Finally: Israel Day 1 and 2
Okay, I've been back in Portland for a full month and have been dreading blogging about my trip to Israel. Not because it wasn't fun, but because 1.) it's going to take a lot of time 2.) I'm really bad about finishing these kinds of projects and 3.) it was a lot of fun and work is really work-y lately and, really, I kind of want to go back.
Alas. I am caving to the pressure (thanks guys!) and I'm going to suck it up.
Day 1 and 2: Portland to LA to Tel Aviv to Jerusalem in 30 Hours or Less!
I got up at 3 a.m. on Wednesday to fly to LAX. Joe was still in Minnesota and I had the dog, so it was a little stressful. Westely had eaten his way through his new kennel the night before, so I had to pack him up in his tiny kennel and leave him until Joe got back at 1 p.m. the same day. Westely was already unhappy with me and the tiny kennel didn't help. Mom picked me up bright and early at 5 o'clock and, boy, that was awesome.
The flight to LA was uneventful and we landed early, which I would usually say is great. Except. Except that I had, per the instructions from the agency I was traveling with, scheduled my flight to arrive in LA four hours before our departing flight. So now I was at LAX five hours before our departing flight. By myself. At 8 a.m. So that was awesome.
I wandered around and asked all kinds of lost-looking strangers "Excuse me, but are you going to Israel?" Um, no. None of them were. And not only were none of them going to Israel, but then all of them started looking at me like I was some sort of moron. I gave up and sat outside for an hour and called into work to relay instructions to my intern. Yes, that's right. I called into work. Day 1 of vacation and I was on the road to success!
After an hour, I went back in to the terminal. People from our group were finally starting to arrive and, as such, I started judging who I would like and who I wouldn't like. Oh, I kid, I kid. But I did spot this girl with curly hair and a Berkeley sweatshirt and I thought "Hmm, we could be roommates. I bet she has good hair products." This ended up working out very well in the end.
The El Al ticketing counter opened up exactly four hours before our flight. There were a ton of employees there in suits and a couple with Secret Service-esque earpieces and, of course, the guys with really big guns. Very James Bond. It reminded me of Logan airport after September 11th. Which was oddly comforting, in a really big gun kind of way.
They made all of us stand in line as the interviewed each of us one by one. And not just the usual "Did you pack your bag? Do you have any knives with you?" kind of thing. But rather "What is the name of your rabbi? Where did you go to college? What denomination are you? Are both your parents Jewish?" kind of thing. Yeah, it was a little intense. I made it through quickly with a mention of being Sephardic and going to Brandeis (whoo! Jew cred!), but some were not so lucky...
One of our fellow travelers had a very large box with him. The interviewer looked at him and asked, "What is this?"
"A box," he replied.
"And what is in it?"
"Stuff."
"Did you pack it?"
"No."
Oh, no. That didn't go so well. He, like many others on our trip, got a little sticker put on his bags that indicated that all of his stuff would be confiscated and searched. Including his carry on. About five or six people on our trip got their carry ons taken away (all men -- El Al knows not to mess with Jewish women, apparently) and some didn't get them back until our second or third day in Jerusalem. Lesson: Don't fuck with El Al.
After checking in, we had time to wander around the international terminal at LAX. Wow, it's super boring there. And the food blows. We gave up and went to sit at the gate, which was a whole different kind of disaster. I've never been to Calcutta, but I imagine it's similar to the international terminal gates. It was crowded. Really crowded. And kind of smelly. And really disorganized. And there were tiny cars that would beep at you and then run over your foot anyway. And no one spoke English except for us and those that did were talking into intercoms that we couldn't hear. (Yes, this is how I envision Calcutta. Though I also imagine cows there and, thankfully, there were no cows in our terminal. At least, none that I could see.) It was so disorganized that our flight ended up leaving close to two hours late.
Not that we knew that when we got on the plane. Yes, that's right. Two hours sitting on the plane. Oh, wait, but I forgot. First you have to take a bus from the international terminal to a special terminal to get on the plane. And the bus has a police escort. And then the plane has a police escort until it leave the ground. Lesson: Don't fuck with El Al, part II.
They shoved most of our trip on the back of the plane -- affectionately dubbed The Back of the Bus -- which was very smart. Having forty twenty-somethings who just met on a plane for a 14 hour flight (and a two hour wait before that) must have made the flight attendants want to bail out somewhere over Italy. But it worked out fairly well for all of us.
The flight itself wasn't bad. There was lots of food -- and most of it good -- and everyone just kind of wandered around and hung out in the kitchen for a lot of the flight, which was great. One of the guys on the trip and I started trying to identify That Guy -- you know, That Guy! -- and made our official predictions for the trip. There were really bad movies and Friends reruns and lots of hot pita bread and nice blankets. The flight attendants were way nicer than most American flight attendants and happily fed you on command (yes!) and refilled your water bottle and gave everyone lots of free booze. Not bad, really, for a really, really long flight.
Eventually, we landed at Ben Gurion. The luggage situation got even better at that point. One of the guys on our trip, Anthony, was waiting with me and Michelle (the curly haired girl with the Berkeley sweatshirt) for his bag. He couldn't find it until, finally, it came off the carousel. Empty. Just a bag. With nothing in it.
And then came the box. A box with all of his stuff in it. That's right. El Al had not only searched his bag, but had unloaded all of his possessions into a box. Somewhere, there are some really great pictures of Anthony and his really sad box. Anthony was not the only one on our trip who met this fate, but he was definitely the most amusing about it. Poor Anthony and his sad box.
We met our guide, exchanged our money, picked up our cell phones and got on our bus that would become our home base for the next 10 days. We were so late, we did some quick rescheduling and went to a park that overlooks Jerusalem. We got there right before sunset and had our first real look at the city. They gave us nasty wine for a kiddush and then we piled back onto the bus to head to our hotel.
At the hotel, we left our luggage in the lobby (safe!) and had dinner first. And that dinner, it was fantastic! The food at our hotel -- plug: The Jerusalem Gold Hotel -- was some of the best on our trip, despite the rooms and beds being very, very tiny (more on that later). As we sat down for dinner, a group of Russians at the other end of the dining hall started singing. Loudly. In Russian. It was like crazy Russian dinner theater just for us.
After dinner, we picked our roommates -- Michelle and I found another curly top, Laura, to bunk with us -- and headed to our aforementioned tiny rooms. It had been 30 + hours since leaving Portland and I was so exhausted. Good night!
Next up: Obnoxious 18 year olds, the Old City, davening in Burberry and much, much more!
