On the road

If you want to travel New York to TLV in one of the most convoluted ways possible, leave it to me and my last minute planning and the limited availability of miles seats on Star Alliance. A simple direct flight from either JFK or Newark to TLV Ben Gurion was substituted for a round-about tour of not two, but four different countries on three different continents.

My departure from Laguardia was entirely uneventful, seated next to a pilot from Air Canada who was deadlegging it back to Montreal before his flight to LAX in the afternoon, I was privileged to hear some interesting stories from a pilot's perspective of the idiots who fly. Fortunately for him, but to my disappointment in terms of in-flight entertainment, he has had a relatively quiet pilot's career, with no serious malfunctions of planes or crises on board. Being a cautious person, he is exactly the type of person I would like to find flying my next flight to Canada, sadly our own pilot was not as cautious. My own fears of air travel were not easily put to rest as I witnessed my seatmate grip his armrests as we taxied both out of our gate in New York and into our gate in Montreal, complaining that our pilot was clearly in a hurry to use the restroom given the speeds he was maneuvering the plane at. I wouldn't have noticed the haste at which our own pilot was handling our plan, had it not been for my seat-mate. I realized I was sitting next to the pilot version of a Florida retiree driver. You know the type, the kind that look through the steering wheel, back completely removed from the back of the seat, fingers in a death grip around the steering wheel so tight the knuckles have lost all color. Yep, that was my neighbor who had a mustache that would even make Tom Selleck a bit envious.

Navigating the airport in Montreal proved to be a slightly more tricky task than I had originally anticipated. Mind you the last time I was in Montreal (for all of three hours) was when I was 12-years-old flying with my mother who's French was, at least at the time, far superior to my limited use of the romance language today. Considering myself a world traveler, I hadn't even given a thought to the potential challenges that would await me in Montreal, my neighbor to the north. It was not nearly as much of a culture shock as flying into Livingston airport in Zambia, or even Malpensa in Milan, but I became acutely aware that I was in a foreign land that functioned just a bit differently from my own. Passport control was an interesting experience, having to choose between being stuck in the international terminal until my flight's departure (what is that? you can't leave the international wing once in it!? I can understand not being permitted to enter if a passenger doesn't hold an international ticket, but being locked in a small international terminal with no shops open at noon on a Friday for five hours? Less than an ideal situation) or else having the opportunity to go through customs and have the option of entering Canadian territory. My passport control agent was kind and suggested I go the latter route. Unlike in the US, I was not responsible for claiming my baggage and rechecking it after customs (which as far as I could tell don't exist, at least in Montreal, and given some of the stories I heard from my pilot neighbor, I was pretty sure smuggling in goods from abroad would not be nearly as problematic as in the US. No dogs, no boarder patrol agents, really nobody who gave two cents about what was going on in the arrivals hall). Luckily I realized that in my haste to check-in at Laguardia, my flight agent had neglected to give me my luggage tag. A pang of fear took over me, as I realized that my luggage might be lost for an eternity, and remembered the only clothing I had in my carry-on was a pair of support socks and a change of hanky pankys, hardly the kind of clothing I would be able to pull off at the opening of the Jerusalem Museum on the following Sunday. I comforted myself quickly with the fact that I had roughly five hours to locate my luggage and make my next flight, and cursed flying internationally out of Laguardia where the gate agents clearly are subpar and are forced to work domestic service instead of the more challenging realm of international travel...

I managed to locate an Air Canada staff member who assured me that he had in fact seen my bag and transported it to the Swiss luggage handlers He printed me a copy of my luggage tag, and I exited onto Canadian territory for the second time in my 27 years on earth, realizing this sad truth; I've spent so much time traveling in Europe, South America, Africa and the Middle East, I haven't given my neighbor to the north a fighting chance. I vow it's about time, between my sister-in-law who is Canadian and her parents, my cousin, and friends, I really ought to set aside some time to get to know it.

Determined to find a sweater for my next two flights (yes in my haste to leave the house and not forget to leave my orchid with my doorman, I forgot to pack suitable layers for the plane. Instead I was dressed more appropriately for arrival in Tel Aviv than travel close to the Arctic Circle). It turns out, Montreal does not have the kind of luxury shopping in its airport terminal as I had hoped. Nothing like the likes of Munich, Milan, Paris or even JFK for that matter. And I quickly realized my hopes of finding a decent article of clothing I wouldn't be giving away as soon as I landed in Israel were slim. The closest thing to a sweater I could find was the Canadian sweater, or hockey jersey, or else the all-to-familiar tourist sweatshirt in either blue or red with Montreal embroidered in a rainbow of colors. I decided to wait and see what the international terminal might have in store for me.

I settled on an easy lunch waiting for my gate to be listed. I couldn't for the life of me figure out which terminal my flight would be leaving from, and had walked the departures hall of the airport at least three times, twice clockwise, and once in a counter-clockwise direction, with my rolly-bag in tow. I couldn't even find an agent for any of the Star Alliance partners to help me find the relevant information, and settled on taking a seat at the best looking establishment in the terminal to grab a bite to eat and wait for my gate assignment. This restaurant, I believe called Casey's Cafe, was hardly haut cuisine, and the menu did include the glossy color photographs which I generally only find acceptable at Japanese restaurants as a substitute for the plastic model food. I ordered what I thought to be one of the safer items on the menu that wouldn't cause the all-too-common travel bloat (everything seemed to be loaded with beans and cheese to my lactose-intollerant dismay). My salad was perfectly fine, as I watched a few minutes of the masters on the TV above the bar which was next to the fishing network. Now I thought watching golf was absurd. Nothing terribly exciting about it, in fact even watching golf in person is enough to get me to start snoring on the spot. But what kind of person actually enjoys watching fishing on TV? It wasn't even fly fishing! It was a bunch of middle-aged over-weight men standing around scratching their bellies and occasionally pulling on their lines when they got a bite. Really, this was absolute lunacy as far as I was concerned.

After lunch I located the terminal my flight would depart from, and immediately headed to the international wing but not before going through security and experiencing the most drawn-out unprofessional frisking of my life. Why I was selected at random to be frisked is beyond me. My clothing certainly didn't scream terrorist, what with my super tight spandex pants and a t-shirt. Not the sort of thing you'd expect me to be concealing a vest of improvised explosive devices under. Nevertheless I finally made it to the international wing to find the the entrance guarded by a gatekeeper, a perfectly reasonable French-Canadian man, who made sure to emphasize that once in the international wing, I was not permitted to return to the domestic wing. He reiterated himself in French and English at least four times, and I didn't have the heart to ask him what he would do if I chose to make a break for it full-speed. I had a quick urge to test him, to go in, and then say "ooh I forgot my other bag out there, can't I please go and get it! I left it at the magazine shoppe!", but I decided with over 20 hours of travel ahead of me, I'd be better off reserving my energy and frustrations for the possible obstacles that lay ahead. I assured him I had explored the domestic area of the airport enough and I was satisfied I would not need to be going back.

If I thought the domestic part of the airport was a bit lack-luster, I was thoroughly disappointed by the international wing, which at nearly two-thirty in the afternoon, was still more than 50% closed. I had no more luck locating even a long-sleeved t-shirt I wouldn't mind being seen in, and after investigating the entire wing, which was empty save for another 2 or 3 passengers, I returned to the club to wait for my flight to board. I managed a series of cat naps and phone calls before finally boarding my second leg of my journey to Zurich.

Arriving at Zurich airport just past six in the morning, I was shocked to find every store open with staff available and smiling. I was not surprised, however, to find that the weather in Zurich, even in the middle of summer was overcast and rainy. I cannot remember flying through Zurich and seeing even a ray of sunlight before breaking through the cloud cover. What a depressing place to live. I need a little sun, at least during the summer, to feel alive. But just thinking about the oppressive heat and humidity that awaits me in Tel Aviv was a comfort as I settled in to catch-up on emails and try to figure out if my iphone will work in Europe and Tel Aviv...

My flight from Zurich to Tel Aviv was entirely uneventful. I managed to sleep a bit, watch Date Night, and dive another 30 pages or so deeper into my latest Anthony Bourdain book. We landed in sunny Tel Aviv perfectly on time, and it was my first time making it through passport control without waiting in a 30 minute line. I've decided that arriving to Tel Aviv on Shabbat (when neither El Al nor Israir flights run) is the way to go to avoid the chaos that I have so often experienced at Ben Gurion. I didn't even have to throw an elbow in the line for passport control, which I was ready to do. I had my left and right arms poised to strike some unsuspecting passenger as he tried to wedge his way in front of me in line. Much to my surprise, there was no line. And when I reached the luggage carousel, I spotted my overstuffed duffle-bag making its way slowly to me. I loaded it onto my cart, stopped by the atm to grab a few shkelim for my taxi ride into Tel Aviv, and made my way outside.

I was pleased with my ability, while limited, to communicate my needs to the taxi driver. I was able to tell him exactly where I wanted to go in Hebrew, and apologized for my limited skills. He was kind and flattering telling me I was speaking quite well. We managed to get to my apartment on Mazeh Street (in Hebrew, Mazeh, or Ma Zeh, literally means what is) and I slowly lugged my bag, which I could swear had only increased in girth as well as weight over the course of my 24+ hour trip, up the one flight of stairs to the place I will call home for the next month. The flat is ideal, beautifully furnished with an amazing kitchen and balcony. It's really my dream place. The girl who lives here, Dana, is roughly my age and traveling in India for the next six weeks. I instantly felt at home, and began unpacking a bit.

I decided to take advantage of not feeling terribly sleepy to start to get to know my neighborhood, and went out for a late afternoon walk. I walked west on Mazeh street. It is a beautiful and quiet street in the center of the city, tree lined, which is a huge plus to avoid the scorching rays of the summer sun. I walked across Yehuda Halevi street, noticing the quaint caffe at the corner, which was rather empty at that time of day, and onwards to Rothschild Blvd, which showed much more of the hustle bustle on the Saturday afternoon. I continued as far west as Yavne street, before turning up and walking back towards home on Nahmani Street which is roughly a parallel to Mazeh. I stopped by the local AM/PM grocery store to get a few basic staples, and came home for an afternoon nap and a snack. The nap was ideal, on the couch with a little breeze coming through the three french doors that lead out to the balcony. Silent. I awoke naturally several hours later, and took time to continue to unpack, call friends, make plans with friends for the next few days, and make dinner.

Tomorrow will be a relatively relaxed day, continuing to explore my neighborhood and Tel Aviv, and I have an evening that is likely to be one I will remember for the rest of my life. It is the renewal ceremony and celebration for the Israel Museum. I'm off to Jerusalem to celebrate with the museum, the directors, donors, and politicians alike. There is rumor that BB will be there. Nevertheless, I am sure I have loads of fun and excitement awaiting me in the coming days and weeks.