Turks in need of a bath, Istanbul oasis

We checked out of our hotel at 6:30am and Avi drove us to the airport to catch our flight to Istanbul. A fond farewell to Avi with plenty of hugs and back pats and then we found ourselves standing next to what I believe must be the all time smelliest family on the face of the planet as we checked in. We were in the Executive check-in line and the offending foursome in the Coach line directly next to us. We were surrounded by machine gun toting soldiers but could not find even one red velvet rope to separate the lines. “Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink.” I tried my best to cast indignant stares in the offending family’s malodorous direction but they were Turkish and did not seem to understand my body language. Perhaps the distinct separation between my two eyebrows confused them. I tried to turn my back to the teenage son who was jonesing in on my personal space but this only seemed to encourage him to press his sweaty self ever closer, so I had no choice but to face the stench and step even closer to the young, apparently decomposing man to mark my territory. There I stood face to face with his peach fuzz covered upper lip and vacant stare. I steadied myself, inhaling as infrequently as possible and carefully put my carry-on bag down on the floor between us, creating a flimsy barrier, which at least enabled me to return my attention to the ground hostess who was making sure we had seats together, without fear of imminent body contact. I really think Purel should make an atomizer with a light scent for just such occasions. Luckily we were checked in quickly and were all able to use the airline lounge which had plenty of buttery pound cake, hummus with pita, and air freshener to put us at ease.

We landed in Istanbul and were met by the Four Seasons Hotel “Greeter” (that is how he introduced himself, “Wilkom Istanbu-ehl, I ehm Gree-eh-ter,”) whose name was completely incomprehensible although he repeated it several times. We then met our private shuttle bus driver with an equally incomprehensible name and pleasant smile. As we drove toward the hotel I saw English letters on all the street signs and buildings, however, I could not read a single thing as modern Turkish uses the English alphabet but the language itself bears absolutely no resemblance to English, French, Spanish, Italian or any other language with which I am familiar that uses the English alphabet. I must say it was a weird and slightly frustrating experience to see the letters and not be able to make out even one word. For example octagonal red stop signs have the word “DUR” written on them and many signs bear the word TEMMUZ which may mean “July” or equally likely “Refrigerator”. It was just as frustrating to not be able to understand a word our Greeter was saying though he and I both tried very very hard. He sounded like Martin Short’s character Frahnk in “Father of the Bride,” only much harder to comprehend.

The language barrier disappeared the moment we pulled up in front of the glorious hotel situated on the banks of the Bosphorous Sea in a restored palace. Palatial is in fact the only way to describe this magnificent hotel but even better than the architecture was the VIP check in experience. Half a dozen men in slate grey suits stood at attention as we descended from the shuttle and each in turn genuflected slightly and welcomed us by name “wilkem mizuz boranshteyn tu-uh foh-wer seazonz iz-tan-buel.” I entered the hotel foyer and turned left toward the reception desk but was quickly intercepted by a new greeter (don’t ask me what his name was) who smiled fervently and said, “pleez mizuz boranshteyn, hallowey me tu-uh czeck you diehrectally in room. Foh-allow me pleez.” Suddenly two additional female greeters each brandishing room card folios appeared smiling and gesturing wildly toward the hallway. And so I alighted the elevator with my new entourage like Vincent Chase, and on the top floor was shown to our fabulous accommodations. Livvy and Justin’s room had baseball hats, potato chips and mini-whirling dervish toys as well as Disney Princess bedding just for Livvy. When Chloe saw the window seat in her room, she could scarcely believe it, an absolutely perfect, private reading nook. The chief greeter attended to David and me, while each assistant greeter assisted in one of our other rooms; there was much demonstrating of mini-bars and explanations of safe usage while the bellmen unloaded our bags onto the mahogany baggage trays. Our chief greeter took a copy of our credit card and then the entire welcome committee bade us farewell and retreated (walking out backwards so as to not show us their backs), thereby allowing the kids the privacy needed for them to prance around singing about how this was now the #1 best place they’d ever stayed. (See video)

We then descended to the patio restaurant overlooking the sea for afternoon tea (see pics), which was simply divine. The hustle and bustle of Eilat was now a mere memory as I nibbled on my cucumber tea sandwich with not a toddler in sight.
We then investigated the spa, indoor and outdoor pools, health club and boutiques, all of which met with our approval. After nightfall we headed to a charming area by the water with cobble stone streets littered with trendy cafés. The trendiest was a café/lounge called House Café which had a large outdoor dining area on two levels overlooking the Sea. Oversized rectangular tables with chandeliers suspended overhead, as if in mid-air, decorated the outdoor area, and hazy euro-house music was playing in full surround sound. My friend Bridget would have fully approved of the décor and crowd, plenty of billowy white linen shirts and funky jewelry. We enjoyed a delicious dinner and then returned to the hotel where every employee we saw wished us a good night by name.

tank fire, Reuven the hassidic hairdresser, and Bruno

We bid adieu to Eilat and drove the 4 hours to Tel Aviv. In the middle of the Negev Desert, I saw what appeared to be a cannon firing from a sand dune. I called out to Avi, attempting to sound calm but certain that Jordan had launched an attack on Israel, and asked him (in Hebrew so the others would not understand nor be alarmed) what was happening. Avi smiled and stopping briefly by the side of the desert road to point out the Israeli tanks engaged in maneuvers and target practice. Watching the fiery artillery blast from the tank gun at close range made the sun bleached hairs on my arm stand up. Giant sand puffs resembling small tornados were created in the distance as the targets (older tanks) were hit, and no one but the passengers in our black Mercedes van seemed to find this spectacle the least bit unusual or impressive. I did notice signs at the road side saying in Hebrew “Warning Shooting Zone”, but perhaps “Warning Massive Army Tanks Firing Live Artillery, FEAR FOR YOUR LIFE AND CARRY ON WITH CARE,” would have been more appropriate.

We were in a race against time to make it to Tel Aviv by 2pm as my mother and I desperately needed to visit the hair stylist. My mother had a party to attend that evening, and as for me, well let’s just say no amount of Israeli sunshine can fully maintain my otherwise “natural looking” hair roots. Avi’s wife, Anat, had kindly booked us appointments at her former stylist’s salon. She warned us that Reuven had become rather religious but assured us that he was excellent. We made it to the hotel, checked in to our upgraded suite at the Dan Hotel (complimentary upgrade thank you very much) where we had to stay as the Macabbia Games (think Jewish Olympics) were in town and our beloved Hilton was not accepting bookings of less than 5 nights.

After a quick bite at a nearby café my mother and I walked over to ward the salon. En route we passed numerous modern and sleek looking salons hopeful that the next would be ours. Soon we passed by the smart looking neighborhood and entered an area that was ready for some major gentrification. And so we arrived at the “Beauty Place”, an 8 foot by 15 foot space built out of cement that had been dry walled over some 15-20 years ago with a laminated “wood-looking” floor. We entered somewhat nervously but hopeful that all would be well. There was a Russian bleached platinum blond manicurist (with a weight problem she was oblivious to in tight fitting shiny capris) at a moveable manicure table applying acrylic nails to her elderly client, so the space was rich with acrylic fumes inducing a light head buzz which was not altogether unpleasant despite the stench. I inquired whether this was indeed the place where Reuven worked, ever hopeful that we were at the wrong address, but sadly the Olivia Newton John pant-loving manicurist nodded that indeed Reuven worked here and would return shortly.

She invited us to have a seat and so my mother took a seat on the loveseat scrunched up against the yellowing wall, while I made for the styling chair but did not sit as the seat was covered in platinum blond shorn hair that did not appear to belong to the Russian manicurist whom I chose to think of as Tatyana, nor to have been cut recently. Naturally I looked down at the floor and was faced with a curiosity. Rather than finding a pile or two of similarly colored hair on the floor, what I found were numerous flat streams of hair in all different colors scattered about the floor. The brown and black shaded piles stood out the most from the faux wood laminate floor and so I followed the dark patches on the floor that led to cracks in the walls where they had mated with dust balls forming a unique kind of hair/dust ball mélange and made their home in the wall cracks and crevices that I heretofore had never spied in the wild. Over the years trapped in the salon, the dark patches of hair must have evolved into ambulatory beings as I then saw how the hair patches had somehow scaled their way up the hair products display case in what I can only imagine was an effort to escape. My mother looked at me with the sort of fear in her eyes one never wants their parent to experience. She motioned gently with her head as if to say, “Come on, let’s make a run for it.” Before I could respond the “Beauty Place” door opened and in walked a Hassidic gentleman in traditional garb who smiled and introduced himself as Reuven, our exit plan was reduced to a mere fantasy, we would have to go through with the appointment.

Luckily, we had both been vaccinated against Typhoid and so the chance of permanent illness was largely unlikely. Reuven decided that I should go first and quickly examined my mostly honey blond locks before disappearing behind the pink plastic curtain to no doubt mix up his Hassidic hair brew. He emerged a mere moment later and clipped a coral pink plastic poncho around my neck with a laundered but permanently stained formerly white towel tucked inside and secured together with a plastic clip that seemed to have some sort of hardened wax blob stuck on one side. He began applying the brew to my hair close to the scalp with a generous splashing technique which resulted in the mixture splattering onto the poncho, my ears and occasionally parts of my face. This resulted in a very slight burning sensation but was easily addressed by Reuven generously offering me another laundered but soiled towel with which to wipe off the excess.

Reuven suddenly stopped the splashing application of the mixture and asked whether my mother or I wanted something to drink. Wisely I declined imagining him serving me tea in a color mixing bowl with a kind smile, but my daring mother accepted and requested some water. I threw her a shocked and admonishing glance but she smiled feeling invincible with her recent Hep-A, Typhoid, and Tetanus vaccinations. Fortunately Reuven presented her with a plastic disposable cup filled with water; unfortunately I cannot vouch for the provenance of the water itself. Mom sipped her water and Reuven returned to slathering my head with his potion. I practiced yoga breathing to calm myself and focus on my intention, “successfully color my roots and get out alive,” which seemed to help. After Reuven had emptied the contents of his mixing bowl onto my head, he tucked the application brush into my now frothy hair which resembled a white pineapple (see pic) and told me I was to wait 25 minutes.

He then turned his attention to my mother and began by washing her hair in his 1930’s era hair basin. His white shirt sleeves were drenched with water and his tzitzit (exposed prayer shawl tassles that peep out from Hassidic men’s waist coats) jingled as he scrubbed and rinsed. Little bits of suds found their way into his prodigious beard giving me a glimpse at what a Hassidic Santa Claus might light look like. Reuven then masterfully blew dry Mom’s hair, truly she looked great (see pic) and then it was my turn to have my hair washed on the antique basin. Fortunately I was still wearing the poncho and so most of the water was kept away from my person as Reuven vigorously washed the mixture from my hair. He then applied a generous amount of cream rinse and combed it through with his hairy knuckled fingers before towel drying me off, adding some leave in conditioner and inviting me once again to sit in the styling chair. I begged off insisting that I always air dry my hair, a white lie yes but the alternative would’ve had Reuven coming my hair with a potentially lice infected implement that had likely been in Mrs. Rosenberg’s dandruff earlier that day and had never seen a Marvy Disinfectant container, and never would. So we paid, and scurried out the door of “Beauty Place” like field mice having narrowly escaped their death. A quick dosing of Purel for the hands, and we headed back to the hotel where in the privacy of my room I finally dared look at myself in the mirror.

Judge for yourself (see pic), but I think Reuven the Hassidic hairdresser did a good job in his squalid filthy salon of giving me a Marilyn Monroe platinum blonde effect, assuming that was his intent, and thankfully it only cost me 200 shekels. Note to self, next time you enter a squalid salon with platinum blonde hair strewn about, turn around and leave immediately no matter how desperate you are for a touch up.

Mom left for her party looking lovely and David and I took the kids to see “Bruno” the movie which, as we learned, is both hilarious and totally inappropriate for children. Justin was appalled that we had taken him to see it, and equally full of questions, “So is Swinging a real thing or were those people all actors you know just pretending?”, and ”How stupid is Paula Abdul?”. Dinner at Gilly’s at the Port and off to bed. For some odd reason I felt like singing “Happy Birthday Mr. President” all night.

Eilat scuba, snorkel, speed boat, underwater observatory, and American Steakhouse

Yesterday morning we awoke in Eilat and enjoyed breakfast in Bubbes restaurant along with masses of Israeli families with young children who apparently are not expected to sit in chairs nor keep their soccer balls out of the dining room. One woman gave me quite a dirty look when her son’s ball rolled under my legs and I failed to extract it from underneath the table for him. After she had crawled on all fours under my legs for the ball, as I non-plussed, continued to butter my rock hard roll. After emerging on all fours from beneath my table with the ball, she directed her son to play near another table, so I’d say mission accomplished. David and Justin headed for their first scuba dive while the rest of us headed for the massive and appropriately over-chlorinated pool (lots of little not yet potty trained kids). After rinsing off and applying a surface layer of Purel, we met Avi and were off to meet our speed boat captain for a ride on the Red Sea.

We were reunited with our elated scuba divers, and hopped aboard the speed boat. Our captain whizzed by the friendly Israeli naval border patrol vessel whose crew waived at us, kinda different from the behavior of the guards at Buckingham Palace. We saw the King of Jordan’s beach front palace from the water, and although the King is hoarding the best beach front property for himself, I have to say it’s a pretty modest palace by Cote d’Azur standards. The blue and green colors of the sea were magnificent and it was hard to believe that we were within 5 miles of the Jordanian, Egyptian and Saudi borders. We had a great snorkel on the reef and made it back to the hotel in time for gelato and another swim before dinner.

This morning David and Justin left early for Scuba Part Deux. Today they were not messing around and rented the professional underwater camera so we had high hopes about their picture taking and were not disappointed, see pics all taken by Justin Cousteau. After more swimming in the high urine content pools at the hotel we showered, disinfected and left with Avi (whose wardrobe does not seem to change in spite of the 106 degree heat but is always fresh and scented with fabric softener) to the underwater animal observatory. To get a sense of the observatory, conjure up an image of a kind of Sea World wannabe for the developing world. The mascots are papier mache creations worthy of a talented Kindergarten class, the snack bar serves greasy kofta and hummus only a local would dare try, and the aquarium though slightly larger than our pool at home, has duct tape affixed to the corners of its glass windows which are leaking in several spots.

There is also a cold war era-looking cement lighthouse that submerges into the water around the coral reef, so you can climb down and claw your way between Israeli’s hogging the view to look out the scratched and finger-smudged windows and catch a glimpse of the animals at the reef. I saw a puffer fish which was cool and well worth the B.O. stench beneath. Chloe and I wisely avoided the observatory food and had lunch near the hotel at a falafel stand on the beach where we ate our food in the scorching heat surrounding by ferile cats, charming.

Dinner was at the Ranch House American Steak House, clearly named by someone who has yet to actually set foot in America. Suffice it to say that absolutely nothing at the restaurant was the least bit American. To wit, I have never had sesame seeds and sesame oil on a baked potato in any of the 50 states, nor have I had onion loaf with tehina and olives, but let’s not split hairs as the portions were rather enormous and the meat very fatty. Tomorrow we leave for Tel Aviv and the sub-100 degree weather.

yad vashem, primeter walls, masada, and floating in the dead sea

Yesterday morning we visited Yad Vashem, the memorial to the over 6 million Jews who were killed during the Holocaust. The new Children’s Memorial installation was haunting and I was glad that Chloe, Justin and Livvy each seemed to take something unique from the experience to remember. The kids spoke a lot of their great great aunt Dana who is 90 years old and a survivor of Auschwitz, and whom they love very much.

The afternoon was spent climbing the perimeter walls of the Old City and then lounging by the pool playing a game Justin and Livvy have devised that involves a large water filled balloon, a neon shoelace and a fair amount of hysterical laughter.

Today Avi picked us up at 7am in a new pair of light beige Columbia brand micro fiber cargo shorts and we drove to the desert to visit Masada. We rode the cable car up as no one felt particularly ambitious and it was 104 degrees Fahrenheit. We made good use of the cable car time by rapping about how easily I can annoy Chloe with a bottle of water, Livvy provided the authentic hand gestures, please see video. The highlight of Masada was the model that demonstrates the advanced water cistern and transportation canal system that King Herod had installed over 2000 years ago. The lowlight of Masada was Livvy understanding that we were visiting the site of a siege at the end of which all the Jews killed themselves in order to avoid being enslaved, tortured and raped by the Roman aggressors. “Nightmares Mommy, nightmares, you should know that by now.”

We then stopped at a kibbutz in En Gedi for a bite of lunch, no falafel to be seen sadly, and then onto Mineral Beach at the Dead Sea for a float in the naturally buoyant water and mud bath. This was the “highlight of the whole trip”, according to an enthusiastic Justin who wondered whether he could somehow take some Dead Sea mud home and charge his friends to come bathe in our pool and use the mud. Realizing the logistical difficulty involved he gave up on the idea albeit reluctantly.
Tomorrow we leave Jerusalem and head to Eilat. Can’t wait!