Seth Rowland

At 1:00 PM the sun streaming into our room woke us from our slumber.  Israeli sunlight is bright, sharp and focus- enhancing.  We awoke with a view of a lush tropical paradise.  The patio outside our window was awash with light.  The white tiles contrasted with the lush green tropical plants.  even in the midst of the urban sprawl of Tel Aviv, we felt like we were on a carribean vacation.  It was the light and the heat and the distant smell of the sea.

LATER THAT NIGHT. Benny and Naomi’s apartment is a 2-story duplex on the roof of a small apartment house on Rothschild Boulevard,  We are in the heart of the high-rent district of Tel Aviv, and that is the rub.  The beautiful tree-lind park in the middle of the wide boulevard, normally a shaded promenade, is the site of a tent-city.  Young, well-dressed college kids have occupied all 15 blocks of the park.  They have placed nylon pup tents on the grassy median.  At the ends of each block and in the middle are congregating areas.  Covered with straw mats, cushions and even couches, these areas came alive last night.  Each became the staging area for a mini concert.

Area one, just outside our window started at 8 PM with a continuous drum beat — low and deep.  It penetrated the walls, … the windows, … through the shutters,  louvers and curtains.  At 9:00 PM, one drum joined another, and soon there was a chorus of drums.  A while later the Yemenites started their howl … high guttural outbursts followed by frantic drumming.  When I ventured on the street, I saw a mixed crowd.  In the center an Israeli hippie in long tallit, a shaggy beard down to his navel, and long flowing hair topped with a keepa.  Surrounding him was a crowd of chanting Israeli youth, some in sundresses, others in short shorts, and muscle-mend with bronzed skin and six-pack abs.  Even the passing Israeli business man in their uniform of khaki pants and short-sleeve button-down Oxfords.

Just up the street was a DJ, blasting a variety of protest songs in mixed languages.  Some I recognized the tune.  Imagine Woody Guthrie songs sung in Hebrew.  As we sat down for a late dinner of omelettes with eggplant salad, avocados and tomatoes, a familiar tun struck my ears.  It rose over the drum beat and Yemenite howls.  It started in Hebrew, accompanied by the wailing violins and soon a full orchestration.  I knew the tune; was it Hatikva?  Hava Nagila?  I was puzzled; the tune haunted me.  Even the kids perked up their ears.

After the endless Yemenite drums and howling chants, this tune peaked our attention.  And then we heard some worked in English; we noted the familiar lyrics rising above the tents.  “If I were a rich man … ”  How fitting as we sat in our luxury penthouse duplex above the crowded tent city sipping ice cold Coke and eating from the fruit of the land.  Ah … “If I were a rich man, daidle deedle daidle deedle daidle deedle deedle dum, …”

Our flight from Kennedy airport was delayed 3 1/2 hours.  We didn’t leave until after 6 PM.  It seems that two thunderstorms materialized somewhere over the Eastern seaboard, even though the sun never stopped shining.  There is now the possibility of an overnight stay in Moscow.  The passengers continuing on to Israel are lobbying for them to hold our connecting flight.  … Given that nearly 1/3 of the flight (over 30 passengers) will be continuing on to Tel Aviv, that option is likely.

A FEW HOURS LATER … after our 2nd on-board meal. Strangely, but not so strange, they offered us a Kosher meal.  And the food, some stuffed fish and rice, was quite tasty.  The eggplant salad was extremely spicy, even for my taste … We have landed in Moscow, 4 hours late … and of course our plane has departed.  We are now BACK on line.  At the front is our ringleader and negotiator screaming at the impassive Russian customer service representatives.  One hour passes with no progress.  But, we do get some bottled water.  Finally we get some progress, a boarding pass for a flight that leaves at 8:40 PM (we had arrived at noon), and a food voucher.  The delay from our lead negotiator was her demand for Kosher food.  Because of that demand, no boarding passes for the next flight had been issued.

BARBI DOLLS. The American vision of Russians is babushkas, the stooped and wrinkle grandmothers, pushing their shopping carts.  How wrong.  We are in the international transit terminal. Between the gates are the makings of an upscale shopping male with all the luxury brands (Guerlane, Lancome, Dior, Givenchy, Clinique) and the women look like they actually buy this stuff.  Russians on a whole dress up at the airport as if they are going to the metropolitan opera.  Full battlegear, plunging necklines, tapered waists, and ultra-high heels, long flowing blond hair and perfect tans.  This is the NEW Russia.

After a mad dash across the width of Long Island (2 hours) we arrived at Transaero check-in.  It was a mix of Russians (the flight terminates in Moscow), Orthodox and Hasidic jews (our destination is Tel Aviv) and mixed groups formerly part of the Soviet Union, now the Russian Federation.  The foreignness started as soon as we entered the line to check in.

We cleared security very quickly.  After a single announcement in English a member of the U.S. based flight crew attempted a Russian announcement.  The result from an otherwise quite group was applause.  After a series of announcements in Russian (none in English) I noticed that we were among the last few people still sitting down.  We had scarfed some “dinner” from a food kiosk, fearful of the “inedible” Russian food that would be served on the flight.

I remarked in a stage whisper, observing the long queue that wrapped into the next gate: “The Russians surely love to stand in line.”  I got a chuckle from a fellow seated American who nevertheless stood up immediately to join the queue.