I was recently at
a Shabbos table where the age-old question of “what kind of work do you do?”
came up. I can usually understand the answers to these questions, especially
when they have to do with professions with which I have some familiarity.
Unfortunately, the majority of the people at this Shabbos table worked in
computers. Not having any idea of what they were talking about, I asked a few
questions. Unfortunately, even after I asked for clarification, I still had no
idea what was going on. Not one to shirk my responsibility to broaden my
horizons, I decided I would hop on the computer after Shabbos and google the
daylights out of the terms they used. Unfortunately, the only one I could
remember was “coding.” I figured that was a good start.
Well, according to
Reb Google, coding is a set of instructions for computers to follow so they can
process data in better and faster ways. Believe it or not, this definition made
me jealous. You see, I recently had a run-in with a QR code when trying to return
a package to Amazon. For those of you who don’t know what a QR code is, it’s
that black and white square image that you tend to ignore. In the world of
Amazon, its purpose is to give the consumer a user-friendly way to return a
package. Ironically, the letters QR stand for “quick response.” Who are we
kidding?
For those of you
who longingly remember the return labels that came with your order, you should
be proud of the fact that I finally had the courage to try to use a QR code
without asking any of my children for help. Let’s just say, practice is
progress, but it’s definitely not perfection. Here’s what happened: I logged on
to my Amazon account by pressing the little Amazon icon on my phone that’s
called an “app” (short for application, for those of you who are still
searching every package you receive for a mailing label). I then searched high
and low for the ever-so-tiny letters that say “returns.” Unfortunately, I
couldn’t find them because they weren’t there. I clicked a few more things
until I found the item I wanted to return. I then found the place on the screen
that allowed me to return the item. (This is the closest I’ve ever come to an
open miracle.) The next step, which I aced, required me to explain why I wanted
to return the item. This was followed by a multiple-choice test. I had the following
options:
a) Returning
my item for a full refund once the item was received by Amazon.
b) Getting
a full refund now, based on Amazon placing their trust in me by giving me seven
days to return the item, or
c) Receiving
a replacement of the exact same product.
I chose “b.” After
pressing “continue,” I expertly took a screen shot of the QR code (feel free to
give me a round of applause) and made my way to a store that offers Amazon
returns. When it was finally my turn, I held up my phone to the Amazon
employee. She scanned it, tossed the item in a box, and gave me a receipt. Not
only was I proud of myself, but I shared my accomplishment with my children,
who gave me the accolades I clearly deserved. The thrill of victory lasted
until the next day, when I received the exact same item back in the mail. Let’s
just say, the package is still sitting on my counter.
The ability to
misunderstand information can be experienced in international settings as well.
When I was first married, we lived on the island of Curacao. We moved there
three days before Pesach. The advantage of this was that the cleaning was
minimal, so all we had to do was the cooking. However, as we were unpacking, we
realized we didn’t have enough serving dishes. The next day we asked around and
were told by a few people that there was a housewares store named Shete-Shete
about 15 minutes away. It was described to us as equivalent to the now-defunct
Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Our apprehension about navigating our way around the
island abated once we were told that the store had a big sign with the name on
it that “we couldn’t miss.” We wrote down the directions and drove until we
found the street. First, we drove down the street looking for the store, then
we drove up the street looking for the store. We didn’t see it anywhere. After
a few attempts, we asked someone who was walking by. They pointed toward the
far end of the street and told us, “You can’t miss it.”
We missed it. At
least now we knew we were at the correct end of the street. The next person we
asked looked at us like we were crazy. He pointed to the large building we were
sitting in front of and said, “It’s right here.”
“Where’s the sign
that says Shete-Shete,” we asked.
“Right there,” he
answered, pointing toward the same building. The blank looks on our faces made
him add, “Shete-Shete means seven-seven in our language.” There on the front of
the building was a huge sign with the
numbers 7-7. Sheepishly, we parked the car and headed into the store. I
couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the equivalent to the gematria of
“moron,” just in a language I didn’t understand.
It happens to be
that I’m also not so great at gematria in a language that I do understand. I
have definitely mastered the numerical equivalent of the first five letters of
the alphabet, since those are often the single-digit values used as the codes
for the various shuls and religious institutions that we are allowed to break
into after hours. In a pinch, I can even manage the alpha-numerical
relationship up until the number nine. However, I recently encountered a code
that threw me for a loop. It was at the keilim
mikvah where the word keilim was
spelled out vertically in Hebrew. My first inclination was to start counting to
ten. Unfortunately, this only got me one of the four letters. Even this was no
help since it was two digits long.
Once I realized I
couldn’t count on my fingers to see me through this, I employed my emergency
strategy. I called one of my children. Well, it turns out that my tuition
dollars paid off. Not only did my son know the gematria of the entire alphabet,
but he also informed me that for this code, which is called mispar katan, you only use the first
digit of each number. Why anyone would think that those of us who are
gematrially-challenged could ever figure this out is beyond me. Now that I was
enlightened, I felt a sense of relief. I figured I would be able to crack any
code that came my way. How wrong I was.
It turns out that
breaking codes is not for the faint of heart nor for the bleary-eyed mother who
is staying in the hospital overnight with her child. A recent event, the birth
of my granddaughter (thank you for the mazal tovs), had me searching for the Bikur Cholim room at three in the
morning. The good news was that I found it in my sleep-deprived state due to
the sign on the door that stated “Bikur Cholim of Baltimore – Kosher Hospitality
Room.” The bad news was that no one told me I needed to study before being able
to unlock the door.
In a square box in
the middle of the sign was the word “Code:” So far, so good. Things went
quickly downhill from there. Underneath were the clues – in English. The clue
for the first number of the code was Avos.
My first thought was to try to calculate the gematria of the entire word. I
figured “A” is like aleph. The next
letter “V” is like vav. I got stuck
on the letter “O.”
I then decided to
read the second clue of the code. It said “Luchos
Habris.” At this point, I felt like I was taking a Chumash test that I had
forgotten to study for. By the time I got to the third and final clue, “Avinu Shebashamayim,” I was feeling an
inexplicable urge to burst out singing, “Echad
Mi Yodei’ah.” Realizing this was the key to success, and I entered the
correct code. (Don’t worry, I did not start singing.) For those of you who are
still confused, go find yourself a Haggadah.
Exhausted and far from amused, I made my way to the couch to take a nap until I
was called back to the room.
I figure that, with
my new understanding of the term coding, combined with the fact that my life is
the equivalent of a coding reality-TV show, it just might be time to break into
a new profession, literally.
