New immigrant Yael buys a car - oy

Canadian immigrant figured it would be easy to buy a car: pick one out, pay for it, and voila. Boy, was she wrong

By Yael Ayalon|Last update: 08.03.05 , 12:24

Buying a car in Israel must be the most interesting and exhausting experience I’ve had this far. I’ve left Tel Aviv and moved to the North, where everything seems so much farther away.

In Tel Aviv, everything is within walking distance. You can buy your groceries, get you nails done, go to the post office and get a 25 shekel (USD 4.50) cup of coffee all on the same block. Here in the north it’s a little different.

“I need a car! I have no choice!”

I am trying to convince my boyfriend that it’s just too hard taking the bus or monit shirut (taxi service) everywhere. I complain that it’s too hot or I have too many grocery bags. I try to blame it on other commuters, saying that they are rude or buses are too crowded.

In reality, I have to admit that I can’t let go of my North American habits, and if I had a car there, I should have one here.

Not a new car - ouch

I have a certain car in mind and I want nothing less. I will not waver. No substitute will be accepted. And like the Israel summer heat slapping you in the face, so did reality.

This is not North America. I will not be able to buy a new car on my salary. Ouch. That hurts.

But it’s OK; I can be humble, modest, realistic. I knew it would be tough at first and life is different here. So the search begins. I start looking in the newspaper for private car owners looking to sell; I go to used car lots and try not get angry as I see that grin creep on the salesman's face when he hears the words “olah chadasha.”

The next two weeks were the most unreal I’ve spent in this country. As everything else here, buying a car is total balagan (mixed-up confusion).

First you start calling people and asking for details on the car and every person you talk to tells you that the car is in excellent condition. So you go meet them, sometimes as far as Tel Aviv, and when you get there you find a car held together by Band-Aids and a prayer.

You’re already there, you’ve gone this far, you might as well look at the car. You open the door and the handle comes off in your hand. The seller is looking at you like, “What? That’s nothing, here’s another Band-Aid. I fix it. Tchick tchuck.”

Then he looks at you with a straight face and actually says to you, totally serious:

Test drive?

“It’s nice, no? All you need to do is bring it in for a tipul gadol (major tune up). You want to take a test drive?”

OK, now it’s time to go. Is this guy serious? Yes, my dear friends, he was dead serious. So this happened a couple of times until I realized that we live in the electronic age and, as Israel is somewhat of a leader in high-tech, now I ask for the seller to email me a picture of the car before I go anywhere.

Finally, after a month of searching I found the car I wanted. Now, just when you think that looking for the car was an experience all its own, you have no idea what waits for you when you need to actually buy the car.

I foolishly thought that I could take care of it all in one morning. Now coming from Canada, I like to be prepared in advance. So I had already gone to the bank and settled all the “technicalities” of actually buying the car.

Or so I thought.

I get to the car dealership at 8 a.m. (I had already chosen the car the day before). I am now being seated and spoken to by three people at once, all in very fast Hebrew, and I hardly understand what is going on.

Then they take me to a garage to have the car checked, this they tell me will cost NIS 350 (USD 78), “a good investment” the salesman tells me. After the inspection, another guy comes in, gives me one look and starts to list, at full speed, what is wrong with the car.

When he is done, he tells me “good car, yes.” I am confused: So what was he rambling on about for 15 minutes? OK, so after two hours of waiting and total confusion, the car passes inspection.

200 papers to sign

Now I have to run to the bank. No sweat I say to myself, this I’ve already taken care of. Ha! The bank manager informs me, with a great big smile that everything is just fine, only everything we had done the other day, we had to do again.

I am seated in a nice office where a not-so-charming woman comes in and makes me sign what seemed like 200 papers (I just hope I didn’t agree to give up my first born). This all takes another two hours. My expectations of this taking only one morning have now vanished.

Next is off to the post office to put the car under my name. We’ve all been to the post office in this country: I don’t think I have to write about how long that took.

Finally, the insurance company. We get to their offices, again with hope in my eyes that this will take but a few minutes. They inform me that I must get a letter from Canada saying that my driving record there was good or my insurance here would cost more than the car itself. Another two hours.

At the end of the day, as I drive home in my new car, I am exhausted. Then it hits me, of all the people I spoke to today, the salesman, the bank, the post office clerk who put the car in my name and the insurance salesman, no one even asked me if I have a driver’s license.

Next: Feeling lonely sometimes

Yael Ayalon is an olah chadasha (new immigrant) from Canada. She lives in the north and works at a high-tech company. She is writing about her experiences in this exclusive Ynetnews column