One Holon of a Time

It is often said that there is nothing like Jerusalem on Shabbat. There is also nothing like trying get out of Jerusalem on Shabbat.
Yesterday morning, I had my first assignments for my internship at the Jerusalem Post. The first would take me to the Israel Acrobatics Championships in Holon and the second to a track and field meet in Tel Aviv.
After scouring the Central Bus Station for an hour in search of a rationally priced cab to Holon, I figured that I might have to forgo covering the acrobatics meet. I got in contact with the coach of the Jerusalem track club coach. He offered me a ride on the team bus if I wanted one. I already accepted the offer and decided to walk back to my apartment and do some more blogging. On my way back I figured that I would ask a cab if he would take me to Holon for 150 shekels (all the other cab drivers wouldn't do it for less than 200). He accepted, and I was off to Holon.
The cab driver accepted my proposal on one condition: that he drop me at the intersection where Holon meets the highway, in the middle of an industrial area. Since this was my best chance to get to Holon, I figured that would be acceptable.

Although I had an address, I didn't know where the acrobatics arena was. I decided to start walking into town and to call somebody at the Menachem Begin Sports Hall, where the competition was being held.
Little did I know how difficult it would be to get ahold of someone at the Sports Hall. I continued to walk into town until I someone picked up the phone. They told me to take a taxi to an address on a street that nobody seemed to know (I asked a few drivers and fellow pedestrians). I got in a taxi with an old man driving and his wife riding shotgun. I told them the address, and they told me to get in the car. However, they didn't know where this address was. The man would make a turn, and his wife would tell him that he went the wrong direction. Then, his wife would suggest somethng, and the driver would reject it. They asked four different pedestrians for directions before we arrived at the building.
It ends up that I was only four blocks from the Sports Hall when I picked up the taxi. We drove around the town, and the meter rolled up to 24 shekel before we finally found the place. Having not expected to shell out that much moneyy for my first taxi or to go on a joy ride with Martha and George Wilson, I was out of cash by the time I got to the Hall.