Age is a question of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.

-- Satchel Paige

What follows is an unpublished account of an incredible trip to Israel undertaken in 1998. I tried for several years to get it printed somewhere, but was unsuccessful. The story is amazing enough, but alas, an audience could not be found. Ergo, I dump it here. Enjoy --

This is a work of nonfiction. All the following events took place during my ten day trip to Israel in the autumn of 1998. The experience haunts me to this day:

Day 1. The Strike

Magic Johnson is a huge man. Even sitting down at the bar in Chicago's O'Hare airport, he's taller than I am. He managed to sign at least a dozen autographs before I finally stood in front of him, pen in hand.

"Sorry, I've got be gettin' on my plane, now." The giant spoke, stood and took his leave.

I'm glad his show was canceled. Anyway, my Air Canada flight to Montreal where I'd make a connection on to Tel Aviv was boarding, so I had to go. It had been several good days in Chicago which included a night game a Wrigley, sunrise fishing on Lake Michigan in my Uncle's phat boat, my cousin's wedding, and a loud, enthusiastic Dash Rip Rock show with friends and other hooligans.

Montreal's Dorval International airport is pretty small, with a pleasant, screwy mall running through its center dressed up to look like some sort of Old World cobblestone street. All the signs are in French, of course, although in any language, the flight to Tel Aviv was not listed on any of them. I still don't really understand why I had to go through customs and immigration to enter Canada to leave Terminal 1, and then immediately renter immigration to exit Canada entering Terminal 2 where my next flight was, after about an hour, finally posted to be departing from.

All this was quickly rendered moot. As I sat watching the CBC broadcast of Blue Jay's baseball, I began to overhear rumors of a pilot's strike at midnight. It's a good thing the flight to Tel Aviv was leaving at 11:30.

Or not. At 12:01, still sitting on the ground, the pilots walked off and 150 irate Israelis and I were stranded in Montreal. The television crews waiting for us as we boarded buses bound for a downtown Montreal hotel got an earful from irate passengers and weeping mothers (One woman apparently with a sick baby was flying to Israel to take him to see a
specialist would now miss her appointment).

The hotel rooms were quite nice. I had a large room with two queen size beds (one for my backpack). You'd think at least we could get away with some free SpectraVision, but the movies were disabled. Those bastards. At 9 am, the next morning, I called my friend Josh, in Israel, who was on his way to pick me up from Tel Aviv airport at that time. "We'll try again tomorrow," I told him.

At 10, I was still sitting around the hotel room not knowing exactly what I should do, until I decided a shower might be a positive step. Just as I turned on the water, the phone rang. "The buses are back. Come down to the lobby immediately."

Day 2.The Bus

In the daytime, on that day, Dorval was far less quaint. Television crews were everywhere interviewing persons in long, long lines. I would have been on TV, too, if only my French were better. Eventually we – I now include my fellow comrades in travel horror in the narrative – were informed that there was an El Al flight to Tel Aviv at midnight that night and we might be able to get on that. It was noon. The El Al flight
was leaving from New York.

What can be said of the 9 hour BUS TRIP from Montreal to New York? A mad rush of reporters filmed the frantic people who couldn't believe Air Canada was bussing us to New York; two hour passed before new bus drivers were found as the previous ones had no intention on driving 18 hours to New York and back (there's some irony in that somewhere that I hope to eventually find); dozens of Israelis were turned around at the US border unable to enter without visas; but finally, El Al delayed their flight so we were able to all make it aboard. I even got a much better seat from the deal, and 10 1/2 hours later (24 hours after scheduled arrival) I was in Israel.

Day 3. The Fire

Josh met me in the airport without a problem and we were soon on the bus to Hod Hasharon which is a suburb about 45 minutes (by bus) North of the city where he is working as a Madrich (RA) for a high school in Israel program. After a shower, and with an 80 shekel bottle of Cuervo, we went back to Tel Aviv for a night on the town.

In town, Josh and I met up with Joel, a very funky white boy from Atlanta blessed with A/C in his room, and his girlfriend, Johanna, a Bay Area native and not the best translator of Hebrew.

Posters plastered all over town advertised a "Reggae Festival" at a club called Jamaica, so we thought we'd check it out. It was a small joint with a stage and a balcony over the main floor. The band (or would it be bands?) weren't even playing yet when we arrived. Sitting down with bottles of "Goldstar", the local brew (after the bartender refused to
sell us Jack Daniel for some unclear reason), we waited for the show to start as I regaled the group on the previous days heinousity. Turns out it was just a warm up.

Some one up in the balcony started yelling something. Johanna thought he was saying "Somebody got a light?".. but in a panicked sort of way. "Efo aesh? EFO AESH?" actually means "Where's the fire? WHERE'S THE FIRE?"

The bar was quickly filling with smoke so we sensibly grabbed our drinks and skedaddled to the street. While exiting, I looked up at the balcony. It was fully ablaze.

Safe on the street, we watched as the fire truck soon arrived. "Josh," I said, "take my camera and get me some pictures."

So Josh rushed back into the burning building with my camera and go some good shots. On his way back out, a fireman handed him a fire hose and asked him to help out.

Day 4. The Robbery

The next morning, it was easy to rent the maroon, four-door Daihatsu which measured about 8 feet bumper to bumper, and by early afternoon Josh and I were on our way south to the beach resort town of Eilat. The car was plastered with "Avis" stickers on the front, back, side windows, bumper and rear doors. Apparently tourists are less likely to be targets of terrorists attack. Apparently. Also, the Israeli soldiers which pepper the highways of the Negev (both of them) going this place and that are not allowed to hitchhike aboard a rental car. Well, we were on our way as fast as that little bugger would take us. I had no idea how much I'd miss that car.

Eilat is a small, beautiful town reminiscent of any other basically beach town in the world. Kinda of like Ocean City, Maryland, minus the roller coasters and Boardwalk Fries. A lagoon divides the city in half, connected by a drawbridge, into one side with expensive hotels and the other with really expensive hotels. The beach itself is really dreamy: soft sand, a gentle slope, and calm water. From the shore you can see Egypt, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia. When we arrived, it was night, and the view would have to wait until morning.

At 3 am, after a tour of a few beachfront bars, Josh and I pulled up some comfortable plots of sand and settled in on the beach for the night. Everything was locked up in the car, except Josh's wallet, my camera, and (of course) the rental car keys. Before retiring, Josh placed said items in the bottom of his sleeping bag, under his feet, and zipped the bag closed around him. I have gone into detail here to illuminate the daring and ingenuity that it took for whoever it was that stole all of it sometime in the subsequent 3 1/2 hours.

Day 5. The Sabbath

So, up at 6:30 now, heads bursting, Josh and I dart back to the rental car convinced it's been stolen. Did I mention that the make, model, and license plate number were written on the key? Thankfully, it was still there, and I (literally) sat on it as Josh went dumpster diving looking for the keys and wallet. The camera we considered a lost cause. It was gone along with all my photos of the strike and Tel Aviv firefighting.

My best advice to travelers in Israel would be try not be robbed on Shabbat (Saturday). There was only one loyal person working at the Avis agency in Eilat and he refused to leave his desk to unlock our car until the office closed at noon. "If they haven't stolen the car by now, they probably won't," he said.

This was, of course, a strong comfort especially considering that my wallet was locked in the car and Josh's stolen, so we were shekel-less. Josh explained this to our Avis man who, in another show of Israeli kindness, lent us 40 shekels from his own pocket.

Three hours later, at least fed by then, the gentleman jimmied the car door open (he did not as it turned out have extra keys) so we were able to get our things. He accompanied us to the bank where I withdrew some money to pay his 40 shekels back. The ATM only gave 50 shekel notes, and of course he didn't have any change. If you end up going to Eilat, Israel, yourself, try to get my 10 shekels from the man in the Avis office.

So, still without car keys, we had to trade cars. In place of the beautiful, spacious, road-lovin' Daihatsu, we now had a manual, 2 door, green Fiat Punto S, missing 2 hubcaps, no terrorist-deterring Avis stickers, sans power steering, and with a radio that only
worked at certain volume levels. The keychain labeled the car as a "Piat Punto", our fabled Italian sports car.

Josh was, of course, still without a wallet which happened to contain his PADI card (scuba certification). PADI was closed on Shabbat and thus our dive plans fell through. That evening was highlighted, however, by jumping off of the 25' drawbridge with a score of Eilat's juvenile delinquents.

Day 6. The Bedouin

We headed back north into the desert. It was actually an event-free, wonderful day. We saw multitudes of soldiers and vehicles throughout the drive taking place in, as we found out later, Israel's largest military exercise ever. We visited Timna, a stunning national park, complete with ancient Egyptian (5000 year old) copper mines and excavated temple including hieroglyphics carved into the rock. Finally we arrived at the Maktesh Ramon, an enormous crater in the middle of the Negev. Surrounded completely by cliffs hundred of feet high, Josh and I spent the night in a Bedouin tent at the center of the crater. That night the moon was full. So full, we cast shadows, making for a really spectacular evening.

Our Bedouin host, Najii, made us excellent tea, and told us stories about the Bedouin, a Nomadic people whose culture has changed little in thousands of years which holds hospitality and graciousness in the highest regard. He had just finished high school and was working for the summer for his uncle in this tent. Josh asked if he had an arranged marriage. Not yet, he replied, his older brother would be first. In fact, he added, he didn't even have a girlfriend now that he'd wrecked his car.

So Najii's plan was this: work for his uncle in the Bedouin tent long enough to be able to fix his car. Move to Tel Aviv. Get a girlfriend. Josh asked if he'd be sleeping in the same tent as we were (Bedouin tent's house up to 50 people). No, he said, he'd be sleeping in the other one. He had a television there.

Day 7. The Strike

Ein Gedi is an oasis near the Dead Sea. There in the middle of the desert, a beautiful natural spring flows from a high falling waterfall. Unfortunately, when we got there we were informed that it was closed. The employees were on strike. As Josh and I exchanged incredulous looks, the chap lounging at the gate in his olive drab uniform took a cell phone call. The strike had been resolved and, resuming his post, raised the barrier to let us in to visit the stated beauty. By the afternoon, we were at my Aunt Mashe's in Jerusalem.

One would hope and think that a simple evening and meal with family would settle things for us, but alas, things were not to be. As Josh cut into my elderly aunt’s home-cooked schnitzel, he looked to me with a silent plea for help. As I sunk in my fork, I found it more or less frozen. “Aunt Mashe,” I broached, “the chicken is still a little cold.”

“I don’t understand,” she replied. “I had it in the oven all day.” Ah. She forgot to turn the oven on. The salad was very nice.

Day 8. The Parking Ticket

Touring the Old City of Jerusalem is a remarkable experience. The air is thick with the history of centuries of living occupation, commerce, and controversy. Unfortunately, the parking is quite modern. Enthralled in the sights, we lost track of time and returned to the Punto S to find an expired meter and parking ticket. Feeling already assaulted by forces unseen, I rebelled and threw the ticket into the garbage. A full year later I would have my credit card company investigate a curious charge on my account. The results of the investigation would be tied to this ticket and late payment fine.

That night, we continued or road trip northward to Kibbutz Lavi where more of my extended family live. My second (third? once removed?) cousin was getting married. The high rabbi of Haifa performed the ceremony and the evening would end dancing in rapid swirling circles clasping the hands of sweaty men. It unique and entertaining experience.

Day 9. The Hummus

Finally back in Tel Aviv, normality crept back in from around the edges along with the heat. Josh had meetings with the Israeli Army, a precondition to his one-year enlistment, and I walked the streets alone. I ended the evening reclining in a chaise lounge at the beach with a bowl of hummus from the adjacent restaurant. Their stereo played Neil Young and I consumed several Goldstars watching the sunset.

A day or two later I would manage to book a seat on a TWA flight (The Air Canada pilots were still striking) and return home safely. In a few years, I would be back for Josh’s wedding, Joel would be there too, and would make the trip without much incident.

That warm night in Tel Aviv, After the Gold Rush still lingering in my ears, I would stumble back to Joel’s apartment to pass out on his floor under the cool hum of his air conditioner. It was at last a blissfully sane and happy day. Late in the night, his toilet overflowed.