ISRAEL: A V.I.P. WELCOME

 

My dad, Joni, Steve, Pearl, my mom, Randy, and Tracy at their May 28th party. Israel, 1977

When we lived in Israel in the years between 1976-1978, every time someone in our family visited us from the United States, my mom and dad would arrange, what they called, a V.I.P. Welcome. This meant that we would all pile in my dad's embassy car - my dad, mom, Joni, me, and my dad's embassy assistant named Joe Spielman at the wheel - and we'd drive to the airport and right out onto the runway and up to the plane. An airline employee would walk up the wheeled steps, rap on the plane's door, and when the door opened, the airline employee would call out our visitor's name. Our visitor, who would be surprised that their name was called, would stand up feeling disoriented and confused, while everyone on the plane would stare at our visitor as they gathered their things from whatever economy seat they were sitting in at the back of the plane, and disembark ahead of everyone else like they were on official business. It's hard to imagine anything like that being allowed to happen today. Call it extravagant, or whatever, but that's what we did for fun. 

We had a lot of visitors when we lived in Israel - grandpa and grandma Artley, Aunt Roseanne, Uncle Steve, and Aunt Pearl are the ones I remember the most clearly. They all got the V.I.P. Welcome. And, of course, this extra care to make our guests have a memorable visit, did not stop at the airport. They were chauffeured to our home next to the Mediterranean Sea in Herzliya Pituach, a suburb of Tel Aviv. It was a standard flat-roof embassy house, nothing special to look at, but it was airy and spacious with two patios and a secluded garden with a sea breeze. Mom called it our beach house. 

Our guests were then given the grand tour of Tel Aviv - Caesarea, Carmel Market, and Jaffa, to name a few places, walking and mingling in the crowds with handsome, sun-tanned soldiers carrying machine guns slung over their shoulders. 

Next, we'd take our visitors to Jerusalem, about an hour's drive away. We'd ascend up the mountain in our Fiat with the song "Jerusalem of Gold" playing on the tape deck, to give the experience an extra added effect for our visitors. "Yerushalayim shel zahav...Oh Jerusalem of gold, of bronze, and light. I am the violin for all your songs," the music would play. Then, suddenly, there would be Jerusalem, glistening, the sun shining on the old city and it would look golden.

We'd head straight for the Mount of Olives to get the fabulous panoramic view of of the city, then we'd go to the Wailing Wall, The Dome of the Rock, The Garden of Gethsemane, the markets in the Old City, and Bethlehem where we'd go into the Church of Nativity. For lunch, we'd drive past the old walled city to the American Colony Hotel, which used to be own by an Ottoman Pasha who lived there with his four wives (he later sold it to a group of messianic Christians, their leader an American, so it became known as the American Colony).

Jerusalem

Sometimes we'd stay at the American Ambassador's suite at the Jerusalem Plaza Hotel, on the fourteenth floor, which included a living room, bedroom, kitchen, dining room, and two balconies with beautiful views. I'd order room service and ask for a hamburger and milkshake, which they'd bring up to us on two separate trays because their kitchen was kosher. 

Lastly, we'd go to Yad Vashem, the memorial to the victims of the Holocaust. We'd go through silent, our faces tight so we wouldn't cry, and then out into the sunshine - into Israel - the Jewish State. 

On another day, we'd take our guests to the Sea of Galilee, which was another one of my mother's favorite places, Haifa, the Dead Sea, and even the Gaza Strip (which you could go to in those days).  

Sea of Galilee

When Steve and Pearl were visiting us in Israel (they did not come together, just happened to visit at the same time), my parents, and Joni, along with our best friends, Randy and Tracy, another American Embassy couple, organized a big party at our house. The idea - since my parents wanted a funny excuse to party - was to celebrate the day, on May 28th, when the US government sent two monkeys named Abel and Baker into outer space. 

So on the day of the party, long tables were set up on our patios with flower bouquets. There were lit candles and brass lanterns hanging from the trees, and luminaries around the garden lining the flowerbeds, and Victorian ornate lawn furniture set up in groupings. There was also a strung banner across the living room with a drawing of the two little monkeys, Able and Baker, each holding the American flag in their hands. (Joni did the artwork)

The party invitation

The party was for adults only, but I was excited anyway and jumped around as the caterers set up the food and drinks. When the guests started arriving - about a hundred people - I dragged my mattress to the top of the stairs so I could look down on the front hall and hopefully see some of our guests come through the front door. I finally fell asleep in that spot. 

My mother told me later that everything went beautifully, the weather was perfect, and everyone had a great time, even the bartenders and the caterers had fun. When the last guest left a 3:00 am, Steve, Joni, Tracy, Randy, my dad, and mom did an impromptu jig around the living room, while Pearl watched and laughed. 

I loved Israel during those years. I love all the people that were in it with us, and all our visitors who came to share this special period of my life. If I could go back in time that's where I'd go. But, somehow, I know it's still there floating around in the universe.