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On the first night, we three gentlemen had a simple meal at the hotel
snack bar and retired early. I was exhausted from the late night,
early morning, and tough day. On the second night, Shrikant and I
walked into Acco for dinner at an Arab cafe. He had been on site
since the previous week and had taken a taxi ride for a 'grand tour'
before I arrived.  He
paid attention to details, and could restate many facts about the
city, its four (not two) mosques, the fortress walls built by
Napoleon against the British, the Lebanon boarder, the seven day war,
the scud missile attack, life for Israeli Arabs, etc, etc. Of course
we also talked about his life in India, and I told him about Florida,
growing up in Detroit, different clients and places I had been. We
found a restaurant and ate outside, on plastic patio furniture. We
ate hummus (his plain, mine with lamb meat) in pita bread. He
presented me with a Rupee note when I gushed about my Lira and
Shekels (and he would not take a one-dollar bill in return). Passing
conversation revealed that he was the husband in an 'arranged
marriage' and that it was working out quite alright thank you. It
came up when he referred to the marriage of one of his countrymen as
a 'love marriage'. When I asked what was the opposite (like, for
instance, an "American Marriage"?), he told his story of
how he and his soon-to-be wife were introduced and eventually
married. I tried to explain about the 'senior prom' in High School
and he smiled to hear the story. We talked about world travel, and
the 20 different languages spoken in India. We talked about his
career as a college professor, a consultant, and now as the owner of
his own consulting firm. He told his story of the gulf war (Desert
Storm) as he was in Abu Dhabi during that period and afterward. He
was a delightful storyteller with a fascinating life, and we sat
under a canopy as the moonlight reflected on the waves of the
Mediterranean sea on a hundreds year old embankment in a city that
was standing in Biblical times.
On the third night, Dora surprised me and offered to take me to
Haifa. She lived there and would arrange taking me there, but I would
have to return to the hotel via a taxicab (excellent!) She arranged
for her husband to pick up her daughter at day-care, and for a fellow
worker to give us a lift (to avoid waiting for the hourly bus service
from the plant to the city). We chatted in the car with the project
leader for the financial portion of their project, a kindly woman
with a friendly disposition. Once at Dora's car, we drove to the top
of "Mount Carmel" for the beautiful view of the Haifa
harbor. In December, the weather was very pleasant, and again, the
moon twinkled above and the city lights matched it below. And, yes,
this is the same Mount Carmel with the stories in the old testament
and the source of the name for the religious order known as the
"Carmelite Sisters".
The "Don Promenade" hotel stands on one of the highest
points in the city. From its promenade, we walked and looked at the
lights while she told me about growing up in Haifa, her 3 years as a
child in America (New Jersey and Chicago), how expensive cars and gas
and housing is in Israel. She helped me find an ATM (running out of
shekels) and made sure I had a famous roll-up sandwich, somewhere
between a Greek gyro and a pita roll-up. We walked to the Bahai
gardens, and she told me about the Bahai religion and the Bahai
people that owned this land and planted these gardens (world-famous
for beauty, but lost in the December darkness that night). She
invited me home to meet her husband and have coffee but it was too
late, the class had run long (six and a half) and there were still
more teaching for me tomorrow. She dropped me at the taxi stand, and
I made sure the cabbie spoke English. We drove back to Acco (20
minutes) and I sat in front and asked a million questions. I heard
about a different side of Haifa, about the scud missiles and the US
Navy ships in port (drove by the U.S.O.). I double checked about my
8am Friday flight to Athens: Did I really need to be up at 3am and
leave Acco at 4am? (Yes, 2 hrs to the airport 2 hrs to clear Israeli
exit procedure). The cabbie's idea was to go to Tel Aviv Thursday
night. But I would still need to get up at 5am? Oh, no! You go to Tel
Aviv and stay up all night in the 'clubs' was his idea. Then no
problem to get to your plane in the morning. Oh.
Yes, by the way, this is the same "mount Carmel" from the
bible, as are many things that appear on a map of Israel. This is the
mount made famous by the monks and the Carmelite sisters. The
appearance of the Bahai followers caused quite a stir in the last few
years. The Bahai's, as I understand it, follow an offshoot of the
muslim religion. The followers seem quite wealthy, and the parcels
they own around Haifa would be considered the 'choicest' in any
modern city. The little reading I have done on this subject raised
more questions than it answered.
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The third morning,  I
arose early, to walk the few blocks toward Acco and take some
morning pictures. I took pictures of the hotel,  the
run down business area (and discotheque nearby), a nearby cemetery.
Everything  seemed
ancient (it was) and exotic (it was to me). I snapped a nice picture
of the distant Acco city with its two mosques, and made it all the
way downtown and back before it was time to leave for work. These
were, of course, my only daylight pictures in or around Acco.
The last night was simple, since I would need to be up at 3:30am.
Again, we 3 gentlemen ate simple sandwiches in the country club snack
bar area of the hotel 'Hof Hatmarim'. Tonight I brought my camera and
took a couple of pictures. We asked Derek about South Africa and
learned that he proposed to his finance in the 'preserves' area,
actual African wilderness. They loved to hike there, he had visited
the area often since his childhood, and he had decided that, when the
day came for him to propose marriage, that would be the only place to
perform such an important act. Of course she said yes.
Shrikant talked more about Israel and committed that on his next trip
he would bring his international drivers license and get his own car.
I had reached the same conclusion about myself. The road signs are
always in English (second) and a good map is very very necessary, the
Israeli drivers are particularly aggressive, but getting your own car
was the conclusion that both Shrikant and I independently reached.
Thursday night starts the week-end in Israel, so Derek and Shrikant
were planning some week-end visits to nearby areas. This was another
uneasy period between an Iraqi UN showdown and another US cruise
missile barrage. Also, the television news was playing (again and
again and again) footage of a group of angry Arabs beating on 2
Israeli motorists. That particular footage got a lot of play on CNN,
so world-wide awareness. Of course, like I had been told, the sun
still rose, the scenery was beautiful, the hummus was delicious, and
life went on in Israel. We said good-night and good-bye and I retired
dreading 3:30am.
3:30 arrived early, actually so did 3:45. I had gone to sleep without
packing, saying I would do it in the morning then in the morning
saying I must have done it the night before. At 3:45 I rose and
quickly showered, stuffed my "Greek clothes" into my
backpack, and put my work stuff (books, overheads) into the bottom of
my suitcase. Class was over, my day in Athens was ahead of me.
Everyone at home was fine, and I was just stuffing things into my 3
bags (suitcase, roll-on, and backpack) to meet the cabbie at 4am. The
phone rang at 4. Yes, I said, I was almost ready. I promised, and
appeared at 4:15. My cabbie was a large, and amiable man, with a
quick smile and his first words were "I have been here since 4am
at your request". Yes, thank-you, I am running late. But as
quickly as that line of conversation started, it ended, the rest of
the trip was delightful.
He had received the message about my wanting a drive that "spoke
English", it seemed, since he started in immediately about
anything and everything. I was delighted. We were in a large tourist
van, like the airport shuttle busses, that seated 15 people. Just the
driver and me. We spoke about his life, and the people he met. He was
going to be taking a group of German tourists to Masada that morning,
after returning from dropping me at the airport. I asked about the
factory that I had been driving by all week, decorated in large
geometric shapes of primary colors. I had guessed it to be a factory
for making toys for young children. Close, he said, it was plainly
marked in Hebrew that it was a paint factory. Oh.
He had driven a city bus in Haifa for seven years prior to driving
the taxi. His "brudder" had started a taxi business but he
would not give up his bus driver job (he had only luke-warm feelings
about his "brudder"). Then one day his "brudder"
talked to his "fadder" about the need for him to join the
taxi company and the rest was history. We laughed and I told him a
little about my "brudder" and "fadder" and we
agreed it was a small world after all. His brother called him on the
cell phone 3 different times in the 90 minutes it took to drive from
my hotel to Tel Aviv (plus twice more on the radio). The taxi company
has 2 vehicles, the 15 passenger van and a regular sized yellow taxi
car. He wanted to drive the taxi, but he had to drive the van.
"My brudder drive da taxi-car, him a MANAGER" he said in
sing-song while rolling his eyes and both of us laughed out loud.
I explained how my family lived in 3 different cities, 2000
kilometers apart. His eyes were wide, his father, his despised
brother and he lived in separate homes on the same hillside in Haifa,
each 1 kilometer from the other, worked at the same job and spoke
dozens of times per day. Each Friday we have the "shabbot"
(evening meal with religious significance) together; with wives and
children in attendance too. I explained how we tried to see each
other once a year, when possible, but I had already learned that
discussions of "Christmas" didn't register to the typical Israeli.
As we drove to Tel Aviv, I was told about each city, the type of
people, commerce, outlooks each had. He read for me every sign on
every business we drove by. I asked about each exit sign, and the
obscure references. They were not names
(ex:"Marsyck-Simpson") but were the names of kibbutz
communities. Oh. I had guessed it was directions to meet somebody at
their house, and important enough to get a road sign. Each kibbutz
had a purpose, as they were really a cross between a subdivision and
a commune. Everybody had their own homes (unlike the Californian
60's) but they were all partners in a common business. I tried to
understand the "west bank settlements" and other details,
but figured to learn about all those stories on my next Israel trip.
"This kibbutz is for, ummm, cows", he said. I filled in
that they made and sold milk and beef (he nodded). "This one for
chickens" (I nodded). Later, "This one is for fixing
cars", raising my one eyebrow and starting to get a better feel
for life in suburban Israel. "This kibbutz is for growing
flowers and plants", he explained. But then we drove by a white
stucco community, 12 or 15 buildings all look-alike and well lit at
darkest 5am, "This is where Ultra-orthodox live". I foisted
10 minutes of questions on him, but could never get the nuance of how
things worked.
"Could I live there?" "Do you get invited to move
there?" "What does their kibbutz make?" "Who
built it?" "Do you have a house payment if you live
there?" etc, etc. Each answer got longer and longer, filled in
with hems and haws, and without answering the question, so I gave up.
I asked about schools (each kibbutz has a state run school) and
police and fire departments (nearby cities provide services, except
in the most distance regions).
"This one is for Arabs", he said, and I suddenly and for
the first time noticed that my Israeli cab driver had an exact
physical resemblance to the hundreds of Arab (and Greek) men I had
met or seen in my hometown in Detroit. Of course! Anybody living in
this region, from Greece to Egypt, would trace to common an ancestors
and therefore have similar general physical characteristics. I was
quiet to ponder that the languages, the cultures, all the hatred and
wars, all trace to social institutions not genetics.
A nice discussion followed on Acco and its Arab history and mosques.
Yes, Arab children learn Arabic and Hebrew (and English, too) but
Jewish children learn Hebrew and English but do not learn Arabic. As
he explained this to me, he suddenly paused (as if learning something
for the first time). He said "Hmmm...", and thought for a minute.
We arrived at the airport, first passing thru an honest-to-goodness
roadblock with armed soldiers (each with his Uzi) and a couple of
army jeeps making the universal hand symbol for halt or be shot. This
on the exit ramp between the freeway and the airport and we proceeded
after a sentence or two in unintelligible Hebrew. (I smiled and
nodded to the nice soldier).
The sky was starting to lighten as I walked around Ben Gurion
international for the second time in 4 days. Got another snack,
headed to get my boarding pass and the interrogation started in
again. This time I was less patient, still smiled and was courteous
but this time I understood the ritual (and I had nothing to hide). I
answered their questions, gave them a business card and talked about
my office and duties. Once again I produced classroom material and
explained a randomly selected page or two here or there. This time I
was asked, along with 'did anybody give you anything', did I meet
anybody new that I would consider a 'new friend', somebody I would
write to or call when I returned to the United States. An interesting
question, with horrific overtones, but I simply answered honestly
that I had made business contacts and would not be writing personal
correspondence and, no, I did not receive any wrapped packages from
any new-found "friends" in Israel.
Time enough to phone home, and buy a small snack at horrific airport
prices. After 5 different airport helpers had greeted me with
"Bokah Tov" (good morning), the sixth said a simple
"good morning", instead. I asked, "Do I look THAT
American?" and she smiled (with small dimples), squinted her
eyes, nodded 3 little nods, and stamped my exit pass. Then they
called the boarding, down the stairs, onto the bus, out onto the
tarmac, out of the bus, up the stairs and on my way to Greece.
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