September 19, 2010
Having absorbed years of stories about the thoroughness of Israeli airport security, last night I first experienced the tests required to board an El Al flight.
The day Sunday was much like the last few -- unremarkable, mostly geared towards relaxing, packing, listening to music, again listening to that Mark Ronson interview on CNN and a delicious lunch and coffee at the overpriced but always reliable Le Pain Quotidian.
But at 6:00 p.m. both R.I.L and J.I.L. grabbed their bags, said goodbye (temporarily in his case, probably permanently in mine) to his comfortable apartment in Zurich, and grabbed a tram and then train to the Zurich airport for our international flights, his to Moscow for work and mine to Tel-Aviv for pleasure.
Having arrived at the spectacularly efficient, architecturally uncluttered and oh-so-very-modern Swiss airport several hours early, I had time to purchase a box of Swiss chocolates (all the better to melt in the hot Israeli sun), and have a late lunch, early dinner in a pavillion type area under large windows. I was tempted to order what would likely be my last ham sandwich for a while, but instead opted on a round flatbread with cream cheese and lox. When the time came to depart for our respective gates, we waved farewell.
While in line atTerminal E for El Al (my chosen airline) I experienced the familiar dread of the loudspeaker asking for a particular passenger to report to some location or another (quietly hoping "please not me, please not me, please not me"), soon followed by the utterance of my name, my face turning to the right in horror to see the lady at the El Al desk identifying me, and calling me over. When I arrived, she quickly placated my worries, and reassured me that nothing was wrong, but would I be agreeable to changing seats so that a family of Orthodox/Chasidic Jews could sit together? "Of course!", and I collapsed in relief, no longer terrified that some buereaucratic mishap at the airline had not precluded my travels. Soon thereafter, a very friendly looking Orthodox/Chasidic teenage girl approached me and thanked me for allowing her family to sit together. Given my experience with the unfriendliness of those types, I was particularly charmed by her kindness, and assured her that it was no problem. But was somewhat confused as to why her father had not thanked me, rather sending his teenage daughter to speak to the virtual goy.
Ahead of me in line three men with charming, but direct look-you-in-the-eyes stares at separate desks stood questioning the guests ahead of me in line. I eagerly awaited my opportunity to prove that I, in fact, carried no illegal materials, harbored no terrorist sympathies, and was merely a friendly secular Jew, ready to experience the Holy Land for the first time. When my time came, my interlocutor began to ask me a series of questions: "Are you religious?" ("not really...but I've been Bar Mitzvahed!") "Have you been to Israel before?" "Why are you going?" ("to see the sights?") "Name me some places that are in Israel?" ("uh...the Wailing Wall? the Dead Sea?") He gave me some typical Jewish guilt about the fact that I had not yet visited the Holy Land at this time in my life, as well as that I had not celebrated Yom Kippur while in Zurich, also that I was not able to speak any Hebrew. He asked me how my passport had come to be so wrinkled, and apparently weather beaten. I was forced to admit (for the first of several times) that sometimes I keep it in my pocket, that I sweat profusely when I walk, and that it had thus become so profoundly warped. "They let you use this in America!?" ("Well, I never really USE my passport in America").
To my chagrin, he then stepped away and conferred with several other security individuals, and my stomach sank. What was wrong? Had I forgotten to put my middle initial on my flight reservation, thus conflicting with the name on my passport? Would I miss my flight? I was so scared. He came back, said that I should sit down, and that I would be called later for an inspection of my bag.
After no more than 2 or 3 pages of Jonathan Franzen's Freedom later, I was greeted by an older guy, with a white beard, who led me through a metal door into one of the interrogation rooms I had always feared, and with much warmth, asked me to remove all of the electronics and electric items from my bag. This of course included an ipod, my phone, my chargers (with their tangled cords and converters), my camera, and God knows what else it turned out that I was carrying. One of my favorite parts of any security check is when I, without being asked, start to remove my insulin pump, at which point the security person recoils in horror, potential guilt that they will be blamed for forcing me to compromise my health and safety, at which time I, previously on the defensive, assure them that, no, no, it is okay, I take it off all the time, I'm happy to do a thorough check, I'll take it off. After explaining that I am diabetic, the guy told me that he too, was diabetic (people in airport security seem always to be either diabetic or a close relative of one, no doubt in far worse condition than me, which at least in my warped mind, earns me a bit of additional sympathy). I asked him about his numbers, if he tests his blood sugar, and told him to keep up the good work. He brushed a cloth on all of the items in my bag (I assume to check for explosive materials), which he then inserted in a machine for inspection, and wished me well. Very nice guy, actually.
I got on the plane with no problem. And the flight was perfectly pleasant. Ate a delicious dinner of hummus (huge serving), chicken, some sort of grain, a cupcake, water, and some of the best airplane coffee I've ever had.
But I'd like to make a few short comments about the movie Letters to Juliet, the second half of which I watched. Amanda Siegried is not a bad actress, I think Ryan Philippe is usually rather good, and Vanessa Redgrave is, of course, legendary. But the badness of this movie made my head hurt. The implausibility not just of the overall plot, but each cliched conversation, the horrible dialogue. I understand that movies need to be somewhat predictable to be pleasant for the viewer, but this one went way too far. Really, he ends up confessing his love to her after she inexplicably runs up a balcony? Ugh! And having just been an American tourist in Italy (where the movie mostly takes places), I felt shame having occupied even remotely the same touristic space as these characters. Still...on at least 2 occasions I got teary eyed, by myself, on a plane, without a drop of alcohol in my system. What can I say...
I arrived in Tel-Aviv at about 12:40 a.m., with not a shekel to my name, a huge backpack (the books, cords, diabetic supplies and other immediately unnecessary items I had stored with my brother would need to be with me if I wanted to bring them to LA), a hunger in my belly for more food (even after two dinners) and worry that my hostel would be no good. I picked up some money at the ATM (so much of it spent already...), changed my 50 Euros to shekels, and emerged into the hot (I think "balmy" might be the right word, but I've never exactly figured out what it means) Israeli night, which shocked me after the cold nights of the last few weeks (the hotness reminded me of arriving at night in the airports of San Jose, Costa Rica and Bangkok, Thailand), grabbed a cab, and began fiddling with my blackberry, which I could not bring to work without "roaming," which I understand to be a very bad thing. I still have not solved this problem.
Hayarkon 48 Hostel seems pleasant enough, although the guests are indeed predominantly male. I also have some trouble in Israel distinguishing Israeli guys being really "buddy buddy" with each other or just being gay. I checked in, dropped off my bag in my very hot (thank Gosh I chose I room with a ceiling fan) and dark (it's funny how one of the first concerns people make of hostels is the possibility of them being noisy with lots of people interrupting their sleep -- in my experience the greatest problem is arriving home last to a room of sleeping strangers and trying to get undressed, brush one's teeth, check blood sugar, eat any necessary final items, and possibly climb to a top bunk, without making too much of a disturbance) room.
Still starving, I walked down the street to a very much open falafel stand (okay, I'm liking Tel-Aviv already -- most of the cities I've visited turn into ghost towns on weekday nights, especially after midnight -- it was probably 2 a.m. by now), with a very friendly proprietor who was very eager to make me a falafel sandwich, tell me that everything in it was "the best" (bringing back fond memories of the Palestinian proprietor of International Delights in Durham, NC) and explaining the different types of spicy salads offered to garnish the sandwich. And then testing me on the names of those foods. The sandwich was indeed, quite good.
I spent another half hour fiddling with my phone, very worried now that I would not be able to make phone calls while in Israel, finally gave up, and tried to go to sleep.
For reasons I cannot explain (I was tired and it was late), it took me at least half an hour to fall asleep, sometime possibly after 4:00 a.m.
Chuck Berry -- Promised Land
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