lederon: Israel in June 2005

After a rather testy BA flight where the service was a bit topsy turvy (the cabin crew served the meal first, drinks later) with bizzare food (inedible "brunch" of bubble and squeak beside a lump of tough meat, and equally disgusting sloppy chocolate mousse dessert). I was surrounded by דוסים, fussing and prattling non-stop, shifting suitcases up and down the isles, in and out of overhead lockers, leaning back their seats as soon as it was permissable, and as far as the seat backs would go, getting up to chat to their friends as soon as the movie started - that didn't matter actually as on offer was that moronic Vin Diesel turd of a movie "Pacifier"... The lady sitting next to me, a charming developement psychology professor called Na'ama was stared at by the younger of those חרדים people - the one across the isle from her was particularly fascinated: he watched her eating her "meal" with his lower jaw so dropped down it was a wonder he didn't dribble down his wispy young beard!
At the brand new, ultra modern terminal in Ben-Gurion airport things got off to an unpromising start. The long awaited jetty used to transfer passengers directly into the arrival hall was out of action. We were finally herded off the plane and down the old rickety steps into the wide buses, and just like in the bad old days, were transported, cattle-like to the terminal. By now I was in less than euphoric state of mind. So I went to draw some money from the A.T.M. Just like in Prague, my credit card wasn't recognised - less than a day from my call to Mastercard to make sure they don't leave me high and dry again. Angry and disorientated I cancelled and used my debit card instead. No problem. Except that in my near-rage state I realised, too late, alas, that I withdrew the equivalent of 350 quid!
I now proceeded to the train station, adjecent to the new terminal (which, by the way, seen through the red mist of my eyes, is indeed attractive enough). It's a new feature, much trumpeted by the media, but trains call only every 20 minutes, and to most destinations one has to change somewhere along the way. The fares are still cheap at less than 2 quid one way. The train arrived on time - an old affair left from biblical times I suspected (give or take a few thousand years), but it was clean and comfortable, so it was quaint, not unpleasant at all. I had to change at Tel Aviv to the train that would call in Hertzeliya, where my dad would pick me up to go to my parents house in Ramat Hasharon. The second train was by stark contrast to the first one a double-decker european one, modern, smooth and cool, full of Israeli soldiers on their way home for the Holiday weekend.
At the small, but brand new station, my dad was waiting for me, and as we were making our way home, I called Racheli, my school chum from way back then - she had invited me to her daughter's wedding, on the same day I arrived, on a hill, in a farm some 30km from Jerusalem. A minibus would collect dome wedding guests along the way - one pick-up point was the very centre of Ramat Hasharon. It seemed like I would have to get on that minibus, or I would have to get back to the station some time later, take the train to Beth-Shemesh, and catch a ride from there into the wooded hills and to the farm. After some debate I opted to jump out of the car, take the bare essentials with me, and hop on the minivan. I could probably snooze on the way, I thought. Here is a picture of the ride - some young girls, unseen, at the back, Racheli's parents, old (and not so old) friends, and a grumpy driver, who mellowed down in due course.

The wedding, meeting Racheli, some old school chums, and the happy couple (of whome I had only ever met the bride) all made up for an exhausting day on the road, following a 3 hour sleep the previous night. The farm is far from any proper road, and the wedding took place in and around the restaurant the owners run there. They raise goats and produce and sell cheeses on the farm, as well as serving (aparrently famous to those in the know) sumptuous meals there. And yes, kid and mutton is on the menu. The place was just magical. The air as clean as you could wish for, the hillocks green and peaceful, the food was sourced locally, the bread baked on the farm, the wine was locally produced too - the red was a good shiraz, if not outstanding. the groom wore "root" sandals, mercifully, as I didn't exactly dress for the occasion - or so I thought. The wedding canopy ("huppah") was hand-embroidered by Racheli herself, and instead of confetti - a pollutant on farmland - we were given rose petals. A "funny" protrait artist was drawing any willing guest and handed the 3 minute etude to the usually delighted subject. I was his first victim... The wedding service was held by a young, though stern Yemenite rabbi with big, beautiful piercing brown eyes. It was short and a little terse, and as usual in our faith, it is an affair conducted between and among men; the bride remains totally passive throughout the service, and she is not asked to declare her consent or acceptance of the bond of marriage. The groom isn't consulted much either - he only gets to say "dedicated are thee with this ring" (roughly translated). After this archaic part of the evening, the proper Israeli part started, with mother of the bride, friends, the groom's brother, presenting a tribute with songs, short speeches and poems. A band of percussionists started off the celebrations, with DJ's console to follow. around 11:30pm we filed on to the minibus, and finally got back around 1:00am. My holiday has started on a fantastic note after all!