With the airspace shut down, the nation’s geographical configuration posed a unique challenge for exit.
Good morning, dear reader! To those who have been following along: We got out of Dodge.
In what can only be described as a cinematic affair — replete with nail-biting suspense, curious characters, lavish sets, and stunning landscapes — we made it out of Amman and into the sweet, sweet arms of Athens. Soon we will be homeward bound, after a harrowing few days in Israel as part of a pre-planned trip that began just one day before Israel’s preemptive strikes on Iran.
To set the stage: It must be remembered that Israel is surrounded by slightly to wildly antagonistic territories. To the north, Lebanon. To the east, Syria and Jordan. To the south, Gaza and Egypt. To the west lies Israel’s friendliest neighbor, the Mediterranean Sea.
With Israeli airspace shut down, the nation’s geographical configuration posed a unique challenge for exit.
Either we would have to:
A) Drive across a border and fly out of another country’s open airspace, or B) find a boat that could take us to Cyprus, the closest friendly port by sea. (The drive from Jerusalem to the coast, along with Tehran’s targeting of Israeli port towns, added further risk to this latter option.)
Unfortunately, Greta did not leave behind her freedom flotilla for us to usurp (rude!). While one boat option did emerge, the craft was a sailboat which would have taken 20+ hours to navigate from Israel’s coast to Cyprus.
The next problem: How were we going to fly out of Amman?
As one might imagine, there aren’t leagues of commercial planes flying from Amman to Western countries. Especially now. (Most reroute through another Gulf country.) The only way we were getting out quickly and without border control issues was through a chartered flight (a.k.a., private jet).
Chartered flights, I learned, aren’t so different from Ubers — the pilot will pick you up once he’s finished his last trip. Add in some ballistic missiles and restricted airspace, and that pilot’s arrival time changes like an Uber’s during a flash flood. We watched. And waited.
At the unforgiving hour of 2 a.m., we left the hotel and piled into a squat, dingy bus. (Imagine a pill bug became incarnate as a character in the Cars universe.) The thick scent of spiced tobacco clung to its beige upholstery.
The ol’ bug was bursting at the seams with American bodies and American-sized luggage. Suitcases were packed in the back from floor to ceiling — the mutual force of each suitcase pressing up and down on the other held the whole coterie in place.
We lurched forward with strain, as the driver pressed on the gas. I was surprised to see so many other cars on the road in the wee hours of the morning. Out our window, hundreds of modulations of the same blockish, sandy apartment building flashed by. A few glass high-rises stuck out like futuristic thumbs.
Soon we were pulling into a small airport, used by the king of Jordan himself, Abdullah II.
The departures complex was, essentially, a men’s smoking lounge with a customs booth attached. Large photos of a young, clean-cut, white-teeth, polo-wearing Abdullah II graced the walls. Ash trays on tables retained the cigarette corpses from the night before.
A strapping young Jordanian in fatigues eyed us with restrained interest. A well-groomed and well-dressed older man, a butler of sorts, poured richly spiced coffee into petite, handle-less cups, which he carried in a stack and dispersed among the crowd.
We sat there for two hours, somewhere between lounging and languishing, waiting for our private jet to arrive and refuel (yes, yes, woe is me).
Just as the tangerine sun was peeking above the purple horizon, it was time to board. At last.
Inside, early 2000s luxury awaited, along with a smiling flight attendant, of French-Arabic origin. With what felt like a 45° climb in the small aircraft, we watched the sun rise over the ancient world. (A fitting analogy for the times, I hope.)
After a deliriously happy and sleepy and anxious two hours, we landed in Athens. I was so grateful to be there, in Europe, the West, that I felt a swell of affection even for the EU.
And so, today we made it out. One last cross-Atlantic stretch, and we’ll be truly home. I know many other Americans are still in Israel, looking for a way home — let us hope a path for them will open soon.
Thanks for following along on this strange fever dream. Deeper analysis on these past days will be coming soon. . . .