is cake.
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Um? It turns out that the guy really wants to get a driver's license. And what else turns out? That the Ministry of Transport literally makes it impossible. I remind you that the man, Teffo Tepu, is mentally healthy, healthy in body, and unlike some government ministers, he has no file with the police. Here, with your permission, I want to explain the gravity of the situation: Back in 2022, a person filled out an "application form for issuing a driver's license," and since then once every two months he calls to ask what's going on with it, when he's supposed to get an answer and when to move on to the practical stage of, say, I don't know, driving lessons.
He waits on the line for 40-30 minutes for the human response at the Ministry of Transport's hotline. Sometimes the call hangs up and sometimes a representative answers him, who tells him that it's really weird and that he needs to send an email. He sends an email, and then again. Two weeks ago, Adam Ashkara went (by taxi) to a meeting at the licensing office in Holon, only to be told that he had to do a medical examination first.
He asked why he hadn't been told that eight months ago or six months or four months, etc., but the clerk shrugged her shoulders and said she was telling him that now, and also that he could sign up for a medical examination by the Ministry of Health that would take place in 180 business days! Business!! That means nine months! He can get pregnant and give birth to the medical exam!
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At that rate, answers to the test will come in 2024, the theory registration in 2026, and the test with his cataract surgery. By then, the country will be one big traffic jam where robots beep at each other
"0001110101", which is in the language of robots "who taught you to drive, you son of a minister". I guess there are people who work at the Ministry of Transportation and read this column. Maybe they're reading this column instead of working, which would explain a lot. I appeal to your heart. Send my people. Send him to her room.
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