Growing up I was always fascinated with
ancient history. As a youth I would attend Sunday school, and Hebrew school
which were compulsory. It wasn't until
one teacher introduced our class to stories which she called Jewish Mysticism. I hung on every word she said, and became
quite the fan of her teaching.
In 1979 I
remember my father was following the news regularly, specifically focused on
the Israeli-Egyptian peace negotiations which were underway between Anwar
Sadat, and Menachem Begin, facilitated by President Carter. To the best of my recollection, I remember
Camp David becoming a household term.
When the
treaty was signed, and peace had been bridged between the two nations it was a
signal to my family Jews could now visit Egypt.
Looking back over 30 years, I know now a peace treaty never prevented
Jews to visit Egypt. That is an entirely
different matter not for discussion here.
Once signed, my grandparents announced they were booked to go to Cairo
to celebrate a Passover Seder in April of 1980 at the base of the Pyramids of
Giza. My father heard this, and said he
would like to see Egypt. He had always
been intrigued by ancient Egyptian history, and archaeology. My mother suggested he take me, so we planned
the trip over a February vacation period.
So far this
may sound like a pretty straight forward Holy Land tour for a father, and his
son, how adventurous, and interesting a story could this be? Keep reading, because having gone through a
box of old post cards, and photographs quite a few charming memories have
surfaced. Is this going to be the Pulitzer of stories? Likely not, however I
suggest you stick around for an enjoyable account.
My father,
six months prior to my birth, experienced a neurological infection which left
him with sustained brain trauma, and ongoing susceptibility to seizures. The secondary effects of his medication
management caused an unsteady gait.
On-lookers would have a sense of worry he was going to fall. The fact is he never worried, only the
on-lookers worried. We considered my
father obstinate, and stubborn, yet the opposite of this attribute could be
seen as confident, and self-assured. He
did fall frequently. Although I digress,
there is relevance to it in this story…
Off we went
on this exciting trip overseas, my first ever.
Just writing these words brings vivid memories. My mother drove us to JFK airport, and we got
lost on our approach to the airport. We
did arrive, and entered into the TWA terminal which I found mesmerizing. I looked up at the massive board before me
which listed flights departing to LONDON, ROME, FRANKFURT, and so on. I wanted to be on all these planes going
everywhere, all at once!
Our first
flight was to take us to Paris, where we had a connection. I know now, youth brings with it a sort of
innocence that is lost as we grow older.
At age 13, I had no fear of boarding an enormous piece of metal the size
of a football field wondering how on earth this machine was going to get off
the ground, let alone take 350 people across an ocean. When the flight took off from JFK, the plane
began to skid, and shake. It did so the
entire way down the runway. Nearly all
overhead bins opened with bags falling into the aisles. If memory serves me correctly, a cart from
the galley had come loose as well. Many
passengers were screaming. My father and
I just looked around us at the commotion wondering what was happening. As soon as the aircraft lifted off the runway
the shaking, and bumping stopped. Very
strange we thought, but I didn't give it another thought...until 45 minutes
prior to arrival at Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris.
As I was
eating my continental breakfast of a croissant, (two new things for me at age
13; a croissant, and the term continental breakfast), the pilot came on over
the loud speaker and said the following which to this day I remember:
"Good morning ladies, and gentleman.
I hope you enjoyed your flight with us.
Some of you may have noticed a slightly bumpy take off when we left JFK
last night. We received word from JFK
authorities they found pieces of rubber on the runway after we left. Apparently we shredded some of our tires on
take-off. This shouldn't pose too much
of a problem for us on arrival, except for the fact we don't know which wheels
have tires, and which do not. We are
going to have to lower the landing gear, and fly over the tower so Paris
authorities can have a look. Once they
see what we have, we can then make our approach. We will have foaming machines on
stand-by. Enjoy your breakfast, and we
will be landing soon." OH MY GOD!
Dad was not
alarmed at all. He just lit a cigarette,
and drank his coffee. My nose started to
bleed. Never before had I had a nose
bleed. They told me it was altitude
adjustment. I don't know if I was
scared, or excited about landing on a foamed runway, though the flight
attendant said, "they are on stand-by dear". As it turns out, the pilot knew what he was
doing, because to this day I think it still ranks as one of the smoothest
landings I have experienced. Mind you as
the plane came to a stop we were parked out on a tarmac at the end of the
furthest field at Charles de Gaulle surrounded by fire trucks. It took ages to be bused to the
terminal. My father was a man who seemed
to be one who took things in stride. Not
having known him prior to his illness, I don't have much of an experience of
his personality before he had become sick.
During this trip I learned he was mostly one who would 'go with the
flow', unless you told him he couldn't do something. More on that later.
Here is a
picture of my father sitting in Charles de Gaulle airport awaiting our
connecting flight to Tel Aviv. In my
opinion, after the long flight, and ordeal we had experienced, he looks pretty
good to me!
The next
flight took us to Tel Aviv. Sitting by
the window, I had a phenomenal bird’s eye view of the Alps. I knew then, and there I had to return to
Europe to see first-hand the sites of this continent. On arrival, we were greeted by a young
Israeli driver to transfer us to our hotel in Jerusalem. When we got into the back seat of the car, he
stopped to pick up his girlfriend. The
entire ride which was about 45 minutes was spent listening to the two of them
talking in Hebrew. When we got to the
hotel I asked my father if he understood what they were saying. He told me, “eh, they were just going on
about their plans for a party tonight, nothing very important”. My father had a gift for languages, and spoke
several. I know what it is like to want
to be able to understand what is being said around me, even if it is ‘not very
important’.
When I look
at the photographs and old post cards from this first trip I realize now how
special this trip was for us. We visited
sites within the Holy Land without difficulty.
Raised Jewish, with a respect and interest in comparative religious
beliefs I was fortunate to have been booked on a tour which brought us to all
the major sites. There are pictures I
have captured, and restored as best I could which bring back fond
memories. In looking back, I also found
some surprises. I found a post card
showing a visit the tomb of “The Ari”, a famous Kabbalist. I had come to know of him much later in life
through personal studies, but never realized I had visited his tomb so many
years ago as a youth.
SAFED, The Synagogue of the Ari
The story I
wish to tell, which is wonderfully depicted in two photographs, is our visit to
Masada. To get to the top of the
mountain you must ride a gondola, and then walk a stairwell alongside the
mountain which is rather steep. Atop the
mountain, it can be windy, and at the time they had only railings to keep you
from falling off the side of the mountain.
At least this is how I remember it.
Perhaps it was more secure. The
guide had become accustomed to looking after my father, and approached him
before we went to the site. He said to
him directly, “Dr. Burkin, I think it will be better for you to wait for us
here in the bus”. To quote Julia
Roberts, “big mistake, big, big mistake, Huge!”. As I said before, it is not a good idea to
tell my father what to do. However, if
you ask him to do something for you he will likely try and help. I later told the guide if he had said to my
father, “Dr. Burkin, I need the driver to join me atop the mountain, would you
be so kind to stay with the bus, and look after it for security reasons?”, he
would have likely obliged. Instead, my
father responded quite defensively asking why the guide thought he shouldn’t go
to the top. I was thinking the whole
time, ‘because Dad, you could fall off!!!!!’
What ended
up happening is Dad went, as dad always did what dad wanted to do. He climbed that stairwell, and hung on to
that railing as the wind blew with his coat blowing fiercely in the wind. He made it to the top. We got a picture of him just as he made it to
the top, and in the first picture I have to have a bittersweet laugh, because I
can see the anguish of his hanging on for dear life, yet he would never admit
he was for one second scared! The second
photograph shows him relaxed, and composed once he regained his balance. I like this picture most. A fond memory indeed.
I haven’t
much more to say about Israel, but rather will place here the scanned pictures,
and post cards I have.
On our way
to Egypt, we stopped for the day in Athens.
They had not yet implement direct air service between the two
countries. We had enough time to make a
trip to the Acropolis. I must have
really enjoyed visiting the Parthenon, and I think this post card, and picture tells
the story well.
"Dear Mom, We were in Greece for one day and we saw The acropolis, The parthonon, and the thing on this postcard I touched"
Onward to
Egypt. The flight itself is something I
will never forget. Hmm, I think I am
beginning to establish a trend, first the New York-Paris flight, now the
Athens-Cairo flight. I wonder how many
flights I have ahead to recall which are stories alone. Something to ponder perhaps. As I was saying, this flight was quite
interesting. Not a typical New
York-Miami run. No, not at all. The first noticeable difference was how
regardless of assigned seating, people took it upon themselves to separate men
from women within their families, and groups.
Then there was the smoke. Smoking
vs. Nonsmoking did not exist on this plane, and by the way this was a TWA
flight from Athens to Cairo. Then there
was the noise of chatter. Everyone was
talking. Talk, talk, talk. How fascinating. My first introduction to the Arab culture was
this flight, and I found the people to be soo intimate with each other insofar
as their relationships as family, and friends.
They sat close, and talked, sipped tea, smoked their cigarettes, and
played cards. They hardly looked up from
their conversations. It all looked so
intense. The smoke in the cabin was
intense. If you have ever seen the film
with Eddie Murphy, The Golden Child when he was on a plane to Asia, this was
just like that.
Cairo Airport. More smoke.
Hospitality for sure! It had to
be 3:00AM, and everyone was awake, and happy.
We were greeted by a tour guide who escorted us through passport
control, and provided us with visas, etc.
We were driven by taxi to the hotel.
I remember seeing across the dark moonlit desert a big billboard with a
picture of Anwar Sadat. We stayed at the
Cairo Nile Hilton which I can practically still see in my mind. From the outside it looks like a modern
1960’s cement like structure, yet at the time the inside was decorated in an
old world Agatha Christie like fashion.
What it is like today, I have no idea.
I remember the deep red carpets, and ornate furnishings in the large
lobby. I felt as if we had entered the
1930’s. The lobby patio restaurant led
out onto the Nile river, and had a sense of relaxation. Off to our room. The elevator door opened to our floor. Smoke.
We entered our room, and it was very nice. I wasn’t bothered by my father’s smoking,
because it was nothing like the fog cloud in the hallway.
The first
thing I noticed about Cairo on waking the next morning was the population. I looked out our window, and saw people. Millions, and millions of people. There were so many people walking outside
they didn’t have enough space on the roads for them, so they built a second set
of sidewalks which were elevated above ground accessible by staircases. Cairo is not for the claustrophobic.
Unlike our
experience in Israel where we were part of a larger group tour, in Egypt we
were greeted in the lobby by a guide who was to be dedicated to us for the next
three days along with a private car, and driver. Having returned to Egypt much later in life I
learned this is still a common practice, and a pleasant one at that.
I have two
memories which stand out from this final portion of the itinerary; the museum
of antiquities, and dysentery. One I
enjoyed more than the other for sure.
The museum allowed a first-hand look at the life of King Tut. I also learned about the mummifying process.
As for
dysentery, how can there be an interesting story behind such a topic one might
ask. Well, don’t let this discourage a
trip to Egypt, but I did get very ill our last 2-3 days in Egypt. We were out by the step pyramid of Sakkara
when it hit me. A sudden sand storm
began, and my stomach started to grumble.
I asked to go to the rest room.
On one look at the rest room, I reached for all the inner strength of my
psyche and did all I could to force myself back into the car. I then prayed I could hold out for the 30
minute drive back to the hotel to use our own rest room. I don’t think I need to paint a picture of
the rest room facilities at the step pyramid of Sakkara.
Things got
worse at the hotel. We had to have a
doctor come to the room. My father said,
“I’m a doctor”. Yes, this is true, but
you don’t have any medicine. When the
doctor came to me, and gave me medication, my father told me he didn’t think
the medicine I was given was FDA approved.
I can’t remember if I took it or not.
My last recollection of Egypt, which I can laugh at now, because I love
the country very much, is waiting in the airport to fly home. We were awaiting our TWA flight to Paris, and
once again I needed to visit the rest room.
I went down stairs, and the men’s room had rows of toilets along a wall,
of course no seats. At this point I
didn’t care, hovering was OK. What was
not OK was the man at the entrance with rolls of toilet paper who required
payment. I had to go back upstairs and
get money from my father. On returning I
paid he money, and he gave me 2 pieces of paper. YES, 2 SQUARES of toilet paper. I was in such pain, and quite sick at this
point. I did not speak Arabic, he did
not speak English. I blurted out to him,
“2 SQUARES WILL NOT BE ENOUGH!”. He kept
rolling his hand gesturing for more money.
I just grabbed a whole roll of toilet paper, and told him to follow me
if he wants, or call the police, but this is an emergency!
When we
finally boarded the aircraft, even though we were still 6,000 miles from home
just knowing we had a bathroom within eye-shot made me happy.
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