Hashem, I think, please let it all be easier. High school, classes, teachers

The driver leans on his horn for a full minute straight.

My Hebrew is definitely not great (I think Morah Epstein used the word “mediocre”) but you don’t need to be a sabra to understand that Mr. Taxi Driver is upset. Like really, really upset.

He bangs on the steering wheel again and lets loose a stream of Ivrit I’m pretty sure I’m happy to not understand.

Avrumi slides down the seat until he’s basically on the floor. Poor Avrumi; he does not do conflict well.

“Tell him a joke,” I say, poking him in the back of the head. You know, in a totally nice, sisterly way.

He pokes me right back. “You tell him a joke.”

“I don’t speak Hebrew.”

“I don’t speak Angry Cab Driver.”

I laugh. “Good point.”

I wasn’t happy when Ima told me that Avrumi would be joining my long-awaited summer in Eretz Yisrael, but right now, sitting in the standstill traffic that was giving our driver an ulcer, I was glad he was with me.

“Selichah al ha trafficah!” I say brightly to the driver.

He looks like he might eat American kids for lunch, so I shrink back next to Avrumi.

“Smooth,” he says.

So I poke him again.