Takeoff is at roughly 6:30 this morning for the first (three-hour) leg of my thirteen-hour flight to Israel. I’m looking forward to the visit, despite the ongoing onslaught of rockets, mortars and deadly bus bombs from Israel’s alleged “peace partners” of the pathetic “peace process.”
But I’m not a good air traveler. I plan to sleep most of the way or keep my nose in the Kindle until the battery gives out. Then, if the electric plug at the seat doesn’t work for a recharge, I’ll switch to a paperback.
For once I may take interior photos of the aircraft, assuming that’s allowed anymore. I’ll find out. Fortunately, it will not be the usual cattle car, or aluminum cigar, I’m used to, but a wide-body Boeing 777-200. It seats nine abreast in economy with two aisles.
Still a two-holer, however, which seems awfully bold for such a long flight over an ocean. The first time I flew east over the Atlantic (or any ocean for that matter) was in 1950 when I was six years old. The aircraft was a four-engine Air Force C-54 Skymaster, with my pilot father on the flight deck. The second time was in 1961 aboard a Boeing 707 commercial jet, but it also had four engines.
So I’ll try to keep my mind on other things beside those two big kerosene burners out there, only one on each of the 777’s slender wings. Until I get to Tel Aviv and meet my good pen friend Snoopy-the-Goon in the arrivals hall.
I’ll do customs in English, so there’s no slipups. Then I ‘ll try out my new Hebrew language pronunciation on Snoopy and live with his groans and make the necessary corrections. I’ll email Mr. B. and Mrs. C. so they know all is okay. Who knows? I may even post a few things here at the Scribbler from Yerushalayim, Masada, or the Golan, when I have a minute. Certrainly will as the week goes on.
Otherwise, I’ll be taking a break here (except for reprising some oldies but goodies) until early April when I return to what Gen. Robert E. Lee once called the Paradise of the Texans. Have a nice spring. Hope the wildflowers are abundant where you are. Shalom and adios.
THE TEXAS SCRIBBLER 
