Journal of a Living Lady #200

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

Shalom, ya’ll. The pilgrims have returned from Jerusalem. The characters on our Holy Land trip included two Gentiles, this Living Lady and one Mississippi country boy named Buddy. Also, along for the tour were five conservative Jews hailing from California to Israel and an unorthodox Jewish guide with a great sense of humor.

 

But I am getting ahead of my story which will be shared incrementally in this bi-weekly column. I shall start this adventurous tale today a little closer to home.

 

Buddy and I spent the night at an Atlanta hotel near the airport. Our goal was to leave the car and catch the roving shuttle bus for our early morning flight. We planned to stay at the same hotel again upon our return ten days later. It was a pre-authorized deal, part of our pre-trip planning.

 

Buddy let me out at the hotel door with our red luggage. I sat on the wooden bench outside the hotel lobby while he attempted to park the car in an inconspicuous spot. A dark, jolly, middle-aged man with pearly white teeth and huge gold chains dangling from his neck pulled his shiny car to the curb.  He lowered the passenger side window, leaned over, and commented in a Barry-like, mellow voice that he liked my red suitcase. “In fact, I think I’d like the lady that goes with that red suitcase.”

 

 I sputtered a “thank you.”  Then a delayed realization set in that this was a “pick up” line. I blushed from embarrassment. Before I could decide what to do next, I was rescued. My Buddy appeared. The man pulled off, unexpectedly foiled by another man, a better one.

 

Buddy purchased the red luggage especially for this trip so it could be easily identified. Our baggage turned out to be an albatross from day one of our trip until five days after our return when it finally arrived in Young Harris by Federal Express.

 

We expected security to be tight at the airports. Tight was right. Our trip from Atlanta to Newark via Delta was uneventful. We arrived near New York City on time. The next three hours were spent going through bag checks, passport checks, beeping wands, more bag checks and vigorous interrogations. Unfortunately, Buddy can be silly when he needs to be serious.

 

“Why are you going to Israel?” the security guard asked Buddy.

 

“To talk with Netanyahu,” he answered. Her brow tensed.

 

“Is this a political visit?” she asked.

 

“Sort of.  I am representing the Depublican party. My wife here is a Remocrat.” The official frowned, but proceeded.

 

“Do you speak Hebrew?” she grilled.

 

Buddy answered with a straight face. “No, I can only speak two languages, English and Mississippian. I am still working on English.”

 

When she glanced away, I kicked Buddy in the shin. “Be serious. This isn’t a joking matter.”

 

The examiner went through some of the same questions with me and more, but I thought carefully before I answered. I already had the purpose of my visit down pat. I was only a tourist hoping to have tea with the Queen of England at the Church of All Nations in Israel. She eventually cleared us to the next check point.

 

Buddy and I each had small carry-on bags. I also had the one large red suitcase packed two-thirds full. I purposefully left it partially empty so there would be sufficient room to bring back souvenirs.

 

Security personnel kept going over Buddy’s carry-on bag. The examiner called in someone else to go over it. That man made a phone call to yet another man, obviously a supervisor. He rushed in and started mopping the little bag with what looked like a silver spatula attached to a white dusting cloth. The bag wouldn’t pass. Every item inside was examined. The contents were okay, but the suitcase itself kept giving off ominous signals. The plane was being called for final boarding. Without further ado, the attendant put everything that was formerly in the bag in Buddy’s arms. He told us to get on board as quickly as we could.

 

Buddy’s boxer shorts dangled over his shoulder and his shirt sleeves swept the floor. We split up and searched the small examining room for our big suitcase which had already cleared. We found it quickly. Buddy stuffed his belongings in with mine and we dashed for the plane.

 

Buddy’s carry-on bag was gone forever. That was a minor concern now. The big problem was that I was stuffed in the middle of two other people on a completely packed airplane with no moving air. My prior request for an aisle seat had been ignored.

 

Though it only happens occasionally, I am prone to panic attacks when boxed in. My heart started pounding. I asked the man beside me on the aisle if he would be willing to swap seats. He wasn’t in a kindly mood and shook his head, no. In a split second I had to decide whether to fight the panic attack with all the internal fortitude I could muster or bolt and run. Just then I heard the loud clunk of the heavy front doors being sealed for the extra-long flight into another time zone. I shot out of my seat and flagged the nearby attendant.

 

“Please, mam, find me an aisle seat. I am extremely claustrophobic.”

 

“I’ll ask around as soon as I can” she said calmly as she secured the over-head cabin bins and made certain that the table trays were up-right.

 

While I waited, the engines revved up and the cool air started flowing into the cabin. Buddy shoved me two Valium pills. The man beside me changed his mind and gave up his aisle seat. Finally, we were on our way to Tel Aviv.

nancyk@alltel.net