The Airline With an Attitude

A funny thing happened on the way to Israel.

It didn't involve terrorism. It didn't involve politics. It just involved 11 travel-weary Sharfsteins and one airline with an attitude.

I like the characterization. "El Al--the airline with an attitude." Maybe they should put it on their commercials.

"Fly El Al. We'll make you wait for six hours with 500 other passengers in an area which was once a restroom. We'll sit the plane on the runway for three hours and tell you repeatedly that takeoff will be `in five minutes.' We'll smile and give you a dish labelled `chicken' which will really turn out to be rotting meat."

"We're El Al. The airline with an attitude."

ACTUALLY, I enjoyed the six-hour delay en route to Israel and the three-hour delay (on the runway) on the way back. It's not like I get pleasure from delays, per se. It's just that I love watching my relatives deal with them.

My uncle, the New York lawyer, likes to threaten with lawsuits. "This food in front of me stinks...LAWSUIT!...I've got a cramp in my lower leg from sitting in this tiny seat...LAWSUIT!...This bearded man next to me just took off his shirt and he stinks...LAWSUIT!"

My father, the ever-cool psychiatrist, becomes completely incoherent. "They don't...six hours...Israel...my back...outrageous...Gate 34..." What dad? Speak English!

After the fourth hour of delays, I distinctly heard my father say, "I am having an existentialist crisis. Right now."

MY mother--and I don't know how in the world she does it--blames me.

El Al: "Due to technical difficulties, we won't be departing for another (giggling) `five minutes.'"

My mother: "Josh! I can't believe this? Can't you see I'm not feeling well? GET YOUR ACT TOGETHER, YOUNG MAN!"

My grandfather takes the delays personally. Every five mintutes or so, he announces loudly, "They don't know who they are dealing with." When he's really whipped up, he yells, "They don't know who the hell they are dealing with." I noticed that he actually harmonizes with my uncle yelling, "LAWSUIT!"

My brother, Mr. Sarcasm himself, kept to the political humour. "If Israel treats Palestinians like El Al treates its passengers, then we're talking serious human rights violations here," he said.

"It's all an anti-terrorism plan," he added. "The terrorists get so fed up with the delays that they mutter, 'Not even Allah is worth this nonsense,' and leave the airport."

Watching the Sharfstein complaining extravaganza has its costs, however. When my relatives take action, the best location for any onlooker is six feet beneath the ground.

My uncle (while sitting next to me!) told a stewardess, "I just want you to know that this is the worst airline I have ever flown in my entire life." Judging by the look the stewardess gave me, my uncle might as well have added, "And here next to me is my nephew, who probably hates you more than I do."

My father yells at El Al representatives too, but, fortunately, does not complete his sentences. After he finishes, I lean over and tell them, "Thank you. I enjoyed the flight as well."

My mother, in contrast, becomes dangerous if left alone. She works her way through the crowd and explains to total strangers how the entire delay is my fault.

A gang of six elderly women began staring at me and waving their canes in anger. I had to calm them down by pointing at my grandfather and telling them that they didn't know who they were dealing with. I had my uncle threaten them with a lawsuit.

EVENTUALLY the wait even got to me; I too had an existentialist crisis. I was seized with a desire to write a book called, "The Traveler," which began:

"I flew to Israel today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I can't be sure."