Step-by-Step: Making Aliyah to Israel

Documenting the very personal process of making Aliyah (immigration to Israel) by one very atypical Israeli-American girl. Aliyah on 17, August, 2005. Roadmap: What do you mean there's no roadmap?! Hang on, we're in for a bumpy ride! Ole!

Thursday, December 08, 2005

Not giving up my day job for one in the Mossad...

If I ever dreamed of being a secret agent (ok, I never did but if I did) I would definitely have to give that dream up in the face of stark reality: I suck when it comes to being clandestine. There simply is no other way to put it. For a brief period of time I felt kind of like a secret agent: I had an arranged meeting in another city that was to take place at a certain time and at the top of a set of certain stairs with mystery and intrigue (so ok, not so much mystery or intrigue but a little bit). It was quite exciting. I planned for it carefully...

And I missed the meeting. I was late. In fact, I was really really late. So late that the clandestine partner was no longer at the top of the certain set of stairs when I finally arrived there. Well, I guess even Mossad agents can't take into account acts of terrorism. Yes it was on Monday and, obviously, the real intelligence people had information that something was going to happen but no idea where because the security was the tightest I've ever encountered at the bus station. You know something is up when even the soldiers' backpacks are completely and thoroughly searched through and when they open every tiny zipper pocket including the one that will only hold a cell-phone on your own many-zippered pack --the same pack they usually just cursorily glance into the main compartment you've unzipped for them --something is definitely afoot and it ain't good. I was still in good time, despite the extra security and longer-than-usual wait at both ends of the station. What threw the real spanner in the works was not having my university ID yet. Sorry, entry to campus is barred. In fact, I was summarily removed from the bus and my teudat zehut and pleas of "I am going to miss an important meeting" were of no consquence. I had to go (find) the campus security building, located off-campus, to get a special permission pass to enter the campus and this, this is why I was so late. It took nearly an hour to get it, making me a half-hour late and no person in their right mind is going to stand around waiting at the top of the stairs for someone who is a half-hour late.

My second failing as a wanna-be agent was in my attempts to locate the office of the person and possibly have a meeting after all. No, I got totally lost in the maze and, after a really long time of looking, gave up and went home. It was when I was on the bus home that I learned there had been a bombing in Netanya but no details were yet available as I had only the other people around me on the bus as sources and all they knew was that there had been an attack and that it sounded bad.

The third and proof positive evidence that I should most definitely not give up my day-job (and that no secret service department would want to be within 100 miles of me) came a few minutes later when my phone rang and it was my mother. She never calls me in the morning. Never. Noon here = middle of the night there. I assumed one of two things: a) something horrible had happened at home or b) she heard that something horrible had happened here. Since something horrible had indeed happened here I assumed she had gotten online and read about it (most likely alerted by my brother) and was calling me in a panick. So I hastened to assure her that I was fine and no where close to the bombing. What bombing?! she asks, now totally panicked. You see, I didn't even have to be interrogated to spill the beans.

On the other hand, maybe the Mossad would want me after all because I can obviously endure some forms of extreme physical torture. Today for instance I survived having an exceedingly long and thick needle shoved into my abdomen and neither cried nor offered up any possibily incriminating evidence. Though I did whimper a bit. I was certainly not as stoic as my friend who also underwent the same torture --but she's a pro, this was her second time around. I got my bellybutton pierced! Yay, maybe. It hurt. A lot. It actually still hurts. Ow. Let me repeat that. OW.

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