I have packed up my bags and am ready to return home to “civilization.” I am especially proud of the fact that everything I have fits into one large carry on bag. I also have a shoulder bag, which in pop culture is referred to as a “murse” and that is my only new addition to my traveling ensemble. My goal on this trip was to keep my “foot print” small, of course one has the luxury of doing this when other people’s foot print is large. Thus, I don’t need to own a TV, because the apartment I rented had a huge HD TV already installed. I admit that is cheating and I get to look and act like St. Francis of Assisi while I get to enjoy all the benefits of the penthouse suite at the Vatican. (to mix some metaphors.)
Ben Gurion Airport. There is nothing in the world like this airport. All day long people are coming in from all over the world some in rags escaping something, some coming to Israel for a new life, others visiting love ones who have previously made the trip, lots of young kids on their Birthright trip, and of course there are always the pilgrims, some coming to see where Jesus walked, other to see the Wailing Wall. There are even people who think they are the new mesiah and this group is afflicted with what is commonly called Jerusalem Syndrome. Everytime I go to the airport, tears come to my eyes, there is just so much human emotion being expressed by the crowds.
The huge temple like columns dominate the arrival hall and the digital schedule board gives a nice glimpse of the international character of the flights coming and going.
Two things happened to me as I was leaving Israel. First, I walked to the main street with my bags, stood 10 feet from the corner and waited patiently to hail a cab to the airport. A cute Israeli woman in a mini-skirt, go-go boots, cigarette and talking on a cell phone walked up to a spot 5 feet from the corner and immediately hailed the first passing cab. She never looked at me and never gave any thought to the fact that there was a cab-hailing protocol which generally favors a first-come, first-serve. Second, when I got on the plane, the stewardess made the announcement that the flight would take 12 hours and 15 minutes from Israel to Toronto. Immediately, the call light above the seat in front of me went on and (excuse the stereo-type) but a large, heavy-set Israeli man, with a kipa on his head, summoned the stewardess. What followed was a very heated and loud (on his part) discussion, actually argument, that the distance to Toronto could not be 12.25 hours, but had to be 11.5 hours. The man claimed he had made this trip a hundred times and it had never taken 12.25 hours. The stewardess (Air Canadian) said there were many variables like wind and weather, but the Israeli man would not let go of it. I have watched a discussion/argument like this a hundred times in Israel, almost always in Hebrew and never understand what the fight was about. Now that I heard it in English, I still didn’t understand what the fight was about.
When the first leg of my return journey landed in Toronto, I stood patiently in the passport inspection line and saw a woman struggling with her small child. I told her she could go ahead of me and she turned to me and said, “thank you very much.” Shortly thereafter, a man bumped his cart into my leg and apologized profusely. Even when I arrived in LA, while rushing to get to the shuttle bus, I got to the door at the exact same time as another rider and heard him say, “after you.” I was stunned. The idea that Americans, no less, could teach other people (ie Israelis) about politeness was a staggering insight.
But I don’t want this to sound so harsh. Clearly, Israelis operate on two levels. There is the street level in which it appears that everyone is in their own world, I almost never made eye contact with anyone and when I did, it was almost always with a foreigner. People function on the street in a personal bubble, which means they get on a bus as soon as the doors open, they talk on a cell phone loudly in a crowded elevator, wherever it rings and they can smoke a cigarette an inch from your face and never think twice about it. On the other hand, (as Tavio in Fiddler on the Roof would say) once a connection is made, Israelis will give you everything they have. This is especially true with the older women I met. I was fed and toured to death by Israelis who had almost instantly accepted me as their friend. Once a connection was made, I was taken into homes and into confidences effortlessly. I was constantly overwhelmed by the commonality of Jew to Jew, even though I am hardly a Jew in the traditional sense. I would have to say that that for me, a Jew from the Midwest, (there is a movie called Yiddle in the Middle on this very subject) I found the instant rapport of Jew-to-Jew to be almost magical and amazingly satisfying. I think in the end that feeling was larger and more profound than the constant irritation of what seemed like the incredibly disrespectful and boorish Israeli street personality.
Here is a picture of my last sunset on the Mediterranean while sitting on a Tel Aviv beach and shortly thereafter I took a picture from my Berkeley window of the sun setting over the Pacific.
One of the most bizarre images from the streets of Jerusalem. A team of about 20 Israeli soldiers, I think they were officer trainees, were running around crazy with a list of what looked like items on a scavenger hunt. As they found different items, they would check them off of their list and rush off to find the next item. It seemed like great fun, except the Uzi machine guns always give me pause.
No comments:
Post a Comment