It's in the bag...

By LINDA LIPSCHITZ
On a recent visit home from abroad, my daughter Yael fell in love with a white handbag that her best friend had recently purchased. Admiring the design, color and material, she decided that this is the bag she wanted. When she asked where it was purchased, she was told that Osnat, a Jerusalemite, makes them, but only sells them at arts and crafts fairs - although it is possible that one shop in Jerusalem stocks them and they are called Osa bags. This is all we had to go on. The day before her departure, having a couple of hours spare before packing, preparing her farewell dinner, picking up the guests, dining and trying to get to bed early before rising at 5 a.m., we set out to find the elusive Jerusalem shop. As it is almost impossible to drive and park in downtown Jerusalem, we decided to take the bus. We walked the length and breadth of the center of town, entering every bag shop and boutique to ask if Osa bags were stocked there - but to no avail; there were loads of beautiful bags but not the one she wanted. Totally exhausted and dejected, we collapsed by our bus stop. Twenty minutes later, and our bus still not in sight, a woman plopped herself down beside me. Yael excitedly jumped up and exclaimed: "She has the bag in orange!" She then explained to the lady that we had been frantically searching Jerusalem for the bag, that she was leaving the country early the next morning and could she please tell us where she bought it? Same story: "Osnat, a Jerusalemite, makes them, but they are only sold at fairs." And then she added: "I really love my bag." The woman had also heard of a shop that sold them but had no idea which one. Sensing my daughter's urgency, she offered to help. "I will call a friend who may know," the woman said. But just as she started dialing - Murphy's Law - our bus arrived. "Never mind, we'll take a cab," I told Yael. But it was the woman's bus too, so we all boarded and sat together. Again, no luck: Her friend didn't know which shop, but gave her the number of another friend who might know. Another call and eureka! This person actually knew Osnat and had her cell phone number. With profuse thanks and clutching the piece of paper with the precious number, we descended the bus accompanied by wishes for success from the helpful lady with the orange bag. Yael called Osnat and explained how she had gotten her number. Amazed, Osnat told us she was in Netanya and would only be back home in Moshav Aminadav much later that evening. "We could meet anytime tomorrow," was her suggestion, noting that she had also made the bags in suede for winter. "I have to leave home by 6 a.m.," Yael wailed. What to do? So close and yet so far. Osnat then asked where we lived in Jerusalem. We told her and she laughed: Turned out she was visiting her sister on her way home from Netanya, and her sister lived one street away from us. We arranged to meet, reorganized dinner arrangements, had someone else pick up Gran and the other guests, threw the food in the oven and off we set. Osnat drove up to her sister's house, and without further ado, from the trunk of the car and by street light, Yael chose her bag in a beautiful brown suede. Walking home, I asked her if she was happy with the bag. "I love it," she replied. "But even more, I love the way I got it." This could never happen anywhere else.