I know I promised to write about my neighbourhood today, but I am absolutely wiped out and must get up early tomorrow morning (ie, later this morning) to face a long day.

So be patient, dear readers – I've got lots of stories to tell and promise to write more in the next day. Or two.

Meanwhile, I offer up the following anecdote as evidence that Israel may well be on its way to becoming an enlightened country.

Today, while riding the No. 2 bus on Allenby Street, I was absolutely flabbergasted when the bus driver blew importantly into his microphone and intoned, “Will the young lady speaking on her mobile phone turn it off immediately. Can't you see the “no mobile phones allowed” stickers right above your head? Yes, you! Look up!”

For my non-Israeli readers, here is a little context-for-comprehension:

• Israel has more mobile phones than people. I'm not kidding. It's not uncommon for one person to have two mobile phones – one for work calls and one for personal calls.
• I have heard phones ring at weddings, funerals, memorial services, during business meetings and during live televised interviews with VIPs.
• I have been tortured by a cacophany of discordant ring tones that didn't let up for more than a minute during a 6-hour bus ride from Tel Aviv to Eilat.
• I have sat at the counter of my neighbourhood cafe trying to read the morning paper, and fuming as the woman sitting next to me carries on a long – and loud – argument with her boss.
• I have been on dates with men who took long personal phone calls while we were having dinner.

I guess I've made my point.

Could it be that things are changing? (oh please, let it be so).

When I lived in New York, I spent a lot of money on my appearance. Don't get me wrong – I was no Carrie Bradshaw: I browsed at Barney's, but I didn't buy (much). Haircuts that cost “somewhere in the low three figures”, regular facials, leg waxings, pedicures and expensive moisturizers were, however, a big part of my life. I was particularly brand-loyal to moisturizers – if they weren't Lancome, Dior or something equally overpriced, I wasn't interested.

This is no longer the case. Israeli salaries are relatively small; my income is about 25% of what it was in New York, but Tel Aviv is an expensive city – so-called beauty products, in particular, cost about double what they do in North America. Reality had to be faced: even for one as careless with money as I, spending 3% of one's monthly after-tax income on a jar of glamorous-smelling face cream was – obviously – ridiculously impractical.

The transition to generic moisturizers was somewhat traumatic: my mother introduced me to Seventeen magazine when I was 12 years old; I graduated to Vogue and Elle about three years later, and by the time I reached adulthood I was completely brainwashed: all of the magazines issued regular, dire warnings about the consequences of using the “wrong” moisturizer (think reptile). So when I started to use a (relatively) cheap face cream, I examined my face in the mirror, daily and anxiously, for signs of premature aging. Incredibly, nothing happened. (although I did recently read an article about long-term consequences…)

Now whenever I need a new face cream I just ask the charming, heavy-set and heavily made-up Russian-born saleswoman at my local SuperPharm (Shopper's Drug Mart, for my Canadian readers) one blunt question: what's on sale today?

But here's the strangest thing about making a purchase at SuperPharm: the wait at the cashier. It's almost always long, but no-one pushes or complains. This, in a country where impatience is the rule; where pushing and shoving are the norm. This, in a country where the driver behind you honks if you haven't shifted from neutral to first within a nanosecond of the traffic light turning from red to orange (before green). At SuperPharm, people wait their turn without making a fuss. Meanwhile, I am the one rolling my eyes, sighing and shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

The cashier starts by asking if you have a Lifestyle card (a credit card issued by SuperPharm that entitles you to various special offers). No? Would you like to apply for a Lifestyle card? No. “Since your purchases total more than 200 shekels, you can buy a beach blanket for an additional 10 shekels. Are you interested?” Hmm, says the customer. Let me see that beach blanket. Do you have it in any other colours? No? Then I'm not interested. Any other special offers? “Yes,” says the cashier, “for 15 shekels you can purchase a set of suntanning products.” Again, the customer must examine and consider the product. Sometimes this goes on for several minutes. (I swear.) And when you finally go to pay, the cashier asks sweetly if you would like to donate 10 shekels to the Israeli Cancer Society (no).

Once I tried to pre-empt the process with a typical New Yorker's impatient attitude. I placed my items on the counter and, before she could open her mouth, smiled with dangerous politeness and said, “I'm not interested in any of the special offers.”

She looked at me as if I were just the most uncouth person on earth.

Can anyone explain this weird cultural anomaly to me?