DATELINE, JERUSALEM–Okay, I’m not actually in Jerusalem, but I just returned from there, and I always wanted to start an article with something dramatic. I mean, it beats the tar out of, “DATELINE, A SHABBY OFFICE IN HOLLYWOOD WITH ONE GOOD COUCH FOR NAPS.” Now that I think of it, if I ever appear on the NBC show, “Dateline,” I could start an article with DATELINE, “DATELINE.” And if I’m ever dating someone who works at “Dateline,” I could–okay, enough. This was my first trip to Israel, and there’s so much to say, so much to think about. I expect to be sorting it out for a long time, but, for now, the best place to start is at the beginning.
The trip began at the International Terminal in Los Angeles airport. You remember the International Terminal in Los Angeles from the mysterious incident a couple of months ago where that confused and troubled guy shot two strangers. It was mysterious, naturally, because none of our law enforcement agencies could seem to figure out why an Egyptian, who was angry at America, shot two Jews at El Al. That was a tough one. Ah, well, life is full of random events.
Anyway, the International Terminal handles flights to dozens of large and small countries, and when we walked inside, the counters were bustling with travelers. Not going to Israel, of course. Nobody’s going to Israel. That’s the problem. That’s why I went. And as I approached the counter to check in, I faced the first of a series of ironies during my week in the Holy Land. Want to guess what airline was next to El Al? Seriously, take a second and guess. Give up? Lufthansa. Is that gorgeous, or what? Can you imagine those conversations between the clerks? “Hey, Hans, I’m going out for a smoke, you have a match?” “Sure, Avi, here, keep ’em. What are you doing for lunch?” “Oh, Greta and Christine are planning a surprise party for Chava. See you there?” “Wouldn’t miss it.” (As a side note, since 1948, compared to the rest of Europe, Germany has been a very strong supporter of Israel. On the other hand, compared to Europe, Iraq has been a strong supporter of Israel. But, to give credit where it’s due, Germany has done very well. In fact, because of this relationship, in Israel, about every other car, and most cabs, and all the buses, are made by Mercedes.)
I was travelling with a woman named Carol who works for the Jewish Federation. The Federation had been invaluable in setting up places to go and people to see, the alternative being my walking off the plane and turning left. Carol is married and has grown children and lives in suburban Southern California. Typical. And, throughout the eighties, she made a dozen trips to the Soviet Union to smuggle in bibles and prayer books of all faiths. Not so typical. She’s been to Israel another couple of dozen times over the years, and her husband, Irwin, is used to driving her to the airport so she can put her convictions and, sometimes, her life, on the line. For the record, the Jewish Federation is an organization that raises money from donations and distributes it to, among countless charities, the hospitals and schools we were going to visit.
As many of you know, El Al puts at least one armed marshall on each flight. This is a good idea, one of two good ideas El Al gave to all our airlines about five years ago, when the Israelis were invited over to discuss security on airplanes. We didn’t take that one. The other good idea they had was that maybe we should have something more than a beaded curtain separating the pilot from the passengers. We didn’t take that one, either. (Apparently, both these ideas cost money, and that ended that.) The second Carol and I walked onto the plane, I leaned over and whispered, “I think I spotted the armed marshall.” This was not because I have the observational powers of Conan Doyle’s hero, but because a perfect idiot could have spotted the armed marshall, because as you hand your boarding pass to the smiling ticket agent, and walk past the smiling flight attendants making coffee and handing out pillows, you come face-to-face with a guy standing right in the middle of everything who is built almost exactly like “Oddjob” from “Goldfinger.” Only bigger. He was wearing an El Al uniform (or five) and you knew three things very quickly: (1) That the bulges all over his sport coat probably weren’t wallets; (2) That, most likely, he was not the guy you would later be asking for an extra sour-dough roll; and (3) It would be an immensely bad idea to run over to him suddenly, grab his lapels and scream, “Death to Israel.”
Now, I know that’s dumb. I mean, who would run over and do something like that? Well I don’t know about you, but in all sorts of situations, my mind immediately thinks, “What’s the absolute worst thing I could do at any given moment?” You would never do these things, but you can’t help thinking them, sort of like trying not to giggle at a funeral only far worse. Consequently, the entire flight, about every eleven minutes, I found myself having to say to the little moron in my head, “All right, now, whatever you do, just . . . don’t run down the aisle knocking people’s trays over while ululating. If, though, for some reason, you do that, don’t compound it by rushing the cockpit.” Stupid stuff like that.
Seventeen hours, a layover in Toronto, a few blasts of Glenmorangie, and four bagels later, we landed in Tel Aviv. There used to be a non-stop flight from LAX over the pole that only took thirteen hours, but it was recently cancelled for lack of business. And the first thing I noticed was . . . nothing. I mean, I guess I expected tanks and soldiers all over the place, but there was nothing. Just an airport, just a tarmac, just a gate and just a luggage carousel. (Like any city in America, I was reminded of David Brenner’s wonderful joke about airport luggage: “Why do the first thirty bags never belong to anybody?”) Before leaving, most of my friends had made me a little crazy–What are friends for?–by telling me how dangerous this was. They got me thinking that Israel was like London in 1940, or the last act of “Miss Saigon,” that I’d be spending the whole trip dashing from doorway to doorway to avoid blasts. Well, it’s not. Nothing. You fill out your forms, get your stuff, hand your passport over to the same bored customs people and get in a cab. In our case, we had a wonderful driver and guide named Mike Rogoff, ex-army. (Although, in Israel, everyone is ex-army. Men and women, they all serve at eighteen, Dentists, teachers, comics, everyone. Hell, if you think about it, even the hookers are ex-army, which, at the very least, must simplify the concept of “furloughs.”)
The guides in Israel are really historians. They know every stone and road, every town, every battle, and not just since l948, but through all the centuries and all the conquerors, all the way back to where Jesus walked, and even further, back to when Moses said to God, “Okay, first of all, define ‘Adultery’.”
We loaded up and Mike drove us up to the city King David built three thousand years ago, Jerusalem, about an hour southeast, inside of which is where the first temple was built by one of his sons, a guy you may remember named Solomon. Solomon’s mother, by the way, was Bathsheba, the married woman David wanted so much that he had her husband, Uriah, purposely placed in the heat of battle until he was killed. It’s instructive to remember that, at the time, David already had–literally–ten thousand wives, which either tells you something about Bathsheba or, more likely, something about men. I mean, ten thousand. Hugh Hefner, eat your heart out. I wonder, in Heaven, who else is in that club? At the very least, King David and Wilt Chamberlain have a long time to compare notes. I can imagine Wilt listening to the story for the millionth time, and nodding and saying, “Believe me, buddy. I hear you.”
We checked into the King David Hotel, where Anwar Sadat stayed when he made his historic trip after uttering what, sadly, became an immortal line: “I will go to Israel.” It’s where President Mubarak and President Clinton and so many other leaders stayed when they came to Yitzhak Rabin’s funeral after he, too, was assassinated. Sadat by his people, Rabin by his people. So sad. It’s the same hotel that was British Army Headquarters when, in l947, it was bombed by the Irgun, with Menachem Begin in it–what some call terrorism and others call military action. Tragically, they made three phone calls that day to tell everyone to get out, but the British thought it was a hoax, because, they reasoned, Jews wouldn’t do something like that. So much history, so much blood. Three thousand years ago, two thousand, one thousand, today. That’s where I’m going to end this article. There’s too much to tell in one piece. So I’ll leave with a startling image, at least to me.
I got into my room, unpacked and reflexively did what I do in all hotel rooms, turned on the TV. Almost unbelievably, after flying so far, and, really, so far back, the first thing that popped on was an episode of “Just Shoot Me,” in Hebrew. Talk about “Must See TV.” Now, I’ve been on that show before, but that’s not the amazing part. My wife is a comedy writer, and I immediately recognized the episode as one that she wrote. But that’s not the amazing part, either. I walked over to the window to open the doors, still staring at the television, and then turned around and looked out, and that was the amazing part. Right outside the window. Down a small valley–“Gehinom” (“Gehenna”). Up a slope. The sun just rising. The walls of the city. The old city. There are no words for seeing that, or, at least, I don’t have them.
More to follow.
Larry Miller is a contributing humorist to The Daily Standard and a writer, actor, and comedian living in Los Angeles.
