About to leave Tel Aviv, I made a list of things I’m going to miss. Misha, our grocery store man and the only stable thing in our transient life, is one of them. We came back from a year and a half in Amsterdam, and there he was. We left for New York and came back, and there he was; sitting behind the counter, looking just the same as we’ve left him there three years before. His never changing appearance is some sort of a medical miracle, I believe. Each time we came back he just nodded, half smiled in recognition and opened a new card for us, making the time passed away seem non-existent. He writes our debts in his booklet and once in a while we pay him.
Misha has two very different moods, depending on the time of day in which we meet; one is extremely cheerful (talks loudly, tells the same not funny jokes, calls women Yehezkel, offers Daniel vodka from under his counter). The other is melancholy, sometimes nervous with a DON’T MESS WITH ME kind of look. It all depends on the alcohol level running through his veins, of course. Being an immigrant from Georgia in the southern USSR, Misha also serves as a community center for Russian immigrants and whenever we need a helping hand (cleaning, painting etc.) he’s our connection man. Although we’ve known each other for years, he never knew my name. After he found out that I have the same name as his 5 years old granddaughter our relationship became much closer and I get to hear the loveliest stories about her.
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