TEL AVIV: After 1.5 hours, presto! A bank account!

Let me relate my personal experience opening a bank account in Israel. My current housemate, Hanneet, was kind enough to help me through this process and suggested opening an account with one of the major establishments. The branch closest to the house turned out to be for internal use only and not for the public. After sitting down with a representative in a branch up the road, I learned that the location was only for investors. So, I went to the branch further up the road that had a special department for foreign non-investors. At this point, Hanneet had to go to work, so I was on my own.

The branch with the department for foreigners had no signs in English—anywhere. Only after asking repeatedly and wandering around the first two floors did I discover the proper area on the third floor. I sat down and listened to the two loud arguments underway. To my immediate left, an English speaking rabbi spoke sternly to a bank teller about some money transfer that he was charged for, in his opinion—unfairly. I could not actually make out the subject of a much louder exchange further to the left. All I could hear was shouting about “my money” and a bank teller replying forcefully “Not our fault. Your fault. Your problem.” Neither of these brought forth feelings of confidence or trust in a newcomer like me. But, I fell for the “sunk cost fallacy,” dwelling on all the time already invested in finding the correct department…in a bad bank.

More than the actual content of the disagreements, I was surprised that a bank manager did not try to move the conversations away from the public area. Why not suggest a side room? A soundproof vault? NO, just let the disgruntled customers rant at full volume on the main floor of the department in one of the most common languages in Israel.

After a brief check-in process, a representative brought me to the specialist in foreign accounts. The specialist was talking on the phone as I sat down and proceeded to talk on the phone and work on the computer for fifteen minutes without so much as looking at me. After finally hanging up, she asked me to fill-out some paperwork—twice. For some reason there were plenty of computers but not a single Xerox machine.

The phone rang. She answered and began to work again with another client. Irritated, I raised my eyebrows and motioned with both hands to the paperwork on her desk with my signature in some twenty places. Holding the phone to her ear with one hand, she pointed to it sharply with the other hand. The intended communication seemed to be: “Can’t you see I am on the phone?” I stared at her. She shrugged her shoulders and pointed to the phone again. The intended communication seemed to be: “What can I do?” Fifteen minutes later she ended that call and began to look over my paperwork. I was pretty mad at this point and contemplated just walking out. But, I remembered what a friend here said after hearing my problems with one of the cell phone companies. She said, “all the phone companies are like that”. I figured the same was true with the banks and decided to just stay put.

The specialist typed in all my information one key at a time—hitting each as hard as physically possible while using only a single finger. The abrupt SLAM of the keys punctuated the short outbursts from the argument about an unknown subject continuing down the hall. “Not our fault! (SLAM!) My Money! (SLAM!) Your problem! (SLAM!)” Not much progress seemed to be happening over there.

The foreign account specialist explained to me that with only the $500 I planned to deposit that day, she would not give me a checkbook. Now, you have to understand that upon signing a lease, you must give the landlord postdated checks for the entire term of the agreement. The relationship is quite simple, really: no checkbook, no apartment. So, I explained to the representative that I had given up on getting the checks in the next day or two, since I knew THAT was unthinkable. But not giving me checks at all was absolutely ridiculous. We went back and forth until she told me she would speak to her supervisor about it tomorrow. I insisted she order the checkbook right that minute in front of me on the computer. To my surprise, she gave in. Well, I only think she gave in. She seemed to do something on the computer, but it still took a day longer than expected to get the checks. So, I’ll never know. The concept of starter checks is apparently unheard of in Israel. (I wonder if US banks give starter checks to non-citizens. Maybe some of my fellow students at UofM from other countries can shed some light on this?)

To deposit the money, I had to first pull money out of my US account using an ATM. So, I left the building, waited in line, got my cash, and found the cashiers on the second floor in a big bulletproof glass box. There were small piles of money on the counter, on the floor, in drawers, and in a little vault in the corner. Both cashiers looked up, made eye contact with me, and kept counting the cash. They would finish one stack, wrap it with a rubber band, file it away—and grab another. I walked into a nearby office to confirm that these two people were actually the cashiers—that their job was indeed to take my money. Meanwhile, an Israeli woman walked up to the cashiers with money in her hand just like me. They ignored her also. She stared at them. She tapped the glass repeatedly. The two people in the box looked at each other and one begrudgingly decided to assist the customers. I got back in line.

After nearly an hour and a half in the bank, I was ready to either leave or be injected with poison. However, after making the deposit, I had to return to the third floor to finish the whole process. We decided that I would complete the internet-access form when I picked up the checkbook. The specialist handed me the signed paperwork and began typing on the computer again. I thought she was producing some final receipt so I waited. She looked up and asked me what else I wanted. I said, “Is that it? Are we done?” She lifted a hand, palm down, and flicked all five fingers toward the door three or four times while turning back to the computer screen. I got up and left.