Fortuitous Disappointment

1:30AM Tuesday, August 12th.

Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv.

Waiting for for shuttle van to Jerusalem.

Waiting in my second long-ling-moving-infitessimally-slowly of the trip, I decide to put on my ipod for the first time in the trip since I left New York literally twenty-four hours ago. Twenty-four hours almost to the minute. Since I have developed the perverse habit of "challenging" myself while traveling to wait until the last possible moment to provide my experience with a soundtrack, I've made it this far and am quite pleased with myself. I am waiting in the airport to be passed through the passport check area, the area in which last year I was questioned "Why are you here? Where are you going? Who are you staying with?" in rapid speed. Everyone has warned me that since I was here before and am known to have previously visited the West Bank, I should be ready for 2-3 hours of interrogation etc. I look around me, in the "foreign passports" line. There is a Japanese family in the line next to me and I find myself wondering why they are there before I catch myself and remember that there are plenty of people visiting Tel Aviv who aren't Jewish, but it somehow I am still surprised. I already can tell that people here assume I'm Jewish from the passing comments directed at me. Comments made in Hebrew with a smile, assuming I’ll nod “Yes, yes, of course”... etc… Then again, perhaps the Japanese family is Jewish. "Heidi", I tell myself, "Open your damn mind a little!"

I look around me, suddenly remembering what it is like to be in a place where I can't read any of the signs, not even to sound out letters. I know zero Hebrew and many signs do not have an English or Arabic translation. There are at least twelve lines of people waiting. Families, young adults, some clearly American (maybe Birthright trips?), some young couples, some elderly couples, some clearly religious Jewish people, most people unidentifiable as far as religion or religious observance.

So here I am in Aaron Neville bliss, my music oddly juxtaposed with the situation. I've decided to simply hit "shuffle" for all of the music stored on my ipod and let fate set the tone. Next up: perfection--Stevie (Wonder). Now I’m truly enjoying the wait. I’m nodding my head, transported to a better place, transcending the passport line. Almost excited now, gear up, pumped up for my impending interrogation. I stand on the threshold in anticipation, as if for a track race, or a bgirl battle. I wait an extra two seconds as the woman ahead of me is dismissed, to see what shuffles next on my ipod. A sign! Matisyahu’s “Salaam/Shalom”. I laugh to myself, hit pause, remove my headphones and step up into the officer. She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t look at me. Takes my passport. Stamp (on the passport). Nod (indicating I should move on). I wait a second longer, not understanding. Finally realizing I’m done, I realize I’m disappointed. The disappointment floods over me. Am I really not even worth flagging? Am I not dangerous enough? Not enough of a threat?! I’m indignant! Then realizing I have the freedom to get my bag and get the hell outta the airport, I discard my grief and head off into what is now familiar territory. Off to meet Nora at the hostel.

I have to wonder, Isn't the Israeli security rumored to be the best in the world? I feel I certainly have enough of a history of suspect behavior to warrant a five minute interrogation? For a moment I question the quality of the government's intelligence. Then again, I'm not a danger after all to the state, so perhaps their intelligence is so good, they knew that me and my breakdancing wasn't worth their time. Maybe if I could do windmillz, I'd be more dangerous.