Thursday morning, the flight from Vancouver. We weren’t able to check in online as we usually do, because part of the journey takes place on the following day, Friday, but when I checked in personally, I was able to have my bag sent all the way to Tel Aviv. A golf cart was provided for me, which made getting to the flight gate so easy. It’s hard to believe that the enormous challenge I would normally have faced in just walking from security to the departure gate was eliminated by using my handicapped designation. As I was escorted so swiftly along, I spotted John and Susan drinking their morning coffee in a cafe close to the gate. The porter stopped for me, and I joined my friends, my travel companions for the next17 days. During our conversation, it became evident that John and Susan had not checked their luggage all the way to Tel Aviv. They had picked up automatic boarding passes in the airport, which serviced the flights only as far as Frankfurt. They were told they’d have to pick up their bags there, get a second boarding pass, and check in again in Frankfurt in order to send the bags on to Tel Aviv.
NB for future travel: Checking through to final destination is
possible. Make sure to ask a human!
The first leg of our flight, to
Montreal, was fairly bumpy, particularly during the first part, but we arrived
safely and with time to spare at Pierre Elliot Trudeau airport. I bought a wheeled carry-on in the airport
there, as my carry-on bag was just too heavy for me, and once settled on board
the flight to Frankfurt, we were served dinner, heading out over the
Atlantic. Thank you, Air Canada! This was a beautiful, overnight flight,
smooth, some sleeping off and on, with breakfast served on board before our
landing.
Friday, March 16, 2012
At Frankfurt, I was most fortunately
met with a wheelchair and porter, but John and Susan were told they had to stand
in line to pick up their luggage before getting boarding passes to Tel Aviv and
then re-checking their bags. The porter
who wheeled me passed by John and Susan as they were waiting, and said to them
that they’d be lucky indeed if they would be in time to catch the Tel Aviv
flight. Thoughts began to race through
my head: What if I got separated from
them? Was it possible for me to wait for
them? Could I change my flight? But my bag would be on a different
flight? How would we ever meet up if I
had to go on ahead? Their own thoughts
were causing anxiety in their wait line.
Our adventures have already begun!
The porter, who had an air of abruptness
that accompanied his efficiency, wheeled me a very long way to get my boarding
pass. I was shocked that I was taken to
a very small two-clerk office, not part of the regular airport hubbub, where,
upon showing my baggage tag, I was issued a boarding pass for Tel Aviv – no
problem, my suitcase being forwarded automatically. The porter was just about to wheel me off to
security and the departure gate, when I immediately asked, “What about my
friends?” He suddenly began talking in
German to the clerk who had given me my pass.
The conversation was quick and to the point; she clicked her computer
keys, typing in various pieces of information.
Within a few minutes she said, “Your friends’ luggage has been
located. Now, it’s just to see if they
can get it on the Tel Aviv flight.” We
waited several more minutes. “Yes,” she
said, raising her head from the computer screen. “No problem.
Your friends’ bags will now go
directly onto the Tel Aviv flight.” What
a huge relief. My “wheeler” then told me
to stay right where I was, and he ran back to find Susan and John, still in the
original line-up.
When he returned them
to this small office, they were issued their new boarding passes. This time, he had a golf cart at his disposal
and loaded it up with John, Susan, myself, and all three pieces of carry-on
luggage. He rushed us through the
airport, turning and twisting between other travellers with skill, ending at the
Security line for Tel Aviv. It was a
separate line, all on its own, and it was long.
He drove the cart right to the beginning of the line, where there was a small
side entrance, reserved, it would seem, for people with disabilities. We waited not even one minute, but went
through security immediately. The efficiency
and care we received were absolutely incredible!
It seemed so strange to me, going
from Germany directly to Israel. It was
an irony really, considering the Second World War, the Holocaust and the Nazis,
this juxtaposition of Jews and Germans.
The Lufthansa flight was perfect, except for the announcements which
jarred our rest, so noticeable were they to us by being made in Hebrew and
German! Here were two countries that had
learned to overcome and move past so much history. We sat on board a plane in 2012, listening to
German-speaking people going on holidays, black-hatted Chasidic Jews speaking
in their Yiddish sing-song, other passengers chatting animatedly in Hebrew, and
the remaining folks, speaking a mixture of other languages. Was the plane a metaphor for peaceful co-existence? Not quite.
We noticed that the class system was still intact and in wide usage! First Class, Business Class up front, swivel
chairs, behind the curtains, private washrooms, better food service – and then
the rest of us in Economy Aren’t we
humans such a mess of contradictions?
Landing in Tel Aviv on Friday
afternoon, we were at once struck with the huge, beautiful airport, and the
exciting buzz of passengers arriving from many places. We had to go through Customs and Immigration
here, waiting in the usual long line-ups, facing officers in individual
cubicles, each cubicle looking very official and very secure, each officer with
a set of questions. The officer quizzed
me. “Where are you going?” His voice was
gruff, his manner almost belligerent. “Well, we’re starting in Tel Aviv,” I said, trying
to speak as nonchalantly as possible, “and then travelling from there.” “How long will you be here?” He frowned at me. “About
two weeks,” I replied. “Have you ever
held an Israeli passport?” Now he was
staring at me with great suspicion. “No,”
I answered. I couldn’t figure out why he
would ask me that. “But I do think I
have relatives who live in Israel,” I said, not knowing why I offered that bit
of information. “What is their name?” he
demanded. “The same as mine,” I
said. “Glustein.” He pondered a moment, seemingly to decide if he had more reason to detain me at his wicket, then stamped and slammed my passport shut. “All right, you can go,” he declared. Although nothing untoward had occurred, I
felt shaken up, quizzed, interrogated.
Maybe it was just his tone of voice.
Maybe it was because of the instructions we had been given ahead of time
from our tour leader. “Don’t volunteer
any unnecessary information. You can
tell them you’re with a tour group. You
can tell them you are undertaking training in conflict resolution. Do not mention that you will be listening to
Palestinians. Do not mention that you
will be going into the West Bank.” Yes,
I think it was those words that made me feel on alert and conscious of my every
response. Susan and John, right behind me, had the same
officer. He drilled them in a harsh
manner also. “Where are you going?” he
asked. They gave more information. “To Tel Aviv and then Jerusalem. We’re meeting our group there.” "Show me your itinerary!" His voice was sharp, precise. "We don't have our itinerary with us; our group leader has it." “Which group is that?" he questioned, now making John and Susan feel quite uncomfortable. "It's called Compassionate Listening," "What kind of group is that?" he snapped, making it sound as if they were involved in a dangerous cult of some sort, but Susan snapped right back, with a little derision. “You haven't heard of it? They've been coming to Israel for years!” She thought that maybe she sounded like his
mother, who wouldn’t have taken any lip from him at all! In any case, he stopped his harangue and let them through with no
further ado.
We cashed some American dollars
into NIS, New Israeli Shekels and John picked up a phone card for use in
Israel. We freshened up, found our way
out of the building, and, through the usual tourist process of looking
wide-eyed and turning in all directions, we found where we could hail a cab
that would take us to our hotel. Somehow
we forgot about looking for Sheroots, apparently the more economic way to get
to Jerusalem, but we were anxious to get directly to our hotel and really
didn’t feel like searching when we needed door-to-door service, now.
The Dizengoff Beach Apartments were
in an older area of Tel Aviv. The
advertisements online had shown beautifully up-to-date rooms, featuring a
five-minute walk to the beach. The hotel
was a three-story walk-up, a one-room office open only certain hours, with one
clerk, Zanda, the person who made the booking with John. We were on floor 1, one story up, and
fortunately there was a working elevator! My room faced the street, and looked like a worn-out version of the
online picture! However, we felt very
able to accept it the way that it was.
At least it was clean, there was a bedroom for Susan and John, and a
couch that opened up for me to sleep on.
Dishes, cutlery and bedding were provided. A shower was installed in the tub and looked as
if it would be possible to figure out how to use it. What more could we ask? The toilet had what we came to learn is the usual dual flush system here. We rested a bit and then went out to find a
place for dinner. John had already gone
across the street, befriended a clerk in the local convenience store, and had
returned with a few fixings for the next day’s breakfast as well as information
on how to get to a little restaurant nearby.
We had a fabulous dinner experience
for our first in Israel! The owner came
out, with a spread of almost a dozen small plates, each with a different salad
or side dish – eggplant, tahini, hummus, burekas, baba ghanoush – you name it! “Ah!” he beamed, as we expressed our
admiration of the beautiful display. “This
is just the decoration!” We ordered
kebabs as our main dish, and asked for water at the table. “Sparkling?” he asked. “Or from the water tap?” We were sure that tap water was safe in Tel
Aviv, so asked for that, along with some squeezed lemon juice. As I glanced across to another table, I saw a
huge pitcher of lemonade, which, as we came to see, was a very common meal
accompaniment in many places.
The owner
was so friendly and gave us such welcoming service. We wondered whether he was Israeli or
Palestinian, Jewish or Arab; we really couldn’t tell. We took our wondering as a very positive
thing; not knowing was better; not being able to distinguish one from the other
seemed much more accepting of all.
In our walk, we passed a synagogue,
placed right alongside other shops and street signs in Hebrew, Arabic and
English. It was Friday night and things
were closing up early. We expected a
peaceful and quiet night. But no, it
wasn’t to be. We learned that Friday
night, the end of the work week, just as we might find at home, brought people
out on the town. After all, they could
sleep in the next day, Shabbat, the day of rest. The traffic roared and raced all night. Horns honked in proliferation. We came to understand that the Friday night
experience in Tel Aviv represents the overall driving mentality in Israel. Stuck in traffic? Honk.
Car in your way? Honk. Too long a wait at a light? Honk.
Bad mood? Honk. Our education was just beginning.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
An early morning rise. We were to be out front on Dizengoff by 7:15
a.m., when we expected the tour bus from Bein Harim Tours to pick us up. We ate a beautiful breakfast of local yogurt,
cereal, fruit, and pastry, freshened ourselves up and were ready. We waited.
7:15 passed and no bus arrived.
7:20 – still no bus. 7:25 –
nothing. I had the phone number and
registration for the trip along with me, so John called the tour company to say
that we were waiting. A couple of phone
calls back and forth and finally we were told that they were on their way – we
should just wait where we were. It was
at least 8:00 a.m. when they finally arrived, telling us that they had gone to
the address we said, but there was no such hotel there! Of course, we had told them exactly the right
address, and it finally was straightened out.
At last, we thought. Our day of
being tourists begins; we’re on our way to Masada and the Dead Sea.
Off on the day trip, finally, we
first drove to Jerusalem to pick up more passengers. It was now after 9:00 a.m. Our tour guide for the day was Jacob. Jacob wore a baseball cap, a black shirt,
blue jeans and sunglasses. He enjoyed talking,
especially about himself! He had been a
guide for 41 years now, he said. He had also
been an archeologist here in Israel and had participated in many digs. He then showed us, hanging around his neck,
a coin that he dug up himself at Masada and was given special permission to
keep. Did he expect us to believe that? As he pointed out the highlights of the trip,
he spoke very disparagingly of the Palestinians. He showed, at the roadside,
metal army relics on display so that none shall forget the harm done to Israel
in past encounters with “the terrorists.” He demonstrated an over-the-top pride in
Israel, its people and its accomplishments.
Perhaps he offended my sense of modesty, but this was obviously a very
important part of what Jacob had to show and tell. Many times his words towards Palestinians
seemed very disrespectful and very blatant for a tour guide, particularly when
passengers were from varieties of places, cultures and language groups.
Once we had picked up the remaining
passengers in Jerusalem, we drove south.
The changes in topography were amazing, and it seemed that climate
changed to match. From Tel Aviv , there
was freeway, like any other, signs for the airport, then green lush areas, well
irrigated, and then suddenly desert, huge sand dunes and amazing rock
formations, mountains looming, here and there camps of Bedouins close to the
roadside in make-shift shacks, black tarps or cloth or netting serving as
rooftops for their shelters. The sun
glistened off the Jordanian mountains, appearing like snow from the bus. And then the Dead Sea, a piercing blue. Jacob pointed out how the Israeli mountains,
the Dead Sea and the Jordanian mountains seem to form a natural barrier between
one people and another. Do they feel
protection from each other? Or is it separation? Parts of the drive give such a feeling of
desolation and vastness, despite the knowledge that this is a tiny country.
Wouldn’t you know it? We stopped at Ahava, the factory where many
“Dead Sea products” are sold to beautify the skin. Tourists from all sorts of buses arrived
there, buying up products, watching the advertising movie in the far room, and
choosing souvenirs for those back home.
It is a huge commercial enterprise.
Jacob bought himself a snack here, and we just took advantage of the
bathroom break and a chance to stretch our legs.
Masada
Built atop massive rock and
mountain, it is hard to imagine how the people of ancient times could have
climbed so high to create a fortress of defence here. We heard the stories of the “martyrs,” the Sicariis, who made a
life here, built a small village, complete with baths, synagogue, etc. and then
had themselves killed so that the Romans would not overtake them. Herod the Great built here, too, a
magnificent palace in several tiers. He
had the best views and facilities of all – wonderful baths and lookouts from
every vantage point into the plunging valleys below.
We took the cable car up, I shocking myself
in not feeling fearful at all. I was
embarrassed, really, as I had prefaced the ride with my confession to Susan and
John of my lifelong fear of heights, but it was gone! Looking out over the edges of walkways or walls
without railings was not quite so easy for me, but I managed even that. I was able to walk, climb, and take photos in
spite of my fears and my difficulties with my hip. It was exhilarating, really, to feel such a
sense of accomplishment.
I didn’t know I
had it in me!!
As we returned to the bus
after lunch in the huge cafeteria and gift shop, we realized that there must be
thousands of people who pass through this place daily and participate in the
business of Masada. It makes me wonder
about tourism – the industry that it is and the values behind it. Yes, this is an ancient site, certainly of
interest, with a fascinating story, certainly worthy of upkeep, worthy of
seeing, but there is much more than “upkeep” here. It is an industry unto itself. Funny, I saw the very coins that Jacob was permitted
to keep from the dig on sale in the gift shop!
We boarded the bus, noticing at that moment, a couple of military
jeeps. Israeli soldiers, in full dress,
equipped with long rifles, sat at the exit, making their presence known and
felt. It is the first time that I have
seen them. They sit there behind the
wheel, toting weaponry in full view, laughing together, their uniforms neat and their young faces
shining.
The Dead Sea
Towards the end of the afternoon we
retraced some of the roadway we had travelled and stopped at the Dead Sea. We changed into bathing suits and were lucky
enough that a little sun shone for the short while we were there. Susan and I took turns going into the water –
I had forgotten my flip-flops and just couldn’t walk on the rocky beach. I wore her waterproof shoes and she took my
photo, floating in the thick salt water, and then we switched. Some people were covering themselves with
thick, black, mud, considered to be very beneficial to the skin, and then
washed it off after it caked and baked.
We then walked to the mineral spa set up on the same premises, where we
again floated in very hot salt water, returning to shower off and change before
resuming the journey back. We are very
aware of the tourist industry here, Jacob’s everyday comfort with the cashiers,
the towel providers, and so on. Spring
has barely arrived and already the swarms of visitors are here to float in the
Dead Sea -- been here, done that.
It was a long day. Returning first to Jerusalem and dropping off
many passengers at the fancy hotels there, we then arrived in Tel Aviv and were
happily dropped off at our own hotel.
This time we ate a dinner of vegetarian couscous at a restaurant up the
street that looked busy and welcoming. A
one-hundred-year-old man was being feted there, and as we ate we heard speeches
and songs in his honour. The atmosphere
was so casual and warm, a real feeling of all being welcome. The owner here was most attentive to us and
to all, really showing that he was there to please us.
On the way back to the hotel we stopped at
the local convenience store where John had already established an earlier
connection. We picked up our breakfast
of yogurt, cereal, fruit and mmmm, Danish!
Or, I guess, more technically, Israeli!!
What a long jam-packed day after a no-sleep night, no doubt so very
different from what we will encounter as the trip continues and our delegation
begins. See: http://www.amomentintheirshoes.blogspot.ca
