THE SHITSHOW THAT NEVER ENDED.
(a tale of Penny's attempt at going to Megiddo)
Believe me, my friends, this is worth reading. Let's start this tale from the beginning, shall we?
I'll begin with a quote from Jim Morrison since I'm so obsessed with his biography right now:
Is everybody in?
The ceremony is about to begin.
5AM - Home in Puerto de Santa María
I had finished throwing the necessary objects into my medium (hah! take that mom!) suitcase that would hold me over for 3 weeks in a foreign country digging in the dirt. My father had planned on leaving the house at 5:30 am to drive me to my flight from Jerez to Madrid. As soon as I walk into the kitchen fully prepared for the long haul, naturally my mother starts yelling at me and my father. About what this time? Finding Darwin's food bowl (Darwin being my grandmother's beagle who we have appropriated). As absurd as it may seem, it escalated into a 3 minute war resembling a firing squad in Guernica. Five to One echoed in the background "No one here gets out alive... You'll get yours baby... I'll get mine...". My father and I charged into the black morning and sped to Jerez to escape the massacre of the innocents.
6AM - Jerez Airport
After a quick farewell, I proceeded into the tiny terminal to await my one hour flight to Madrid. First stop: the smoking section. I promptly sat down and whipped out an American Spirit menthol I vowed I would save until my trip to Israel. I closed my eyes and inhaled. All of a sudden I hear a deep male voice asking in a heavily English-accented Spanish if I had a cigarette. I open my eyes to find a 50 something man in a business suit and, I must say, quite attractive for his age, staring at me with a look of mischief in his eyes. He was James. A businessman who had been doing something in Algeciras for a while and was returning home to Miami to see his Italian girlfriend. We talked for the 45 minute wait to board the plane. He was deeply interested in my background and goals, so I indulged him as he listened very intently to my general history of the Penny and possible future. We eventually jumped into politics and began a pseudo-philosophical discussion of communism within caste systems over a mix of menthols and Fortuna reds. Upon boarding the plane we were separated and so I delved back into my biography of Jim Morrison, pondering whether he was a drunken buffoon or Dionysos reincarnated. Dull and quick flight, as usual.
8AM - Barajas, Madrid Airport
Fortunately the terminal for my El Al flight was listed that early, the new terminal S I had never been to. I must say that the new section of Barajas is ghastly in terms of decoration. It attempts to be so modern that it crashes and burns into a pile of shit. The ceilings are intended to emulate waves made out of thin blond wood planks with thick bright blue beams intersecting and supporting them. There are so many glass panes spread out vertically along the floor that you might run into one if tired enough. Terminal S involved leaping on a privately owned subway system for a good 15 minutes and then throwing you back through a security check. The guard looked at where I was going and said, "I hope you make it back to Spain." Very encouraging at 8 in the morning. Since I had about 3 hours to kill before my flight, I shoved 2 benches together and made an uncomfortable bed to nap on for a while. I woke up at 10:30am freezing my fucking ass off, apparently the air conditioning had been turned on and I was next to a vent. Shivering, I went to see if my gate was posted only to find that my flight wasn't even listed anymore. Considering I was supposed to be boarding in 30 minutes, I ran to the info booth afraid my flight had been cancelled like they've done with my Jerez flights several times before (without announcing the cancellations). I was told the gate number and began to stroll down when I ran into the James, the businessman.
10:45AM - The V.I.P. section of Barajas airport.
James had asked me if I would like to share a drink with him before catching our respective flights. I was groggy from my nap and from not having slept the night before so I decided that a drink would calm my nerves about entering the Middle East and help me stay awake so I wouldn't miss my flight while snoozing on a bench. I had no idea where he was taking me since this was the brand new terminal, so I followed along as we made small talk. Soon I see that we are arriving at two glass doors on which the letters V.I.P. were labeled. I quickly tell him that I don't think I'm allowed in there, since, you know, I fly coach, and I'm wearing my chucks, and I'm carrying a dirty old Jansport backpack, and generally do not look like I belong next to a man wearing a sleek navy blue suit and tie. He tells me not to worry, that I was his guest. Upon entering, the doorman looks at him and makes a polite greeting using James' last name that I did not quite catch. James is asked who I was and before the doorman could shoo me out with the rest of the unwashed masses, he tells him "She's my guest" and quite abruptly turns into the lounge leaving the doorman a bit confused. The lounge itself had the tacky glass panels everywhere with soft leather couches and a nice stock of courtesy alcohol and pastries. We set our carry-ons down by a beautiful couch and headed straight for the booze. He asks if I want a beer and, naturally, I gave him a look that could be read as, "do you know who I am?". I turn the beer down and grab a small whisky glass, set an exquisitely symmetrical ice cube in it, followed by 3 fingers of Jamesons (sadly, no Jack Daniels in the house). He looked at me smiling and said, "Aaah, a girl after my own heart" and pours himself one. We had a very nice chat about life, the universe, and everything. He told me about his two grown children. He was very happy that his ex-wife's son had taken after him and become a world traveller, working on a Ph.D in economics and fluent in French and Arabic (and only 26). However, the life of his daughter did not please him. She is apparently a frivolous UCLA brat who spends indecent amounts of money on fashionable doodads and going to the trendy locations, but not the intellectually or culturally stimulating ones. From what I gathered, he was definitely a playboy. A 50 year old dating an Italian woman for 8 years, married twice, many many foreign girlfriends, and hinted about having other children he supported.
I glanced at the departures board that happened to be in front of us and noticed that my flight had been delayed until 12:45. I was a little unnerved as I was supposed to arrive in Tel Aviv at 5:30 and take the 6pm bus the dig had provided for the latecomers (I was the latest of latecomers). He pointed out that the lounge had complimentary computers and internet connection and suggested I find out how to call the director of the program (for some reason, my phone wouldn't go through, I was definitely fucking up dialing the area code). Unfortunately, his flight to Miami began boarding and so he left me with my second glass of Jameson and bid me farewell. He was a very very cool man and entertained me for a while. Sadly, it slipped my mind to ask for his email address.
Finally I was able to reach the director of the dig, Norma, and asked her what I should do. Apparently she couldn't keep the bus waiting in Tel Aviv for me, since there was no telling how long my flight would be delayed and there were students who would be arriving hours before to take the bus, she couldn't keep them waiting for 5 hours for one student (she didn't exactly say this but I know what she meant, but she was not being unfriendly in any way). Her instructions were to call her as soon as I exited customs with my suitcase and we'd figure out a solution. She suggested I take a taxi from the airport to a town called Yokrien, which is very close to the Kibbutz Ramat Hashofet where I will be staying. However, the drive is about an hour long and by myself would mean paying a lot of money - and she wasn't exactly clear if I would be reimbursed for that (something that sounded like 500 shekels, but once again, what the fuck is a shekel?!). Feeling really nervous about how the fuck I'm going to get to the kibbutz, I took a muscular swig of my glass of Jameson, set it down, and started my long trek to the Tel Aviv gate.
I find it empty except for a few flight security people standing at the check in booth. Wondering why nobody is there, I went to ask them if this was the correct gate. They take my passport and ticket from me, eyeing me carefully and lead me to another security booth nearby for some "questions". I have seen many flights in Newark do such security protocols so I wasn't nervous, since I was after all going to the Middle East with the bombing that just happened a few days ago in Israel. After a few questions, the security person calls over a few friends to lead me somewhere else for more questioning.
This is when the shit hits the fan.
11:15AM - In the basement of Barajas, in a room I know refer to as the dungeon.
The security women led me through a metal door hidden from public view into a dank moldy hallway that contained a steel elevator. I was led into it and taken to the basement. We walked down a long hallway with hints of mildew on the ceiling while my nerves were starting to quiver and wonder what the hell is going on and why is this happening to me. They put me in a room filled with suitcases which I supposed were all going to Tel Aviv and they had me pick out my own. They then dragged it, quite roughly, to another room sealed off from the area by a steel door. It was painted olive green and I guessed it was to hide the mildew that the room stank of. There was an X-ray machine in a corner, several security devices, a couple tables, a chair, 3 Israeli women, and 2 security women who looked like they might've been born with the names Bertha and Agnes but had changed it to Spike and Hammer. All equipped with battering rods, guns, and plastic gloves. Needless to say, I was shitting myself.
The guards put me in a chair in front of a metal table and stared at me from across it. They then pose more questions as to who I was, why was I in Spain, what were my intentions in Israel, why had I spent 3 weeks in Spain instead of flying directly to Tel Aviv from the US, why did my passport say my birthplace was Spain, what affiliations do I have with any governments, where is my final destination, do I have any (quote)"associates" (/quote), where is Jerez, what nationality are my parents, was I carrying any illegal substances or weapons, was I wearing any metal objects, etc. You know, I had been expecting the standard "have you packed your own suitcase and has it ever been out of your sight" type queries I've gotten, but this was fucking insane. At one point I looked at them and just had to laugh, this was one of the most absurd experiences of my life. They then snapped on the rubber gloves, removed my jacket and sneakers, and padded me down while speaking to each in Hebrew.
After I was allowed to sit back down, they pawed through my backpack, extracting each object individually and running it through the X-Ray machine, including my book on Jim Morrison (huh?). After a good 20 minutes of speaking in Hebrew, leaving me totally oblivious as to what was going on, they looked at the brand new carton of Fortuna menthols I had bought before this mess and tell me in English that they need to examine the cigarettes. I told them that the receipt was still in the bag if they needed to check its authenticity. They tore the plastic wrapping from the carton and pulled out each individual packet to examine the bottom interior of each and every packet. Meanwhile Bertha with her arms crossed watched me from a corner like a vulture taking in its prey. Finally the cigarettes were deemed clean and they were replaced rather roughly into their packets. My water bottle was smelled as well as the perfume samplers I keep with me for long flights. My ipod, laptop, phone, and all their respective chargers were X-rayed twice. My belongings were strewn across the table like trinkets that could pose a severe threat to humanity. Finally, someone looks at me and tells me that my flight has been delayed until 1:45pm.
That also means that I will definitely be missing my bus to Megiddo even if they were nice enough to hang around for an extra hour.
The security women then decide that my entire suitcase must be gutted and examined. They dumped (yes, dumped) its contents out and fiddled with the interior lining of the duffel bag. Obviously, I look like a coke dealer straight out of the backstreets of LA. Each individual article of clothing and underwear was shaken out and placed in a plastic basket to be sifted through. Each toiletry object was untaped (I tape them since I've had horrible experiences of things leaking/exploding through pressure variance), shaken, and smelled twice. My digging boots were X-rayed, unlaced, and discarded into the basket. My sealed container of powdered gatorade to avoid dehydration in the Israeli sun was X-rayed and opened. They brought in a drug dog and had it smelled. That fucking dog licked the powder! Quite scornfully they put its lid back on and placed it back in the suitcase. I felt so horribly abused and violated that I just had to laugh, this situation was so absolutely fucking ridiculous and could not possibly get any worse.
Then they explain that they need to review my belongings without me present, so they gave me a food voucher and said I could go get some lunch but had to be back at 1pm. I was allowed to take a few belongings with me but without my bags. So I grabbed my wallet, my phone, my cigarettes and lighter, and crawled back up into the terminal (accompanied by Agnes).
12:30PM - OMFGWTF (i.e, phone calls and cigarettes) in an sunlit area of the terminal
I called my parents to tell them what the hell was going on, and they were just so pissed, and baffled, and astonished, and just jazed. My dad simply said, "Nope, I have no desire to go to Israel. Look what they did to you, and you're a blonde. Imagine what they'd do to me with my coloring." So I grabbed a tortilla baguette and a diet coke and proceeded to the smoking area, and yes, with a guard shadowing me from a distance. I lit up the last American Spirit menthol I had left since there couldn't possibly be a more appropriate time to smoke the last one. After a failed attempt at calling Tomas, that slacker didn't answer his phone, I called Alvaro since he knows how to annoy me so profoundly that I'd forget my current rage and just be focused on wanting to tear his tongue out. I told him exactly what happened to me since I left Jerez and he was cracking up and offering advice at the same time while trying to calm me down. He made me laugh at the situation - just the fact that it was happening to ME was hilarious. Meanwhile, Agnes is scowling at me from 20 feet away (she obviously understood Spanish). I was sitting on the floor laughing hysterically into a phone while smoking - I would remember this for many many years.
1PM - Back to the dungeon
Now was the time to pick up my belongings so I could smoke a few more cigarettes before my flight and get a heavy dose of alcohol to calm my nerves - once again, the fact that I might be stranded in Tel Aviv was hitting me. Instantly upon entering the mouth of hell I was asked to remove my shoes and jewelry once again for a thorough padding. Agnes finally got her hands on me. I asked what the need was to pad me down again and they replied that I might have acquired something dangerous while I was out in the terminal. I quickly cocked my eyebrow and curled my lip up in disbelief - but Agnes had been watching me all this time! They had packed up all my belongings and said I was to remain there until the flight began boarding in 20 minutes. Come on now... The guards left me alone in the room with one of the Israeli luggage looters and I asked her, eye to eye, why was I being treated like this, why I couldn't go up, and do they do this to everyone. She said that people who are considered suspicious characters had to be thoroughly searched. One again, I cocked my eyebrow out her and gave her a look that said, "You seriously think I'm a threat?". Being bored, I whined a bit about how the flight delay has screwed me over for getting to Megiddo. She asked how I was planning on getting there so I told her my situation. She then offered to give me her father's cell phone number in Tel Aviv, since he was a taxi driver who was based at the airport. However, she couldn't remember the last number of the sequence and as a guard she wasn't allowed to carry her cell phone on her.
1:45PM - FREEDOM
I was walked to my gate followed by my dear friend Agnes and her permanent scowl. Rather than dropping me off, she walked me onto the plane (which was already fully boarded) and to my very seat. Stares from the passengers followed and I could sense a degree of panic and uneasiness throughout the cabin from passengers and crew alike. I was cynically half expecting to be cuffed to the armrest. Finally Agnes abandoned me while people stared at me. I quickly dug out my giant oversized aviator sunglasses (seriously dislodged from the guard's rummaging) with the arms slightly twisted from being crushed and put them on, disguising my completely ruffled and flabbergasted state.
Seriously, what the fuck just happened?
7:35PM - TEL AVIV
Finally being released from the confines of the plane, our intrepid explorer got her suitcase and went through customs in a much easier manner than any American airport she had seen. The airport itself was absolutely beautiful. The pale granite walls imitated an old fortress with ancient Greek style mosaics covering the ceiling and the walls. Absolutely lovely. However, the problems begin upon exiting baggage claim. I called Norma to ask how I should proceed and she said the easiest way is to look for group taxis called /&$()/)/& (i.e I have no idea) and have the taxi driver speak to her on my cell phone. Now.... trying to find said named taxis led me on a pilgrimage throughout the airport with several security guards asking me why I was circling the same areas and not trying to help me get anywhere in particular. Yup, little blonde American chick running around the Tel Aviv airport with no idea where she is, what she's doing, or what she's going to do. Absolutely frustrated out of my mind since the English speaking guards didn't know what the fuck I was talking about and kept pointing me in opposite directions and the info desk told me to just take the train into Tel Aviv, wander around looking for a bus station for a bus to a city called Yokream, and from there hire a taxi to the kibbutz. In every country I've been I could make myself understood, could actually read the signs (very few are in English, most in Hebrew so I couldn't even phonetically guess what the fuck I needed), or in most cases, speak enough of the languages to ask and follow directions. Here, no. Nobody knew what I was talking about even if they spoke English.
I needed to chill out and move back to square one. So I walked outside, found a corner, smoked a cigarette and just breathed for a little while before I recalled Norma for help. Surprisingly, from what I've seen of the outside of the airport bares a shocking resemblance to Sevilla, just not as hot. Norma stayed on the phone with me guiding me to the exact taxi stand I needed and spoke to the driver of a group bus to the city of Haifa (north of Tel Aviv) and to see if he could severely help me out. For 60 shekels, which from what I gathered in euros, seemed very cheap for an hour ride. The driver is going to get us to Haifa and physically help me find a taxi to the kibbutz. The price of that ride should be around 100 shekels. From what Norma says, it comes to a total of circa 50 euros for a 2 hour ride. Hell, it costs 50 euros just to get from one side of Madrid to the other - here I'm going to the northern part of the country from the middle for the same price.
I have named the driver Shlomo Bukomovitz after the archaeologist whose work I had to critique in my Archaeology of Israel and Palestine class. He is a tall man, taller than any I've seen so far here, very wide, with very dark skin and black hair cut very short. He has a unibrow and smokes like a chimney as he beckons people to join the bus. He nods at me to indicate what's going on. Surprisingly, his facial expressions I can translate so I can at least figure out what the general situation is. The other passengers are an elderly group of people who look like the Spanish marujas (elderly women who gossip non stop, chain smoke, and wear a style of clothing that resembles Eddie Bauer meets Quicksilver) and I can tell they're very annoyed about how long we've been sitting here without moving. The driver needs to fill the taxi bus so we can move and so he can pay for gas. The more people on the bus equals less money we each pay. At this rate, I won't get to the kibbutz until midnight. I'm slightly afraid of taking the solo taxi after this bus, so I'm keeping my kibutan keychain in my pocket that I got in my self-defense class. Right now I'm wishing I had gone to that class more often.
Since Alvaro has that uncanny ability to annoy me, I called him during my waiting period so I wouldn't freak out about how lost I am and would be able to take out my frustration on him through insults about how he chopped off his long curly locks.
12:30 AM - Kibbutz! Oh shit, this looks like the ghetto of the projects...
After fearing rape, kidnap, thievery, and murder, I arrived on the kibbutz near Megiddo.
Thus, our heroine achieved her goal.
Believe me, my friends, this is worth reading. Let's start this tale from the beginning, shall we?
I'll begin with a quote from Jim Morrison since I'm so obsessed with his biography right now:
Is everybody in?
The ceremony is about to begin.
5AM - Home in Puerto de Santa María
I had finished throwing the necessary objects into my medium (hah! take that mom!) suitcase that would hold me over for 3 weeks in a foreign country digging in the dirt. My father had planned on leaving the house at 5:30 am to drive me to my flight from Jerez to Madrid. As soon as I walk into the kitchen fully prepared for the long haul, naturally my mother starts yelling at me and my father. About what this time? Finding Darwin's food bowl (Darwin being my grandmother's beagle who we have appropriated). As absurd as it may seem, it escalated into a 3 minute war resembling a firing squad in Guernica. Five to One echoed in the background "No one here gets out alive... You'll get yours baby... I'll get mine...". My father and I charged into the black morning and sped to Jerez to escape the massacre of the innocents.
6AM - Jerez Airport
After a quick farewell, I proceeded into the tiny terminal to await my one hour flight to Madrid. First stop: the smoking section. I promptly sat down and whipped out an American Spirit menthol I vowed I would save until my trip to Israel. I closed my eyes and inhaled. All of a sudden I hear a deep male voice asking in a heavily English-accented Spanish if I had a cigarette. I open my eyes to find a 50 something man in a business suit and, I must say, quite attractive for his age, staring at me with a look of mischief in his eyes. He was James. A businessman who had been doing something in Algeciras for a while and was returning home to Miami to see his Italian girlfriend. We talked for the 45 minute wait to board the plane. He was deeply interested in my background and goals, so I indulged him as he listened very intently to my general history of the Penny and possible future. We eventually jumped into politics and began a pseudo-philosophical discussion of communism within caste systems over a mix of menthols and Fortuna reds. Upon boarding the plane we were separated and so I delved back into my biography of Jim Morrison, pondering whether he was a drunken buffoon or Dionysos reincarnated. Dull and quick flight, as usual.
8AM - Barajas, Madrid Airport
Fortunately the terminal for my El Al flight was listed that early, the new terminal S I had never been to. I must say that the new section of Barajas is ghastly in terms of decoration. It attempts to be so modern that it crashes and burns into a pile of shit. The ceilings are intended to emulate waves made out of thin blond wood planks with thick bright blue beams intersecting and supporting them. There are so many glass panes spread out vertically along the floor that you might run into one if tired enough. Terminal S involved leaping on a privately owned subway system for a good 15 minutes and then throwing you back through a security check. The guard looked at where I was going and said, "I hope you make it back to Spain." Very encouraging at 8 in the morning. Since I had about 3 hours to kill before my flight, I shoved 2 benches together and made an uncomfortable bed to nap on for a while. I woke up at 10:30am freezing my fucking ass off, apparently the air conditioning had been turned on and I was next to a vent. Shivering, I went to see if my gate was posted only to find that my flight wasn't even listed anymore. Considering I was supposed to be boarding in 30 minutes, I ran to the info booth afraid my flight had been cancelled like they've done with my Jerez flights several times before (without announcing the cancellations). I was told the gate number and began to stroll down when I ran into the James, the businessman.
10:45AM - The V.I.P. section of Barajas airport.
James had asked me if I would like to share a drink with him before catching our respective flights. I was groggy from my nap and from not having slept the night before so I decided that a drink would calm my nerves about entering the Middle East and help me stay awake so I wouldn't miss my flight while snoozing on a bench. I had no idea where he was taking me since this was the brand new terminal, so I followed along as we made small talk. Soon I see that we are arriving at two glass doors on which the letters V.I.P. were labeled. I quickly tell him that I don't think I'm allowed in there, since, you know, I fly coach, and I'm wearing my chucks, and I'm carrying a dirty old Jansport backpack, and generally do not look like I belong next to a man wearing a sleek navy blue suit and tie. He tells me not to worry, that I was his guest. Upon entering, the doorman looks at him and makes a polite greeting using James' last name that I did not quite catch. James is asked who I was and before the doorman could shoo me out with the rest of the unwashed masses, he tells him "She's my guest" and quite abruptly turns into the lounge leaving the doorman a bit confused. The lounge itself had the tacky glass panels everywhere with soft leather couches and a nice stock of courtesy alcohol and pastries. We set our carry-ons down by a beautiful couch and headed straight for the booze. He asks if I want a beer and, naturally, I gave him a look that could be read as, "do you know who I am?". I turn the beer down and grab a small whisky glass, set an exquisitely symmetrical ice cube in it, followed by 3 fingers of Jamesons (sadly, no Jack Daniels in the house). He looked at me smiling and said, "Aaah, a girl after my own heart" and pours himself one. We had a very nice chat about life, the universe, and everything. He told me about his two grown children. He was very happy that his ex-wife's son had taken after him and become a world traveller, working on a Ph.D in economics and fluent in French and Arabic (and only 26). However, the life of his daughter did not please him. She is apparently a frivolous UCLA brat who spends indecent amounts of money on fashionable doodads and going to the trendy locations, but not the intellectually or culturally stimulating ones. From what I gathered, he was definitely a playboy. A 50 year old dating an Italian woman for 8 years, married twice, many many foreign girlfriends, and hinted about having other children he supported.
I glanced at the departures board that happened to be in front of us and noticed that my flight had been delayed until 12:45. I was a little unnerved as I was supposed to arrive in Tel Aviv at 5:30 and take the 6pm bus the dig had provided for the latecomers (I was the latest of latecomers). He pointed out that the lounge had complimentary computers and internet connection and suggested I find out how to call the director of the program (for some reason, my phone wouldn't go through, I was definitely fucking up dialing the area code). Unfortunately, his flight to Miami began boarding and so he left me with my second glass of Jameson and bid me farewell. He was a very very cool man and entertained me for a while. Sadly, it slipped my mind to ask for his email address.
Finally I was able to reach the director of the dig, Norma, and asked her what I should do. Apparently she couldn't keep the bus waiting in Tel Aviv for me, since there was no telling how long my flight would be delayed and there were students who would be arriving hours before to take the bus, she couldn't keep them waiting for 5 hours for one student (she didn't exactly say this but I know what she meant, but she was not being unfriendly in any way). Her instructions were to call her as soon as I exited customs with my suitcase and we'd figure out a solution. She suggested I take a taxi from the airport to a town called Yokrien, which is very close to the Kibbutz Ramat Hashofet where I will be staying. However, the drive is about an hour long and by myself would mean paying a lot of money - and she wasn't exactly clear if I would be reimbursed for that (something that sounded like 500 shekels, but once again, what the fuck is a shekel?!). Feeling really nervous about how the fuck I'm going to get to the kibbutz, I took a muscular swig of my glass of Jameson, set it down, and started my long trek to the Tel Aviv gate.
I find it empty except for a few flight security people standing at the check in booth. Wondering why nobody is there, I went to ask them if this was the correct gate. They take my passport and ticket from me, eyeing me carefully and lead me to another security booth nearby for some "questions". I have seen many flights in Newark do such security protocols so I wasn't nervous, since I was after all going to the Middle East with the bombing that just happened a few days ago in Israel. After a few questions, the security person calls over a few friends to lead me somewhere else for more questioning.
This is when the shit hits the fan.
11:15AM - In the basement of Barajas, in a room I know refer to as the dungeon.
The security women led me through a metal door hidden from public view into a dank moldy hallway that contained a steel elevator. I was led into it and taken to the basement. We walked down a long hallway with hints of mildew on the ceiling while my nerves were starting to quiver and wonder what the hell is going on and why is this happening to me. They put me in a room filled with suitcases which I supposed were all going to Tel Aviv and they had me pick out my own. They then dragged it, quite roughly, to another room sealed off from the area by a steel door. It was painted olive green and I guessed it was to hide the mildew that the room stank of. There was an X-ray machine in a corner, several security devices, a couple tables, a chair, 3 Israeli women, and 2 security women who looked like they might've been born with the names Bertha and Agnes but had changed it to Spike and Hammer. All equipped with battering rods, guns, and plastic gloves. Needless to say, I was shitting myself.
The guards put me in a chair in front of a metal table and stared at me from across it. They then pose more questions as to who I was, why was I in Spain, what were my intentions in Israel, why had I spent 3 weeks in Spain instead of flying directly to Tel Aviv from the US, why did my passport say my birthplace was Spain, what affiliations do I have with any governments, where is my final destination, do I have any (quote)"associates" (/quote), where is Jerez, what nationality are my parents, was I carrying any illegal substances or weapons, was I wearing any metal objects, etc. You know, I had been expecting the standard "have you packed your own suitcase and has it ever been out of your sight" type queries I've gotten, but this was fucking insane. At one point I looked at them and just had to laugh, this was one of the most absurd experiences of my life. They then snapped on the rubber gloves, removed my jacket and sneakers, and padded me down while speaking to each in Hebrew.
After I was allowed to sit back down, they pawed through my backpack, extracting each object individually and running it through the X-Ray machine, including my book on Jim Morrison (huh?). After a good 20 minutes of speaking in Hebrew, leaving me totally oblivious as to what was going on, they looked at the brand new carton of Fortuna menthols I had bought before this mess and tell me in English that they need to examine the cigarettes. I told them that the receipt was still in the bag if they needed to check its authenticity. They tore the plastic wrapping from the carton and pulled out each individual packet to examine the bottom interior of each and every packet. Meanwhile Bertha with her arms crossed watched me from a corner like a vulture taking in its prey. Finally the cigarettes were deemed clean and they were replaced rather roughly into their packets. My water bottle was smelled as well as the perfume samplers I keep with me for long flights. My ipod, laptop, phone, and all their respective chargers were X-rayed twice. My belongings were strewn across the table like trinkets that could pose a severe threat to humanity. Finally, someone looks at me and tells me that my flight has been delayed until 1:45pm.
That also means that I will definitely be missing my bus to Megiddo even if they were nice enough to hang around for an extra hour.
The security women then decide that my entire suitcase must be gutted and examined. They dumped (yes, dumped) its contents out and fiddled with the interior lining of the duffel bag. Obviously, I look like a coke dealer straight out of the backstreets of LA. Each individual article of clothing and underwear was shaken out and placed in a plastic basket to be sifted through. Each toiletry object was untaped (I tape them since I've had horrible experiences of things leaking/exploding through pressure variance), shaken, and smelled twice. My digging boots were X-rayed, unlaced, and discarded into the basket. My sealed container of powdered gatorade to avoid dehydration in the Israeli sun was X-rayed and opened. They brought in a drug dog and had it smelled. That fucking dog licked the powder! Quite scornfully they put its lid back on and placed it back in the suitcase. I felt so horribly abused and violated that I just had to laugh, this situation was so absolutely fucking ridiculous and could not possibly get any worse.
Then they explain that they need to review my belongings without me present, so they gave me a food voucher and said I could go get some lunch but had to be back at 1pm. I was allowed to take a few belongings with me but without my bags. So I grabbed my wallet, my phone, my cigarettes and lighter, and crawled back up into the terminal (accompanied by Agnes).
12:30PM - OMFGWTF (i.e, phone calls and cigarettes) in an sunlit area of the terminal
I called my parents to tell them what the hell was going on, and they were just so pissed, and baffled, and astonished, and just jazed. My dad simply said, "Nope, I have no desire to go to Israel. Look what they did to you, and you're a blonde. Imagine what they'd do to me with my coloring." So I grabbed a tortilla baguette and a diet coke and proceeded to the smoking area, and yes, with a guard shadowing me from a distance. I lit up the last American Spirit menthol I had left since there couldn't possibly be a more appropriate time to smoke the last one. After a failed attempt at calling Tomas, that slacker didn't answer his phone, I called Alvaro since he knows how to annoy me so profoundly that I'd forget my current rage and just be focused on wanting to tear his tongue out. I told him exactly what happened to me since I left Jerez and he was cracking up and offering advice at the same time while trying to calm me down. He made me laugh at the situation - just the fact that it was happening to ME was hilarious. Meanwhile, Agnes is scowling at me from 20 feet away (she obviously understood Spanish). I was sitting on the floor laughing hysterically into a phone while smoking - I would remember this for many many years.
1PM - Back to the dungeon
Now was the time to pick up my belongings so I could smoke a few more cigarettes before my flight and get a heavy dose of alcohol to calm my nerves - once again, the fact that I might be stranded in Tel Aviv was hitting me. Instantly upon entering the mouth of hell I was asked to remove my shoes and jewelry once again for a thorough padding. Agnes finally got her hands on me. I asked what the need was to pad me down again and they replied that I might have acquired something dangerous while I was out in the terminal. I quickly cocked my eyebrow and curled my lip up in disbelief - but Agnes had been watching me all this time! They had packed up all my belongings and said I was to remain there until the flight began boarding in 20 minutes. Come on now... The guards left me alone in the room with one of the Israeli luggage looters and I asked her, eye to eye, why was I being treated like this, why I couldn't go up, and do they do this to everyone. She said that people who are considered suspicious characters had to be thoroughly searched. One again, I cocked my eyebrow out her and gave her a look that said, "You seriously think I'm a threat?". Being bored, I whined a bit about how the flight delay has screwed me over for getting to Megiddo. She asked how I was planning on getting there so I told her my situation. She then offered to give me her father's cell phone number in Tel Aviv, since he was a taxi driver who was based at the airport. However, she couldn't remember the last number of the sequence and as a guard she wasn't allowed to carry her cell phone on her.
1:45PM - FREEDOM
I was walked to my gate followed by my dear friend Agnes and her permanent scowl. Rather than dropping me off, she walked me onto the plane (which was already fully boarded) and to my very seat. Stares from the passengers followed and I could sense a degree of panic and uneasiness throughout the cabin from passengers and crew alike. I was cynically half expecting to be cuffed to the armrest. Finally Agnes abandoned me while people stared at me. I quickly dug out my giant oversized aviator sunglasses (seriously dislodged from the guard's rummaging) with the arms slightly twisted from being crushed and put them on, disguising my completely ruffled and flabbergasted state.
Seriously, what the fuck just happened?
7:35PM - TEL AVIV
Finally being released from the confines of the plane, our intrepid explorer got her suitcase and went through customs in a much easier manner than any American airport she had seen. The airport itself was absolutely beautiful. The pale granite walls imitated an old fortress with ancient Greek style mosaics covering the ceiling and the walls. Absolutely lovely. However, the problems begin upon exiting baggage claim. I called Norma to ask how I should proceed and she said the easiest way is to look for group taxis called /&$()/)/& (i.e I have no idea) and have the taxi driver speak to her on my cell phone. Now.... trying to find said named taxis led me on a pilgrimage throughout the airport with several security guards asking me why I was circling the same areas and not trying to help me get anywhere in particular. Yup, little blonde American chick running around the Tel Aviv airport with no idea where she is, what she's doing, or what she's going to do. Absolutely frustrated out of my mind since the English speaking guards didn't know what the fuck I was talking about and kept pointing me in opposite directions and the info desk told me to just take the train into Tel Aviv, wander around looking for a bus station for a bus to a city called Yokream, and from there hire a taxi to the kibbutz. In every country I've been I could make myself understood, could actually read the signs (very few are in English, most in Hebrew so I couldn't even phonetically guess what the fuck I needed), or in most cases, speak enough of the languages to ask and follow directions. Here, no. Nobody knew what I was talking about even if they spoke English.
I needed to chill out and move back to square one. So I walked outside, found a corner, smoked a cigarette and just breathed for a little while before I recalled Norma for help. Surprisingly, from what I've seen of the outside of the airport bares a shocking resemblance to Sevilla, just not as hot. Norma stayed on the phone with me guiding me to the exact taxi stand I needed and spoke to the driver of a group bus to the city of Haifa (north of Tel Aviv) and to see if he could severely help me out. For 60 shekels, which from what I gathered in euros, seemed very cheap for an hour ride. The driver is going to get us to Haifa and physically help me find a taxi to the kibbutz. The price of that ride should be around 100 shekels. From what Norma says, it comes to a total of circa 50 euros for a 2 hour ride. Hell, it costs 50 euros just to get from one side of Madrid to the other - here I'm going to the northern part of the country from the middle for the same price.
I have named the driver Shlomo Bukomovitz after the archaeologist whose work I had to critique in my Archaeology of Israel and Palestine class. He is a tall man, taller than any I've seen so far here, very wide, with very dark skin and black hair cut very short. He has a unibrow and smokes like a chimney as he beckons people to join the bus. He nods at me to indicate what's going on. Surprisingly, his facial expressions I can translate so I can at least figure out what the general situation is. The other passengers are an elderly group of people who look like the Spanish marujas (elderly women who gossip non stop, chain smoke, and wear a style of clothing that resembles Eddie Bauer meets Quicksilver) and I can tell they're very annoyed about how long we've been sitting here without moving. The driver needs to fill the taxi bus so we can move and so he can pay for gas. The more people on the bus equals less money we each pay. At this rate, I won't get to the kibbutz until midnight. I'm slightly afraid of taking the solo taxi after this bus, so I'm keeping my kibutan keychain in my pocket that I got in my self-defense class. Right now I'm wishing I had gone to that class more often.
Since Alvaro has that uncanny ability to annoy me, I called him during my waiting period so I wouldn't freak out about how lost I am and would be able to take out my frustration on him through insults about how he chopped off his long curly locks.
12:30 AM - Kibbutz! Oh shit, this looks like the ghetto of the projects...
After fearing rape, kidnap, thievery, and murder, I arrived on the kibbutz near Megiddo.
Thus, our heroine achieved her goal.