The checkout divider, sometimes called the “next customer” bar, is one of the supermarket’s quiet little inventions, created to keep conveyor-belt checkout organized as modern grocery shopping got faster and more crowded. In most countries, it’s a small plastic stick. In Israel it’s more of a vibe. A philosophy. An aggressive handshake between strangers’ groceries.

Because in Israel, personal space is considered a charming European myth. Not offensive, just… irrelevant. Like “lightly salted” peanuts or “this meeting could’ve been an email.” We’ve collectively agreed that if you can physically stand somewhere, you’re allowed to exist there in a way that makes everyone else’s skeleton negotiate new terms.

You see it everywhere, but the supermarket is where it really sings. The automatic doors open and the air hits you. Recycled AC, overripe peaches, detergent, and faint despair (especially by husbands trying to fulfil the entire shopping list, curated by their wives). People are already moving like they got a notification, “Hurry. Someone else might buy the last normal cucumbers.” Trolleys aren’t pushed, they’re driven, and we all know about driving in Israel. With intent. With the kind of confidence usually reserved for generals and men reversing into parking spaces.

And yes, I’ve been rammed by a trolley more times than I care to mention. There’s always this tiny half-second where you think, maybe it was accidental, maybe they didn’t see me. Then you look back and they’re staring straight through you like you’re a decorative plant. It’s not personal. It’s just that if your kidneys are in the way of their path to cottage cheese, your kidneys are wrong.

The counters are their own separate kingdoms. The meat counter line is less a line and more a group chat that nobody can mute. People form a loose semicircle, like they’re watching street theater. Someone shouts their order from three meters away, someone else insists they were “here from before,” and a third person just starts listing deli items like they’re placing a ransom call. Patience isn’t a virtue there. It’s a foreign passport.

But the purest concentration of Israeli no-personal-space energy is the........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)