Week 2: coherence; action/observation descriptive essay no. 3

Gridlock.

When we get into our rented car, a light blue HaHyundai Getz, in Ben Gurions’ international airport the wind outside picks up and shakes it from side to side. I watch Chuck trying to maneuver his way outside the terminal and wonder for the hundredth time if we just made a huge mistake by renting a car against our better judgment.

After circling the airport for few minutes somewhat lost we find the exit and are driving towards Ramat-Gan, a Tel-Aviv suburb where we rented a small apartment for the month. It’s only a few minutes ride I said to Yael (my daughter) the night before when she suggested to pick us up. We’ll drop our luggage and continue to her apartment in Petah-Tikva another suburb farther away, no need to worry we know our way around.

Merging into the main road few minutes later I am losing my confidence. Within seconds we are vividly reminded why we avoided this doubtful luxury of driving a car in Israel all these years.  The highway looks like an ocean of cars, lines and lines of cars and trucks jammed together. Unlike the ocean though there is no movement. It’s a frozen scene. We look at each other horrified. Even though I lived here most of my life the years in Maine made me forget how crowded this part of the world can be. I also forgot something else which I am being reminded almost instantly, the Israeli Chutzpah.

We are pressed tight between a small blue Fiat and a big red and white Volkswagen when we hear the sirens behind us. Chuck looks at his rear mirror and whistle softly. There’s an ambulance four cars behind us with its red lights flashing but no one moves. Chuck veers the car steering wheel to the left where there is an almost unseen space between the blue Fiat and another car I can’t identify. At that same moment a young man on a motorcycle zooms by and misses us by merely few inches. He waves his hand at us with a universal gesture and screams something behind his helmet. Chuck tries to retreat into our prior position only another car is already there. We are now standing diagonally completely stuck while the ambulance sirens are getting closer. I try not to think of the person lying in the back of the ambulance and instead I motion for the blue Fiat to move forward so we can get straighten up. The driver rewards me with the favorite Israeli gesture. He raises his hand palm down and then half way flip it pointing towards us. The non verbal message is clear “Who died and made you king (or queen)?” or in the local shorthand “Why, who died?”

So we sit and wait. Few cars before us I can see a man opens the door and walks towards the intersection he looks intent on solving the problem whatever it might be. I follow this Lone Ranger with high hopes that crush rather fast when he returns to his deserted car few minutes later with no results.  Couple drivers behind us are honking nervously knowing damn well it is not going to help.

Another motorcycle is zooming by and we look at him with envy. We open the radio to hear the current traffic report; maybe there was an accident or even worse, a terrorist attack, any logic explanation will ease the waiting. But no, in the radio is the usual mixture of music and endless commercials.

Suddenly the car before us is moving we lean back with a breath of relief, Thank God we are moving again but no! After few feet the endless line of cars stops again. Our big achievement getting our car aligned with the rest of the cars is almost lost when the Volkswagen on our right is pressing so close I feel myself physically shrinking in my seat.  For the coming ten minutes we’re inching forward. Around us the honking is getting louder as some drivers are trying to shift lanes in nervous attempts to create an illusion of movement. By now the faces in the cars around us become recognizable, I keep smiling and waving to a little girl two cars across her mother is fixing her hair while she talks endlessly on her cell phone. The driver in the blue Fiat softened considerably since our last encounter and when our cars pass by again, an hour into the jam, I swear I can detect a slight nod of his head.  We are so familiar with everyone around us we almost get a sense of closeness, and any time we’re inching forward we feel like we left our friends behind.

When we reach the intersection the light is red and we stop. I look to my right startled to see the ambulance next to us. Still flashing he stops and let the pedestrians cross. I realize the driver turned the siren off and wonder if after all it was too late. No one else seems alarmed or hurried and I watch with a mixture of horror and disbelief how one of the pedestrians, an older man, taps amicably on the hood of the ambulance as he is passing by.

When we finally reach our exit and leave the line of cars behind I look at my watch, it’s been two hours since we left the airport. In the background I hear the sirens again and wonder if there is still hope after all. We weave through the narrow unfamiliar streets trying to locate the address. When we finally get there it takes extremely skillful maneuvering to park the car in the congested street, by then we are both utterly worn out. We just sit in the car and listen to the wind.