Touchdown Tel Aviv
Those final 6 hours at London Heathrow are a blur. I managed to gain internet access for a few hours so that I could send messages saying that I had made it half way. Other than that, I was stumbling around the airport like a half drunk - half stoned zombie due to lack of sleep. I managed to find a row of three seats that didn’t have arm rests and used them as a make shift bed for two hours. Even though I found the most deserted corner of the airport, it seemed like every flight was missing some passenger or other and their names needed to be announced every 15 minutes on the loudspeaker in three different languages. The noise aside, it was nice to rest for a while.
My flight boarded 30 minutes early. It was a relief to finally take my seat on the last leg of the journey. I felt like the minority on the flight because no one was speaking English besides the flight attendants.
An older woman sat next to me as we were preparing to take off. She turned and asked me a question that clearly wasn’t in English. To hint that I’m American I simply said, “Excuse me?”. She smiled and in broken English said, “Are you Russian? Your face…. you look Russian. Where are you from?”. I smiled and said that I was from America. I am American. She was confused with my answer and said, “No. Where is your family from?”
It was a strange question to me. My family… well.. they were born in America. And their parents were born in America. How many generations does it take for a person’s heritage to simply be American?
So as not to insult the poor woman and to avoid a longer conversation (I wanted to sleep, you know), I said the first European country that came to my head. I told her I was Italian. It’s not entirely true or false. As far as I know, my family history spans a greater part of Europe. Wales. Germany. Bavaria. Italy. The bottom line is that I’m American. As are most Americans, we’re mutts and sometimes get confused over this question of family heritage.
She nodded and smiled. Then promptly stopped talking to me. I thought maybe I insulted her in some way. I mused that perhaps she had a strange grudge over some historical Russian/Italian war. Maybe someone in her family was mistreated by the long gone European power that was Mussolini. Maybe she just really didn’t like pasta.
Either way, I let myself ponder this encounter for approximately 23 seconds before my eyes were shut and I was knocked out. I managed to sleep for 3 of the 5 hour long flight to Tel Aviv.
And then I touched down:
I finally arrived! My flight landed at 5 am local time. The customs officer was taking a very long time with everyone ahead of me in line but when it was my turn she only asked me, “What is your flight number?”. After looking at my passport and then into my face for several seconds, she simply said, “Go.”
You don’t have to tell me twice!
By 6 am, E had collected my tired bones and got me in the car. I’ve arrived!
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Comments
@ Lisa
Your comment just made me spit out my coffee!! hahahaha…. “chicken under her arm….”.
Thanks for the compliments, Lisa. 
When asked that question, I love to baffle people by telling them I’m Alsatian. That shuts them up quick, because 9 times outta 10, they have no idea what/where that is.
Gets even more complicated when you consider that saying “I’m Jewish,” speaks both to your religious preference and/or your ethnicity, but not necessarily both.
@ Val
hmmm… Alsatian? Yes, I had to Google that and according to Wikipedia, Alsace is an area that borders France and Germany.
I’ve learned something new today!
Aunt Susan on 
Shari on 
Hmmmmm Russian? Irish, English, German even….definatley Americano, And….
Who doesnt like pasta, pleeeeease. I am sure it wasnt that she didn’t like pasta, she was afraid you would put an Italian curse on her so she just stopped talking to you, welcome to my world of ethnic steriotyping (kidding)
Anyway I look forward to your updates
Jamie!
You are an awesome writer, so elequent and detailed. I have a picture in my mind of a woman sitting next to you with a babushka on her head and chickens under her arm. I hope that is not offensive. Maybe I watched fiddler on the roof too many times.. anyway again, stay safe.