The Cartridges

I just got back from a trip to Israel where I did a cross-country bike ride – sounds impressive until you realize that Israel is 65 miles across where we traversed it.  We also went down to the southernmost point, which added about 300 more miles.

Before we left Jerusalem, I realized that I was out of toothpaste, so I hit a local drugstore on Ben Yehuda street.  I barged in like I was on a mission, like I owned the place, while of course I don’t speak the language and didn’t know where I was going.  Needless to say, toothpaste was way up in a corner on the second floor.  It makes sense actually; I had to pass by a lot of other items I might otherwise buy, similar to how milk is always placed in the back of a supermarket.

One of these was plug-in air freshener cartridges.

Once upon a time, I used to have these on auto-order for my father’s apartment.  I hoped that they would cover the certain smell that had permeated the rug, the furniture, his clothes, everything.  It didn’t really work.  What did work, eventually, was a thorough scrubbing of the place, new pants, and a number of temper tantrums by yours truly.  Sometimes as a caregiver, only a strategically timed tantrum will do to get your way.  Over time, he tried harder to be “clean”, in his words, when I came over.  He could see that it was important to me, and what was important to me gradually became less unimportant to him.

As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, I no longer see things like this and seize up with emotion.  Most times now, I smile and remember.  Still, the details come flooding back.  I am guessing that my standing in front of an Israeli drugstore shelf and smiling to myself made me look even less of a local than I already did.  Which is fine.  I gladly traded that for some of the memories of the better times that we had, and the day that I could stop buying air fresheners.

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