Only in Israel…

Born in Europe and raised on 2 different religions/traditions and in 2 very different countries/mentalities, I always felt most in my element on board a plane going somewhere…

The smell of airplane fuel combined with neroli scented wet-towels never failed to make me high, and ever since I can remember myself I have loved to travel, with every landing already planning my next destination.

According to the Facebook application of Travelbuddy.com I have managed to score a very pathetic 14% of jet-setters world domination… having said that…. my BA Miles think differently.

I have lived in three different countries and visited many. I worked as airline crew which made it cheaper for me as a 20+ year old student to satisfy my globe-trotting needs… much cheaper than it would have been for my fellow students to buy cigarettes or even a beer.

In my career I have worked across all continents travelling to many destinations for business, with my whole life packed in a Samsonite oyster.

I love the world, I love travelling, yet somehow, whenever I am away, I always end up missing Israel. I have a soft spot for this place which will always be a home to me and I am always excited to come back for a visit. That is… until I get to the airport to check-in for my flight.

I assume it’s no secret, Israelis don’t always work too hard to build a good reputation for themselves in the global arena or internally for that matter, and I am not even talking about the “Politics”. However, for the past several months I have been living in Malta, an Island which makes Israel look and feel as trendy and sophisticated as Manhattan. I have no way to describe Malta other than a beautiful yet odd little island, that is utterly provincial and stuck in a time warp… a very dusty, mouldy and humid time warp. An island which made me wonder why I felt such a rush to break free from Canaan.

It wasnt until my recent trip back, that it all made sense…

During the 2.5 hour charter flight to TLV, I was practically beaten up at 3am by an unknown Israeli passenger sitting across the aisle from me. Mr. Seat 12C must have been seriously concerned over my eating habits. So much so, that he felt it was his responsibility to wake me up from the pleasant artificially induced flight-coma I was in to point at my tray and say “Eat!” (“Eat” what I swear was 2 slices of foam with an orange coloured slice of plastic cheese glued in between. Yes, God forbid such airline culinary delight should go to waste). And so, I landed a bit grumpy in the land of all things holly.

However,  after having been away for a while, I was determined to “feel the love” and promised myself I was not going to complain. About anything or anyone. Unfortunately, my stamina was short lived and I weakly & officially broke-down in just less than 24 hours thereafter… and this, my dear readers is why:

I was invited for coffee and a good chat by two dear friends I have not seen in ages. Keen to catch up on life, I eagerly booked a taxi for the 10 minute ride from my pad to theirs.

What followed in those 10 minutes was nothing short of a communication-spectacular…. the manifestation of the “in your face”-Israeli came alive in front of my eyes in the shape of a taxi driver.

I usually try to avoid talking to taxi drivers, somehow conversations always lead to them sharing their right-wing political ideas with me and to be honest, I could not be bothered less. But this time… somehow, I managed to get sucked into conversation.

It started innocently, talking about the weather (it was a very rainy night)… and somehow, without me realising, the driver managed to lead the conversation in a very odd direction. Feeling it was too late to retreat I decided to invent the answers to his inappropriate questions whilst waiting in anticipation to reach my destination.

As a person who probably can’t lie to save her life, I was surprised at how natural the lying came to me, I made up a pretend partner who I was debating on whether or not I should settle down with and had this whole relationship story going on… until my fable came back to bite me in the ass.

Taxi Driver: “so how old are you?”

Me: “35″ (couldn’t lie there…)

Taxi Driver: “And your partner”

Me: “36″ (believable enough!)

Taxi Driver: “Kids?”

Me: “No”

Taxi Driver: “So, when are you getting married?”

Me: “He hasn’t popped the question yet”

Taxi Driver: “Well, in that case, a woman your age – you should just get yourself pregnant already, then he wont have a choice… I mean, you don’t use protection or birth control pills I assume – do you?!”

Me: (speechless)

Taxi Driver: “I don’t mean to pry – but a pretty girl like you…you dont have any time to waste at your age…”

Me: (to self: this can’t really be happening!) 

We finally reached the final destination, the ten minute drive cost me $15, and it was probably the best therapy I had in a while… it made me realise I love Israel to bits, but I love being away from it. I love Israelis - but I really don’t want to share my version of “The Personal Diaries of a Hyper-Sensitive Ovary” with them, nor with anyone else for that matter. I love their openness, but don’t want to co-write the Vagina Dialogues with a taxi driver… I love their honesty, but I don’t want to be forced to listen to the fact that at 35 years of age my eggs are only as good as the Omelette I can make of them. I want to live my life and enjoy my personal space  without feeling like I would rather be at the gynecologist’s clinic having my annual smear test done.

I love you, tiny little country, you are always in my heart… but for the time being it has been decided, I shall continue to admire you from a distance…

Yours,

Me xoxo