Pointless Activity No. 317: Neatly folding clothes into a suitcase before flying with El Al.
It took the Heathrow security team less than twenty seconds to transform a morning’s work into something resembling a clothing bin at a jumble-sale. Alongside this act of vandalism was a Stasi-like forty-minute interrogation by a couple of earnest officials. Somehow, I got the feeling that my answers were not really the ones they wanted to hear.
I even had to fire up my laptop and show them my recent emails. So if nothing else, at least they’ll be able to hold their own in conversations about life in the Second Division. They then phoned Israel to talk to a variety of people to try to locate the hole in my story. In the end the three of us stood there in silence for a while, just staring at each other. They then glanced at each other, before the woman beamed at me and said “Enjoy your time in Israel. We advise you to stay away from the West Bank.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that”, I chortled. “I’m HSBC all the way…”
First hurdle cleared. Next stage was to test my clothes, luggage, phone, computer and hands for traces of explosives using a kind of wand. The results were fed into a Star Trek-like machine, complete with flashing red lights and beeps. Eventually got through that one as well, which meant that, after 1 hour 10 minutes I was deemed suitable to check in my bags. They wouldn’t let me keep any hand luggage. That was to be collected just before boarding.
Then it was through the normal security scan and eventually, at the departure gate itself, a final thorough body search.
I was in.
My good intentions for this trip lasted about 10 minutes into the flight when the two guys next to me ordered two Bloody Marys and four quarter bottles of wine between them. That’s all it takes to destroy my resolve — the sight of someone else intent on having a good time. But at least it made for a jolly trip, and by the end of it I’d consumed a great deal of Galilean wine as well as the life story of the guy next to me. By far his greatest achievement was to have been born the cousin of Ray Wilkins, former player and manager at QPR.
He’s a tour operator, specialising in organising trips to sites of religious significance. “Pilgrimages are my bag”, as he put it. During one of those conversations one has after a few glasses of wine, I agreed to provide a critique of his website in return for a free holiday. I severely doubt that anything will come of this, but I might give it a go, and will report any progress.
The other memorable moment from the flight was the choice of food available. The question from the beaming steward was: “Chicken breast or chicken balls”?
Finally arrived in Tel Aviv at around 10:30pm local time and took a taxi to my hotel. It’s always one of the best things about arriving in a new country — transport from the airport into the city. Tantalising. The driving is reassuringly manic and aggressive and loud. Why is it only hot countries where drivers are crazy? You’d think they’d be more laid-back. Also true-to-form was being ripped off by the taxi driver. The 90 shekels on the meter translates (I now know) into about 20 dollars, or as little as 13 on the black market. But I was assured it came out at 25, and paid up.
Tel Aviv is a bigger city than I’d imagined. The hotel is on the shore, with views over the city to the right, and the sea to the left:
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It was after midnight when I finally got to my room, which, now that I’d blown my good intentions for the day, seemed a bit early to be turning in. So I went for a wander down on the beach, and ended up having a beer and a meal and chatting to some of the local youth. I see so little of the sea at home that it was great to just sit and watch it for a while.
Today I woke early and went for a long walk up the coast and into this part of the city, looking for running routes and getting myself oriented.
Tel Aviv seems a rather featureless place. Like a lot of modern Mediterranean/Middle-Eastern towns, it’s a collection of concrete apartment blocks, palm trees, juice bars, whining scooters and wiry, nervous cats.
I was looking for a black-market money changing facility but failed. This is a laid-back place, and no one hassles you on the street. While it can be tiresome when you find yourself in places where you’re never left alone, at least it’s easy to get information and find deals on everything. Eventually I gave in and went to an official bureau de change where at least I got a better rate than the hotels are offering.
Spent the late morning and afternoon working in my hotel room before deciding, about six, that it was time to think about a run. It was still very humid, but I had to chance it, otherwise it might have got dark suddenly, and the opportunity would be lost.
It took quite a while for my GPS-driven speed and distance monitor to work out where I was. With all these satellites hovering over Iraq, I was expecting it to click in pretty quickly, but no, it took at least five minutes.
This gave me the chance to observe beach life. Lots of surfers and cyclists and games being played. There’s a long series of about 70 steps down to the beach, split into three steep flights. The cyclists’ game is to ride their bikes down them, amid much hollering and cheering.
Where does our fearlessness go to? Most of us, once past our teens, would be too scared to think about riding down those steps. We’d never make it without coming off. These kids are so confident, failure just isn’t an option, and it seems to be this confidence that allows them to do it. Courage, it seems, makes success almost inevitable. Lack of self-confidence can bring only failure.
I ran for five miles, up the coast to Jaffa and back. It was a very tough run, and left me wondering how I’ll get through the Great North Run in two weeks time. It was great to run alongside the sea, though the Tayelet (the Boardwalk) was crowded with families and lovers and cyclists and scooters and dogs. The atmosphere was strange. Imagine working in an air-conditioned kitchen where you had to keep reaching into the oven. It was claustrophobically hot and humid, but every few seconds there’s be a blast of icy air from the sea.
There were quite a few other runners around, all of them tourists. Most were young and athletic, but I did manage to overtake a Japanese guy who looked in an even worse state than me. By the time I reached Jaffa I had slowed right down, and decided to go no further. I’ll explore this old quarter another time.
The return journey was difficult, and I had to stop more than once. The humidity was one problem, but just as important I think were the excesses of yesterday, and this morning’s long walk. In fact I have a whole stack of splendid excuses.
Problem: I’ve managed to leave my lycra undershorts at home, which, in these sweaty conditions, now means I have a couple of painful, chafed thighs to deal with. What are the chances of me being able to buy a pair of lycra shorts on a Saturday in Tel Aviv? Or even a jar of Vaseline?
Stay tuned to find out.
