In and Out of Tel Aviv (3)

When we arrive in Israel, Rita’s sister, Sigal, meets us at the airport. Because I am not sure my brother would be home, I join Rita and we all go to Sigal’s apartment, which is located several miles east of Tel Aviv. I am not a stranger to the family. I met Sigal, her husband, and three kids in the summer when they came to visit Rita. When they see me at the door with my luggage, they immediately make me feel at home. Sigal insists on serving me a plate of green beans, a piece of chicken, and potatoes she cooked for her kids’ lunch. Her youngest daughter, Yonit, waits impatiently for me to finish everything on my plate so she can give me a tour of her pink bedroom and the rest of the apartment. Rita’s mother is there too. Apparently, luck was on her side and she had bought a ticket on the same flight as us to Portugal. She paid three times more than we did, but hey, life is short and I have to keep my mouth shut before I say something snippy.

Mom, who I’m going to call Vera, is a tiny ball of energy full of anecdotes about life’s mishaps and good fortunes. Her short, auburn hair is well-coiffed, her bright lipstick is not smeared, and her clothes spell comfort mixed with an active lifestyle. She is definitely not the grandma type. She can probably run me to the ground if she puts her mind to it. I should bond with her as soon as possible. 

I move to the balcony where Vera is sitting to look at the sunset and the high-rise buildings that have sprouted in the suburbs around Tel Aviv. We talk about this and that, mostly about how Sigal scored that modern tenth-floor apartment, and we get to know each other a little better. Rita comes to check on us with a cup of Nescafe in her hand and exclaims triumphantly, “You see, I told you, you’d get along with my mom.” Right. What else did she think I was going to do? Punch her mother in the face? I have nothing against her mother. I just hadn’t planned on going to Portugal as a sidekick for her family reunion.

When I start dozing on the couch, Rita offers to give me a ride to my brother’s house in Tel Aviv, in her mother’s car this time. She explains that his apartment is on the way from her sister’s apartment to her parents’ apartment so it’s no big deal. I think that it is quite out of the way for her, but I am so happy she is willing to do it that I don’t try to argue. This woman loves to drive. I think she also wants to see where my brother lives because I have spoken about his fabulous place many times. 

It’s already dark when we arrive in the city. On the wide street that runs parallel to the beach, Rita nearly hits a young dude on an electric scooter. “I didn’t even see him,” she complains, slightly unnerved. “He doesn’t even wear a helmet.”

“You have to watch out for them,” Vera interjects. “They think they own the road.”

Welcome to Israel, I think to myself.

When I call my brother to come downstairs and help me with my suitcase, he is as surprised to hear my voice as I expected. He completely forgot that I was coming. I let it slide because it is my fault he forgot. I usually have to text him every day for a week before my arrival to ensure that the information sticks, but this time I forgot to text him from the airport in San Francisco.

I spend the five days before the flight to Portugal in a jetlag haze. I lie awake through the night chasing mosquitoes and sleep during the day. My brother’s bookshelf keeps me company when no one is around. Edward Snowden’s scandalous memoir, translated into Hebrew, attracts my attention and helps me pass the long wakeful hours. In the hours my body can function, I go to the beach, visit the outdoor market, and hang out with my brother in nightclubs. He lives in one of the best neighborhoods in Tel Aviv and I take advantage of it.

I call Rita one afternoon to see if she wants to meet—after all, she has asked me to travel to Israel with her numerous times so I can meet her friends and visit all the best places she knows in Galilee and the desert—but she happily informs me that she is going to Jerusalem with an old friend of hers. The plan, however, does not include me. I consider canceling my ticket to Portugal, but on second thought decide that the drama that would ensue from such a radical move would be worse than going, so I stay put. I can probably survive a week of sightseeing in the company of an oblivious friend, her mother, and another woman I’ve never met.

I don’t educate myself about Portugal. Since my ability to influence the direction of anything that might happen on the trip is obviously limited, I feel that going there unprepared is the better option. This way I am not going to have unfulfilled expectations. I brace myself and hope for the best.

When I mention my upcoming trip to a childhood friend I meet for dinner at a small neighborhood restaurant, she makes an astute observation over a plate of hummus: “Sounds like you’re going on a geriatric trip.” It stings. The youngest among us is in her early fifties, and the oldest is approaching eighty. I am somewhere in the middle. I try to understand how I got myself into this. How did this happen? I can’t picture myself traveling with three middle-aged women, playing tourist. 

 * * *

For the same reason I agreed to fly to Israel with Rita, which still baffles me, I also agreed to spend the night before the flight at her parents’ apartment so we can travel to the airport together at four in the morning. This time I also meet Rita’s father. He is planted on the couch and never moves from there until I go to bed in a little bedroom converted into an office. He also does not sleep. At two in the morning, when I visit the bathroom, he is still sitting in front of the TV, watching something. When he finally goes to bed, I get up. I am ready long before anyone else wakes up. Sleeping on an unfamiliar sofa is not a recipe for a good night’s sleep. Combine that with jetlag leftover and having to start the day before dawn, and two hours of unconsciousness sound good. I am not particularly troubled by my sleeplessness, though. It comes with the territory, as they say.

We take a cab to the airport. The driver starts a conversation with Rita’s mom, who sits next to him, in fluent Russian sprinkled with a little Hebrew. I pick up names and a few words here and there. It’s politics. I think the driver is lamenting the ignorance of the young generation and the good life he left behind in Russia. I throw in a couple of sentences in Hebrew about Stalin’s persecution of Jewish intellectuals in the early 1950s to show him we are not all ignorant, and he floods me with so much Russian that Vera has to intervene and tell him she is the only Russian speaker in the group. According to one of Rita’s stories, her mom learned Russian when she was a small child. The family escaped from Poland before the Holocaust and got off the train in Uzbekistan or Kazakhstan, where she was born. At the end of the war, back in Poland at the age of four, Vera also learned to speak Yiddish and Polish and suffered several untold traumas.

Vera’s turbulent past did not stop her from becoming a highly functional adult, and as soon as the cab stops in front of the terminal she pays the fare which comes up to around 15 dollars.

This time around at the airport no one sneaks into first class. We’re all in economy on a direct flight to Lisbon. After we pass through security and immigration, we settle in the terminal to wait for our flight. Rita and Vera go to look for a bathroom and I am tasked with looking after the bags until they return. What else did I think was going to happen? When you travel in the company of women, half of the time is spent looking for bathrooms and sharing bathroom experiences. It is a woman thing. A few years ago, when I shared an office with three other women, one of the main daily activities involved going to the bathroom together or looking for another woman in a neighboring office to go to the bathroom with. I never understood it, but apparently, this is part of womanhood.  

When the two come back, I tell them I am going to get a cup of coffee. Rita sits down, puts her feet up on a chair across from her, and practically commands me, “Bring us coffee too.” I try not to live by cliché, but I send her a look that I hope can kill. So that’s why I am traveling with you? To watch your bags when you go to the bathroom and buy you coffee? I am so mad, that I can barely hold myself back. Okay, it’s not the first time she has tried to make me pay for something that she feels entitled to, but this time it does not sit well with me. I am pissed off and we are not even on the plane yet.

Surprisingly, Rita senses that she crossed a line. “I’ll go with you,” she says, lifting herself slowly from the chair and collecting her purse. I assume it is the same purse holding the five-thousand-dollar credit card Fred gave her.

At the coffee counter, I order a small coffee. Rita orders two, one large latte for herself, and a small coffee for her mother. Then she turns to me, “You can pay for our coffee instead of giving my mother your share of the cab fare to the airport.”

“Sure, no problem,” I say. I already can’t wait for this trip to be over.

The Flight (2)

At three p.m. the next day, I arrive at the airport in the bullet-proof four-wheel-drive monster that my friend’s husband used to chauffeur Madonna just a day earlier. He tells me that Madonna sat in the same seat I was in as he unloads my suitcase and places it on the sidewalk.

Great, I think to myself. My ass touched the same spot that Madonna’s ass did yesterday. It must be a good omen.

When I arrive at the El Al check-in line, I see Rita is already there speaking to one of the attendants at the counter. If she sees me, she doesn’t show it. I assume that she is asking about a window seat for me. I am so glad to see her. I want to tell her that I can do it myself since I am already there, but I don’t want to interrupt. She seems deeply involved in the conversation. I approach the counter. I give the attendant my passport and ticket and ask her to change my aisle seat to a window one. While the attendant checks availability, I approach Rita to tell her that I’m changing my seat on my own. Before I can say anything, she rummages through her purse, pulls out her wallet, and waves it in my face. 

“Freddy gave me a credit card with five thousand dollars and another thousand to upgrade my seat to first class. But I don’t want to spend the entire thousand dollars, so I upgraded to business for only four hundred dollars.”

I seriously don’t know how to respond to this. I feel I have stepped back in time and into a Seinfeld episode. Are you this oblivious? I am dying to ask her. You didn’t bother to tell me you were doing this when you saw me at the counter? And stupid me thought you were there early to help me. I feel beyond stupid. I simply can’t believe I am living this moment. For weeks she has been telling me we should sit across the aisle from one another, so we can spend 15 hours in the air together, and she goes and upgrades herself to business class and doesn’t bother to tell me when I am standing next to her for at least 10 minutes and there is no way she hasn’t seen me at the counter.

I pretend to be happy for her. But I know that something profound has changed in my relationship with her. I am not sure what it is yet, but I know it is happening. As far as I understand friendships.

Rita collects her stuff and beams at me. “I’ll come visit you, I’ll switch seats with you so you can lie down. It will be great,” she laughs, utterly pleased with the new situation and unaware of the ridiculousness of her behavior. She saved six hundred dollars and will be able to use them on something else. Maybe she will upgrade her flight back to San Francisco. 

“I’m glad I was able to change my seat to a window,” I say, feeling too pathetic for words. “I’ll be able to sleep, at least.”

“I’ll come visit you,” she giggles, choking on her words as if it were a funny joke. She is bursting with joy. “See you later,” she waves to me and walks away.

Now that she upgraded her seat, she doesn’t have to stand in the long security line with the rest of the proletariat. She happily pushes her carry-on suitcase and what looks like a makeup bag, to the shorter line of the privileged few and forgets that I exist. She is utterly excited about the flight, checking her surroundings and chatting on her phone.

When I find my seat on the plane, I have to squeeze myself past an older couple who I quickly find out are part of a group traveling to Israel to visit Christian sites. Even though they know we have a long flight ahead, they don’t try to be friendly, although they do agree to show me their itinerary when I ask to see it. The man is a bit more talkative. His wife, who sits between us, is almost hostile in her silence.

The flight is only half-full, but by the time I figure that out, all the empty seats are taken by the stretched legs of the lucky ones who were fast enough to claim them. I am stuck at the window for 15 hours with the pilgrims.

Three hours go by before Rita comes to report about the great food and service they have in business class. “It’s like a restaurant there, the food is great,” she gushes from the aisle, partially leaning on the pilgrim man’s seat. “And the bed is so comfortable. There is no one next to me. I have the whole place to myself.” She produces one of her cutesy giggles again, pleased with her fabulous spot. “They give you anything you want. It’s amazing.” She completely forgot that she was going to offer to switch places with me so I could stretch my legs.

“How are you?” she remembers to ask. 

“Great,” I say. What else am I supposed to say? “I went to the bathroom earlier and met a really cool Israeli woman who lives in Portland.” 

I volunteer this information because she is still standing there, hovering above the pilgrims, who are starting to doze off. I don’t want her to talk to them about traveling through Israel, and how she is a tour guide, and how they can exchange phone numbers and call her if they need anything. Maybe they can friend her on Facebook. They’ll get pissed off at me for bringing havoc into their lives. And we still have more than 10 hours to Tel Aviv.

“What does she look like? Can you show her to me?” she asks about the woman from Portland.

“When I go to the bathroom next time,” I suggest. I don’t really want to hear about the great bathrooms in business class but what else can I say?

“Come now,” she says, “let’s do some stretches.”

The poor pilgrims want to sleep. I better go or they will never have a quiet moment.

The Israeli flight attendants are super nice. Unlike the notorious flight attendants from United and American Airlines, they don’t frown or tell us to go back to our seats when we stand by the bathrooms and do all kinds of stretches for what feels like a long time. I am so grateful to them for allowing me to loiter near their service station. They offer us pastries and sandwiches. Rita looks a bit disappointed when she realizes that they served her the same pastries in the esteemed business class (a.k.a. premium). But they offered more variety over there, she tells me. I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes.

The Israeli woman I met earlier comes out of the bathroom and sees me. I introduce her to Rita, and from that moment, my presence is no longer required. Once Rita finds out that the woman owns a clothing store in Portland, she starts telling her about her own jewelry business (she also sells jewelry and clothes at arts and crafts fairs and street festivals) and asks to friend her on Facebook. She can come to Oregon to visit and see the store. She loves the woman’s haircut and clothes, and especially her boots, she exclaims appreciatively.

She shows the woman her Facebook page with the jewelry she sells and they discuss business. The woman notices that in the profile picture, Rita has dozens of thin, long, blond braid extensions but now she has shoulder-length brownish hair with blond highlights. “I had to let my scalp rest, but I’ll get new extensions when I return, or maybe I’ll get new ones in Israel,” Rita says and then suggests that they meet in Israel. The woman is traveling to visit her aging parents and is not sure if she will have time to meet. For a moment, she seems to be drowning in the tsunami of friendliness and interest showered on her by Rita. I am just an observer, watching the scene unfold in front of me. When Rita goes to the bathroom, I tell the woman that Rita is a super friendly person who loves to meet people, especially Israelis. “I prefer your quiet style better,” she says without looking at me.

I feel somewhat vindicated and head back to my seat with the 99 percenters. Rita goes to lie down in her wide bed in business class. She says she is going to take some pills to help her sleep. “I told them not to wake me up for breakfast,” she brags before we part ways.

A Tourist with a Flimsy Cause (1)

In the beginning was an idea

I am sitting in my living room with a friend who sometimes works as a tourist guide with Israeli tourists who want to explore California. Most of her clients can’t speak English and are the religious type who insist on finding a kosher restaurant in the middle of the Mojave Desert or a synagogue in Las Vegas. She asks me when I am planning to travel to Israel to visit my family. I tell her I plan to go in November and that I want to stop in Portugal for a few days on the way to Israel. I’ve been thinking about visiting Portugal because I am fluent in Brazilian Portuguese and sometimes entertain myself with the thought of retiring and moving to Portugal someday. Also, Portugal is cheap, it sits about halfway between Israel and California, and I can speak with people there, so why not give it a shot?

My friend, whom I’ll call Rita, thinks it’s a great idea. She’s never been to Portugal and would like to go there too. Maybe we can go together, she thinks aloud. She checks flights and prices and suggests we meet in Israel, spend a few days there, go to Portugal for a week, and then back to Israel. 

Since she's been talking for several years about spending time with me in Israel, I am inclined to accept her idea. Traveling with company is better than traveling alone, right? And besides, what have I got to lose?  

On the spot, we buy round-trip tickets from Tel Aviv to Lisbon. Before the excitement dies down, she suggests I fly on the same flight with her to Israel. It’s a direct flight from San Francisco to Tel Aviv and it costs less than the flight I usually take via Istanbul. I hesitate. Sitting for 15 hours in an airplane does not appeal to me. My knees scream hell when I sit for 10 hours, and 15 would be torture. I tell her I would rather break the flight into two parts.   

“Don’t,” she says. “We’ll take aisle seats side by side and spend the flight talking and stretching. You won’t feel it. I’ll entertain you during the flight. It will be fun.”

I agree only because she is an experienced traveler. She’s been flying to Israel twice a year ever since she started living with a morbidly obese man of means she met in a bar when she was on the verge of homelessness—I’ll call him Fred. Fred pays all her expenses and lets her live a life unburdened by small stuff like rent and bills and having a job. When she wants something she usually gets it. A two-week trip to Morocco? Sure, let’s go! We’ll sleep in the best hotels, eat in the most expensive restaurants, and explore the Sahara Desert with our personal Tuareg guide. A weekend in Hawaii? Sure darling, and do you want that 200-dollar hand-painted leather wallet to go with it? Just say the word. A vacation in Mexico with your Mexican girlfriend? My pleasure, everything is on me for both of you. Last year he bought them a house because she insisted he start investing in real estate. This year, he bought her a new car because her old van was well, getting old. This summer, after he said he didn’t think they needed an outdoor Jacuzzi, she went ahead and ordered two. So, she understands money and flying to far-away places.

I find a ticket to Tel Aviv on the same flight as Rita and reserve an aisle seat, something I never do, because I absolutely have to sit by the window if I want to sleep.

A week after I buy my tickets to Israel and Portugal, Rita tells me during one of our nature walks that she invited a friend to join us in Portugal. The friend, she says, lives in Spain. I’ve heard about this woman a few times, but have never met her. Rita says that this friend, Anna, has no money and no car. She lives in a small village with her emotionally troubled 25-year-old daughter and neither of them is employed. 

“How is she going to pay for the trip if she has no money?” I dare to ask.

“She’ll manage. She’s a vegetarian,” Rita says. 

Oh, really? What does it mean? That she doesn’t eat a lot? That she has inexpensive taste?

“Are you going to pay for her share of the hotel rooms and car rental?” I ask again.

“No, she will share everything with us,” Rita promises.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to invite someone who has no money,” I persist. “Plus, I thought that this trip was just for the two of us. What if she has a different agenda?”

“Don’t worry. Anna is easygoing,” Rita says. “She goes with the flow, she will do whatever we want. You’ll see. Don’t worry. We’ll have a great time.”

Since my opinion does not matter and the ticket has already been bought, I give up. There is not much I can do at this point. I have to let it go. Rita says we will get along fabulously; she has experience getting groups to function well. She has been in situations with Israeli tourists who complained about everything and everyone hated them and at the end of the trip, everyone became friends. So, I shouldn’t worry.

Two weeks later, during another one of our walks, she says that she invited her mother, who lives in Israel, to travel with us to Portugal. I hold my tongue. I know her mother. I’ve met her. She is who she is. Rita says she is not sure her mother can find a ticket on the same flight as us, but she is working on it. I say nothing. I assume that this family reunion will not happen. Her mother is 76. People her age don’t jump on planes to spend a week in Portugal at the drop of a hat. They live on a fixed income. They plan trips ahead of time. Our trip is in less than a month. All I can think is that Rita is living in a fantasy world. It won’t happen, so why stress about it? But I can’t help myself and say, “Well, it looks like you are planning a trip with your friend and mother and I am kind of tagging along. I thought this whole trip was my idea.”

“You’re not tagging along. It will be fine. Everyone always gets along with everyone on my trips. You’ll see.” And again, she breaks into a reverie about an Israeli bitch who made everyone miserable on one of her tours and how she put the woman in her place and how by the end of the tour the woman changed, and now they are friends on Facebook and the woman asks Rita to take her to Cuba and show her a good time. It will be fine; everyone has fun on her trips.

I don’t want to get mad, so I put it out of my mind. But one thought is gnawing at me. I can’t sit in an aisle seat for 15 hours. I have to sit by a window. I tell Rita I have to change my seat.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “We’ll arrive a little earlier at the airport and arrange for you to change your seat.”

I stop worrying. I know she can do it. She gets people to do whatever she wants. Provided they are not cops. Because cops don’t bend to her will. They have handcuffs and they use them when she makes a scene. Once she had to be handcuffed and walked out of a courthouse because she wouldn’t stop arguing with the judge. Another time, she exasperated a cop who was giving her a parking ticket to the point that only handcuffs made her kind of understand that she needed to shut up. But other than cops, I’ve heard countless stories about how she managed to get what she wanted from random people. She can help me. I trust her. All I have to do is arrive at the airport early enough. I can certainly do that.

I spend the night before the flight at a friend’s house near the airport. Her husband is a limo driver and he is going to give me a ride to the airport. Everything looks good. I am confident that I will have a great trip to Israel and don’t have any of those butterflies in my stomach I usually have before a long trip.