Khaki Slacks and Near Death Experiences

In case you forgot, I'm cleaning out my closet.

I've come across some khaki slacks that have been on a hanger for so long that there’s a horizontal perma-crease on the legs.  I bought these at a mall in Herzliya, Israel.  I flew to Israel in January, 2001 to teach a week-long engineering course.  Due to the Palestinian conflict, The US State Department had issued a travel restriction warning informing US citizens that it wasn’t safe to travel to, or within, Israel.  There were two problems with the warning.  One, I’d never been to Israel and I really, really wanted to go, and two, they were paying me a lot of money to teach the course.  Funny what we’ll do for money.  I’d never prostitute myself.  That would be wrong.  But, pay me enough and I’ll eat a bag of live rattlesnakes.  I wouldn’t eat the rattles, of course.

After delays and bad weather and missed planes, I arrive in Tel-Aviv thirty six hours later.  My bags arrived in Newark, NJ the day before.   I won’t give the name of the airline that lost my luggage, I have a bunch of frequent flier miles.  I’d hate to see them mysteriously disappear.  I'll call the airline by it's code name: "Atled."  They‘re the ones who lost my bags.  But they blame it on "Ecnarf Ria."  Because "Ecnarf Ria" was the airline that flew me from Paris to Tel-Aviv.  I’ve been to Paris a few times, each time it’s been a sprint though Charles de Gaulle airport to catch my connecting flight.  The French tourist industry should create a travel brochure that says, “While in Paris, be sure to visit the Louvre, and don’t forget to see the lovely concourses of Charles de Gaulle airport.”  Ahh, Paris.  I’ll never forget the 15 minutes we had together.

I have no clothes.  OK, I'm wearing clothes.  I'm not naked.  I wonder if people would have noticed if I was.  I do have all of my course materials because I packed them in my carry-on.  I remember hearing my wife say, “At least pack some underwear in your carry-on.” Silly wife. Of course I'm not going to pack underwear in my carry-on. My wife is right, as always. I always appreciate her helpful instructions several hours after I've disregarded them.  I'm sure I'll find some clothes in Israel.  I'm fairly certain that I'm not going to find my preferred underwear.

I finally make it to the hotel.  While I was patiently waiting at the lost luggage stand watching Israelis cut in front of me, my ride to hotel gave up and left.  So, I took a cab.  It cost $50.  I gave the driver a $10 tip.  I wanted to show my appreciation for the ear bleedingly loud, profanity laced hip-hop music that he played for the 40 minute trip. 

My company put me up at the Dan Accadia. It’s a nice hotel right on the Mediterranean. Too bad it is January.  I had some nice lonely walks on the beach.  I was informed later that an upstanding married person such as me wouldn’t want to be at the beach during summertime.  I guess there’s a one one-hundredth clothing to skin ratio.  Too bad I missed out. It's for the best though. Knowing me, my eyeballs would have exploded.

I get settled in my room and call the front desk.  I explain that the airlines have lost my luggage.  I ask if I may have a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some deodorant.  Immediately, there’s a knock on my door.  I open the door.  There’s a bellman.  He sees me and blurts out, “Oh!  You’re very big!”  I'm always flattered by such compliments.  The bellman hands me a small toiletries kit, a Dan Accadia t-shirt, and a three-pack of men’s thong underwear. I thank him.  But, I’m a terrible tourist.  I forget to give him a tip. There’s one pair of underwear missing from the three-pack. Maybe the bellman is wearing them.  Maybe it was a hint. I don’t want to know.  The t-shirt is a medium.  There's no deodorant in the toiletries kits.  There is a toothbrush.  First I use it on my teeth, then on my underarms.  Now I'll have that freshly brushed smell all day.

I’m at the company ready to teach.  The secretary gives me a promotional sweatshirt.  It's the biggest sweatshirt they have.  It barely fits, but at least it doesn’t stink.  I normally wear slacks and a dress shirt when I teach.  I’m wearing jeans and the sweatshirt.  I keep pulling it down so I don’t expose my bellybutton.  That evening the secretary calls a cab for me.  While I'm waiting, she tries to teach me some Hebrew.  She's trying to teach me how to tell the cab driver to take me to the local shopping mall.  Apparently I'm not a good student.  She finally gives up and writes it down and tells me to hand it to the cab driver. 

I arrive at the mall.  There are barriers about fifty feet from the mall entrance to keep terrorists from driving bomb-laden vehicles into the mall.  I get out of the cab and walk to the entrance.  Right inside the door is a guard with bomb detector.  He thoroughly examines my backpack.  This is pretty standard wherever I go. With all of the changes we’ve had to go through since 9-11, I don’t think we’re even close to the security measures the Israelis have to take to protect themselves.

I manage to find a pair of slacks.  The pair of slacks!  I find a shirt as well.  The slacks are too long.  Some very kind older women help me out.  There's a problem.  They speak very little English; I can’t even say “shopping mall” in Hebrew.  I speak VERY LOUD to them in English.  Of course, this is how to communicate when you’re in a foreign country.  My LOUD English doesn’t work.  What is wrong with these people?  

Seriously, I didn’t speak loud.  I didn’t want to attract terrorists.  “Hey, there’s a loud American!  If we blow him up, we get 100 points, plus the dinette set and 72 virgins.”

With the ladies' incredible patience and the use of some hand gestures I figure out that they're offering to hem my pants.  I'm grateful right up to the point that they start to measure my inseam.  I somehow communicate that I need socks.  They send me to women’s lingerie.  I find socks that fit, but they’re pink.  I stand in line with twenty women.  I didn’t think that Israel is a segregated country, but some of the stares make me wonder.

I find a Wallgreen’s-like drug store in the mall.  I find some deodorant.  From the selection, I’m guessing deodorant isn’t kosher.  I don’t know.  I’m just grateful to find some.  There is a young man at the check-out.  I ask him to call a cab for me.  I pay and leave the mall.

Just a note here about languages in Israel:  From my observation, everyone speaks Hebrew.  Since Israel is a homeland for Jews across the world, most of the citizens also speak the language of their country of birth.  And, most of the citizens under thirty speak English fluently.  I'm over thirty.  I speak broken English.

It is dark outside now.  I see a cab pull up to the side of the mall barrier.  I hop in.  The driver is an older man. I tell him, “Dan Accadia (Uh-Kay-Dee-Uh) Hotel, Herzliya Beach, please.”  He turns and looks at me and in broken English says, “Where you want to go?”  I say, “Dan Accadia (Uh-Kay-Dee-Uh) Hotel, Herzliya Beach.”  The driver gets on his radio, says something in Hebrew, then turns to me again and says, “Where?”  I’m starting to get a little nervous.  I’m pretty sure the cab drivers in Israel aren't homicidal, but they don’t look safe.  In a panicked voice, I say, “Dan Accadia (Uh-Kay-Dee-Uh) Hotel!!!  Herzliya Beach!!!”   The driver starts to slowly drive down a dirt road next to the mall. I know he's going to take my money and kill me, or kill me and then take my money.  Either way, I’m dead.  I should have listened to the State Department’s warning.  Worst of all, when they find my dead body, they'll see I'm wearing dirty underwear.

Suddenly the driver hits the breaks.  Here it is. The end. I’m done.  The driver taps his fist to his head and says, “Ahhh, Dan Accadia (A-Kaw-Dee-Uh)… Dan Accadia (A-Kaw-Dee-Uh).  He makes a U-turn and drives me right to my hotel.  First I kiss the hotel sidewalk, and then I kiss the cab driver.  I’m alive!!  The fare was $5.  I give him a $50 tip and thank him profusely for not killing me.  It would have been a shame to die over saying “Kay” when I should have said “Kaw.”

A week later, I’ve finished the class.  I’m trying to fly home from Ben Gurion airport in Tel-Aviv.  The nice security people are carrying machine guns and watching me out of the corners of their eyes.  Now I have a small bag (containing my new clothes and pink socks) and my carry on.  I’m trying to be friendly.  I’m saying, “I’m certainly no terrorist.  No sir, not me.”  It doesn’t work.  I get selected for the special screening.  They’re polite, but they put my luggage through an x-ray machine.  Then they put me through an x-ray machine.  Then they interrogate me with rubber hoses in a room with strange stains on the walls and carpet.  I confess to everything, including the JFK assassination.

Seriously, they x-ray my luggage.  Then they test everything for explosives.  They put security tape on my luggage and send me to my departing gate.  They really are very polite.

Even though some of them looked scary, all of the Jewish people I got to know were very friendly.  I have nothing bad to say about their country or the culture.  It was an amazing experience.  It seems that the majority of the population aren’t what they call, "Religious Jews.”  Out of eight students, I had one religious Jew.  He wore a Yarmulke (I expected everyone to wear a Yarmulke.  I only saw a few).  We talked religion, and found that (other than the belief in Jesus Christ) our religious beliefs were remarkably similar.  On the last day of class, he took me to a legitimate kosher restaurant.  The food was good.  It was like Grandma’s Sunday dinner.  Very filling.  Great comfort food.

I’m home now.  I call "Atled." They tell me my luggage is in Tel-Aviv.  It arrived the day before I left for home.  I’m talking LOUD in English so they understand that I’m not happy.  They pass me off to "Ecnarf Ria."  They finally agree to pay for my clothing and related expenses.  They inform me that they don’t do this for everyone.  I'm honored!  I feel very lucky.  How many of their customers are fortunate enough to be delivered to Tel-Aviv and have their luggage delivered to Newark. 

It is funny how a pair of slacks can bring back such vivid memories.

PS.  I washed my underwear in the hotel sink.  I dried them with the hotel blow-dryer. I never tried the thong underwear.  However, I know they were black and they were too small to be used even as polishing rags.  By the way, the socks weren't pink.