"Passport?" he says.
"I just want to exchange money," I clarify.
"Yes, I understand. I need your passport number for the exchange."
"My ...dad has it," I say. Ron took it after it was stamped so it wouldn't get lost. "Can't you just give me shekels without it?"
"No. Next," he says, then hands me my twenty back and looks behind me for the next customer.
My mouth drops open. I wasted all this time for a Coke and I still can't get one. Unbelievable.
I head back to the baggage claim and spot Ron. He's talking to two soldiers and when he looks my way, my first instinct is to run in the opposite direction. I did nothing wrong. Yes, he told me to stay put, but I swear I thought I'd only be gone a minute.
Call it teenage intuition, but somehow I don't think Ron will listen to my explanation with an open mind. He tells the soldiers something and then walks over to me, deliberately slow. I think he's taking so long because he's very likely thinking of ways to kill and dismember me. Do they teach Dismemberment 101 in commando school?
Ron finally reaches me and I brace myself. Sounds like "arrr" and "yuh" come out of his mouth, but then he turns toward the baggage claim carousel with our luggage taking a ride on it. I notice our bags are the only ones left. He yanks them off and tosses them on a cart as if they weigh two pounds.
My suitcase was over the weight limit. I know this because he had to pay over a hundred dollars extra to get it on the plane. Note to self: Ron is very strong.
I just watch him, waiting for his wrath to come. Believe me, I know it's coming. What's scary is I expected it to have come already.
A predictable parent is good. On the other hand, an unpredictable parent is a teenager's worst nightmare.
Now Ron storms off through the area marked "exit" pushing the cart with our bags.
And I'm still standing here, my feet planted on the ground in this strange airport.
Right about now it occurs to me my dear old daddy just one-upped me.
Damn.
Normally I'd wait it out as long as I could and make him sweat. Let him think I may not follow him ever. But as I glance at the two soldiers who are now walking toward me, I turn and hightail my ass right through the exit.
Goodbye pride, hello Israel.
CHAPTER 4
Change makes me itch .
I spot Ron by the car rental counter. He's not even concerned about me or looking to see if I followed him. I stand next to him, but he doesn't acknowledge my presence.
I huff loudly.
He still doesn't look at me.
The lady at the counter hands him a key and tells him something in Hebrew. He smiles at her, says " Todah" and starts pushing the cart with our bags on it.
"I'm sorry," I say. "Now stop ignoring me."
He stops. "Does it ever occur to you that I worry about your
I could lie, but what good would it do? "Frankly, no," I say.
He runs his hand through his hair. Why do guys do that when they're frustrated? Do they think it's macho? I know why girls don't do it. They'd mess up their hair they spent half an hour trying to tame, that's why. And also girls don't have to pretend to be macho.
"Come on," he says. "By the time we reach the moshav it'll be dark."
"Moshav? What's a moshav?" Is it "shopping mall" in Hebrew? I mean, from what Jessica was telling me Israeli stores have the latest fashions from Europe. That black dress Jessica has is really awesome. I know I'd be selling out if I go with the Sperm Donor to a mall, but I keep thinking about all the great stuff I could bring back home.
It's funny, when I think about the mall, I forget about the terrorist bombing that could happen there.
As we drive along the highway in our red rented Subaru, it's also easy to forget this is a war zone. It looks like a highway in the middle of New Mexico or something like that.
As we hit the Tel Aviv area, traffic jam city starts. I look out the window at the tall buildings.
Ron points to the right. "That's the Azrieli Tower. It's the tallest building in the Middle East," he says proudly.
It might as well have a bull's-eye on it. "What a great terrorist target," I mumble, but then realize Ron is looking at me sideways. "Well, it is." I hope it's well protected, because 9/11 changed just about every American I know. I look out the window as we're passing high tech buildings with names of American companies on them.
"Israel doesn't look anything like a third world country," I say.
"She's not a third world country."
She? Israel is a "she"? Well, she's pretty darn modern. In fact, the traffic looks just like we have back home.
Although I realize pretty quickly Israelis need to go to road rage school.
They're all yelling at each other out the windows and giving each other the finger when cut off. And I shriek when a bunch of people on those little motor scooters and motorcycles ride right in between the cars. They're not even weaving in the lanes; they're riding on the lines themselves!
"We've been in the car an hour. When are we gonna get there?" I say.
"In another hour or so."
"You never answered me. What's a moshav? Is it a mall?"
He laughs and I don't think a moshav is a mall anymore.
"Have you ever heard of a kibbutz?' ' he asks me.
"You mean community living where people share everything? Listen, if you're taking me to a sick commune--"