Sunday, July 12, 2020

It takes me a moment to figure out which ATM to use. Some handle cash. Others are only for information. The first time I tried them downtown, I used an information machine from another bank. It simply ate my card. I had only been here for about a week. I showed up at that branch right when it opened the next morning. The teller spoke English. I had my identity card. I got the ATM card back. I now know the words to look for. There’s no line tonight at this row of machines outside the Heart of the City mall. I get the cash and head home. My landlady had texted me yesterday that my electric bill was due, with the amount. She tends to be friendly but terse: “Electricity:” and a number. I text her back with when I can pay. It's usually a day or so later, since I have to swing by the ATM. She responds with an "OK" emoji, different each time. I tried once to convince her to let me pay via the local equivalent of CashApp. She had no idea what I was talking about. Texting is as techie as she gets. The electric company sends her the bills for the house every two months. I don’t know if my amount is separated out or if she calculates it somehow. The amount always seems fair. I’ve never asked. I get home and ring her doorbell upstairs. She opens the door and says “Hi.” I tell her in Hebrew that I have the money for the electricity. As usual, I hand her the exact amount. She smiles and says, in English, “Thank you. Bye.” She closes the door. I head downstairs to my own place, and inside.