Continuing on with my tale of woe and joy of how I ended up in Israel…tales of a non-Jewish potential Kibbutz volunteer who falls in love with Tel Aviv, dodges Scud missiles, lives and works illegally for years on end, gets besotted by one Israeli girl despite the best attempts of a legendary Jewish mother, but ends up marrying and divorcing another… and then marrying yet another to join suburbia and the hi-tech revolution, while becoming the seemingly respectable owner of an English school.
In case you missed it, here’s Part 1.
Part 2: The road to Israel
So there I was, on the train up to London after saying farewell to my parents. It hadn’t been too emotional a goodbye, I believe only my father came to the train station with me and with a few wise words sent me off on my way. I can’t remember my Mum being there or saying anything special, I was probably buzzing from excitement to take too much in anyway.
Trundling along and watching the trees whizz past, I was obviously excited. This was it, my step out into the big wide world. And with some sunny days ahead, that was the clincher! All I had with me was my bag packed with a few clothes and essentials. I was determined to travel light and not have too many home comforts tagging along with me; I could always pick up anything I really needed along the way. I was probably a little optimistically expecting to be in trunks and flip-flops 24/7…
And what was the plan? Well, upon arrival at London I was going to walk down the road to the coach station to jump on board my “magic bus”. Then it was a three day drive through Europe to end up in Athens. I wanted to go island-hopping from there and then head to Israel for a couple of months. I kind of knew Israel was my furthest destination point eastwards: after a couple of months volunteering on a kibbutz it was a planned flight back to Denmark where I had my old pal Louise waiting for me. I actually believed I’d end up in Denmark, with some Scandinavian beer and blond goddesses my target. I’d even been brushing up on my Danish slang, just to impress.
The magic bus ride was a laugh. Me and my fellow magicians didn’t really get to see much of Europe as we spent most of the time on motorways, but because the bus was half full we could at least spread out over the seats available: those first few hours it was every man for himself in an effort to find the most comfortable spot to sleep. I connected with a few people on board the bus, most of whom were young travellers like myself, looking for adventure. And sun. Aren’t us Brits just a wee bit predictable?
In one of those moments when you have options laid out for you and you have to make a snap decision, I decided on arrival at Athens to head for the island of Crete with a guy called Justin. Instead of taking a ferry to Rhodes with a gorgeous English girl I’d befriended. I still have no idea why I came to that decision. In future weeks I remember thinking that I should go and try and find her, but come on, who was I kidding? She could have been anywhere and it was time for my adventure to continue…perhaps in a parallel universe we found each other and frolicked in the waves on some deserted beach as the sun glistened off our bronzed bodies. Get outta here!
I stayed on Crete for about 6 weeks in total and I never did go island hopping. I managed to find jobs to keep my savings relatively intact and also shared a couple of apartments with Justin to keep the costs fairly low. My main job was at a bottling factory, delivering bottles of coke and beer to all the tourist restaurants on the island. A hot, sweaty job, made even more difficult by the fact that I used to see so many tourists having a ball and getting drunk while I would be hauling in these heavy crates of drink. Not so much fun.
But Crete did have its moments. Like the time I discovered ouzo for the first time, at this tiny village cafe up in the hills, with the locals looking on and me struggling to be understood in an English-free part of the island. Or the time the factory boss’ daughter took me for a ride in her luxury car and later showed me a good little bar to drink in. Or the time I ended up in a bar with hundreds of English football fans as England successfully took on Cameroon in the 1990 World Cup quarter-finals.
But I soon knew it was time to move on. It was like Israel was tugging away at my subconscious, an invisible hand gently pulling me across the Meditteranean. I wasn’t there yet, but I still had time – the 3 months my boss back in England had given me was ticking away, but I knew I’d end up in the Holy Land, somehow. Whether I’d make it back to England anytime soon was another matter…
Next up: As Saddam Hussein moves closer to Kuwait, Ashley gets closer to Israel…