Israel trip diary Jan-Feb 2016

I usually do bite sized nuggets from my trips like the one here or here. But this time around, call it a mix of boredom and lack of enough good movies to watch, I decided to king-size my jottings on the return flight. So I unleash upon you, the unsuspecting reader, the details of my recent trip to Israel.

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The onward journey: The good taxi, the bad flight and the ugly movie

The day of departure dawns. I drop off my son at his school in the morning after assuring him for the hundredth that I will be back in only a week. He promises to take care of his mom and be a good boy. Of course, he doesn’t like me traveling, is saddened at the very sight of the packed bag and he has made that clear over the past few days. He doesn’t want to understand but knows he has to relent. I can’t pin it on his age for this is not very different from my own state of mind in many situations. I hope his friends at school can distract him enough to make it easy on his mom to deal with him for a week while I vanish from home.

I have to fly out in the middle of the day for the first leg of the journey. I don’t know about you but for my trips, I prefer slinking out under the cover of darkness, especially for the ones abroad. As a Chennaiite, nearly all of the foreign travels of friends and family started at an ungodly hour in the night and I suspect that my mind has been subconsciously conditioned to that routine. SQ528 to Singapore that left Chennai at 11:45pm was my default flight. But there is certainly something about finishing dinner at home -- topping it off with curd rice and homemade pickle -- before leaving on your travels. The family staying back goes to bed right away, you doze off as the airplane lifts off and the morning after you call them from wherever. Talk about a comforting routine. Leaving in the middle of the day seems disruptive in many ways. I’m leaving a dad-sized gap for my kid to deal with in the afternoon and evening, not to mention the wife having to deal with it all by herself. And I’m cooped up in an airplane when I can be doing so many other things on land instead. I do have the option to leave at night but that would be one night before and I certainly wouldn’t take that.

The ride to the airport is uneventful. The driver was, as usual, a Punjabi who preferred conducting all his chit chat with me in a 80:20 mixture of Hindi and Punjabi. My tentative responses in very bad Hindi didn’t seem to put him off one bit. For a change, the taxi – a yellow Prius instead of a beat up Chevy Caprice or a Ford Crown Vic. -- didn’t smell like a barn. Two air fresheners – green, tree-shaped ones – hung from the handles above the rear windows on both sides, giving off a strong scent. I don’t know which chemicals were used in the concoction but they gave me a terrible headache. In hindsight, the barn smell – a heady cocktail of sweat, body odor, spicy aromas from a long ago lunch consumed in the cab and unwashed seat fabric -- would have been tolerable. At least the contents would have been organic. 

After spending many months cloaked in plastic sheets, the sprucing up of Terminal 3 in SFO International has been completed sometime after my previous trip. And I must admit, the end result seems to take a baby step towards nice and swanky instead of the SFO default of drab and utilitarian. My frequent flyer membership, about to expire in a few months from lack of frequent enough travels, allows me lounge access. But the lady manning the entrance seems to differ in opinion. After a few minutes of remonstrations and explanations, she relents and lets me pass. United should reconsider their friendly skies© tagline. Friendly skies; grumpy earth ©which would be 50% true. You’re welcome. This just goes to reinforce my belief that friendly service in the airline industry – both on land and in the air – is owned by just two companies: Singapore and ANA.

Planes are taking off under grey skies as if being catapulted from a giant sling from the end of the runway as I slide into a sofa seat by the window that looks out to the runway. There is some time before my flight will be called and I can watch a few take offs as I help myself to hot oatmeal and strawberries. I’ve done a fair bit of flying around but even today I’m awed by the sight of a plane taking off: the bigger the plane, bigger this awe. I instinctively compare the takeoff -- plane taxiing out to the end of the runway, turning around, pausing a moment or two before thundering down the tarmac and lifting off smoothly -- to a Curtly Ambrose or a Courtney Walsh delivery in cricket. It really doesn’t take too much imagination for the similarities are so strong. There is the stylish sauntering up to the end of the run up with perhaps that nonchalant wiping of the sweat against the sleeve, the casual, one-handed collection of the ball passed by either mid-on or mid-off after it has been shined with the sweat and spittle of the fieldsmen, a couple more involuntary rubs against their trousers, the turning around – the defining moment, that slight crouch of their frame as they start the most elegant of run ups, the stylish pre-delivery slide as that wrist-banded right arm telescopes to a scary height and whoosh, the release. Call me crazy but may be Messrs. Wilbur and Orville were reincarnated as Walsh and Ambrose? My love for cricket in general and the two gentlemen fast bowlers in particular will ensure that no number of years of flying shall diminish my fascination for planes lifting off. Planes landing? Not so much.

Time to take off. I have forgotten to carry my melatonin tablets – I did the packing myself this time -- and I don’t find them in the few shops by the gates. I must hunt down a few in either Newark or Tel Aviv. Much against my preference, I opt for a window seat as it is in the slightly roomier economy plus section – small rewards earned for my travels – rather than choose an aisle seat in economy class. I prefer to be the one disturbed rather than the one disturbing. I have had a brunch in the lounge on top of steaming idlies polished off at home and no meals shall be served on this flight. So I doze away in an attempt to sync up with Jerusalem time. No use.

I land in Newark for the ninety-minute layover for the Tel Aviv flight. Snow on the ground serves as a reminder of last week’s storm “Jonas”. I have the usual dinner at the gate-side restaurant before I board the second flight. And I don’t find any melatonin in tablet form, only dissolvable tablets in cherry flavor. I dread jetlag alright but there are certain things that I don’t consume no matter what.

This time I’m in an aisle seat towards the very end of the plane. It is a Chuck Lorre buffet for entertainment: 3 episodes of Big Bang Theory and 2 episodes of Two and a half men (with Charlie Sheen). And much against better judgment, the Robert DeNiro fan in me forced me to watch The Intern also starring Anne Hathaway. Terrible. Mistake. Here is the synopsis: a vanilla wafer, dipped in caramel, topped with chocolate syrup and rainbow sprinkles served with a glass of Martin Scorsese’s tears to wash it all down with. Ack! The next time a new DeNiro movie comes out which, going by the rate, should be sometime next week, I’ll watch The Casino or The Goodfellas on DVD instead. A sincere request to Mr. DeNiro: You had a dream run with Martin Scorsese. As difficult as it must be to you and even to us, let’s face it: it is over. There is a fine line between riding away into a glorious sunset and groping about in the night that follows after and I’m afraid that you may have crossed it. Please leave us with good memories instead of sleepwalking through crap like The Intern.

Robert DeNiro (looking into my eyes, arms apart and with that signature downward curl of the edge of his mouth): Are you talking to me?

Me: Yes I am, grandpa.

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My scribblings are really bulky and I'm thinking of splitting up it into 2 or 3 pieces after I polish up the rest a bit. Soon with installment #2.