If there are no last-minute disruptions, then when you read this column I will be in Paris – or maybe even on my way from there to New York. A good time to talk about my complex relationship with the world. My experience abroad began at a relatively young age. Unlike my parents, who left the borders of Israel outside of IDF circumstances only around the age of 50, sometime in the second half of the 1970s. It’s not because we were poor, on the contrary: they were ahead of many of their contemporaries, for whom “Hotzlaretz” was like “a never-ending land”.
I, on the other hand, was in Greece at the age of 10, in Egypt at the age of 13, and at the age of 16 and a half I already flew alone to Italy. My children may be reading this and snickering: they already had a higher mileage at the age of 3, but in the terms of my generation I was ahead of my time. Since then it was difficult to stop me: already during my military service I moved several times to Sinai (and of course also to Lebanon, but that’s a topic for another column) and in the release section of the BCM, while taking off my uniform, I asked my liaison officer for permission to leave the country. Do you remember the permission without which it could not be given To leave the borders of Israel? In the early 1990s, the letter was replaced by a permanent stamp in the passport, and only after a few more years had passed was the condition completely lifted.
A week later I set out on a journey from which I did not return until a year later – and only after stamps from Australia, Singapore, Nepal, India, Thailand, Holland, England and Brazil were also added to my passport. After three or four more trips, I stopped counting. Let’s say that relative to those who are not engaged in international trade or tourism, I have reached a psychic frequency of trips outside the borders of Israel. All this until a few years ago I decided to end the celebration.
I know I will be accused of being arrogant, but since the low-cost era began, part of the charm of traveling abroad has been lost. It was not lost because suddenly “everyone” can afford to fly. It was lost because there are too many tourists all over the world, which means that the privilege that was once reserved for those who were smart enough to fly “out of season”: to discover a new country without being part of excess tourism, has been lost forever.
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Exactly five years ago, in September 2018, I wrote here about the Chinese syndrome in tourism: it was after we got up on the little one’s Bat Mitzvah ride, and stood at the head of the line at the entrance to the Louvre, after having purchased tickets in advance. Despite the preparations, however, the crowding inside was unbearable, mainly because of legions of organized tourists from China. I compared it to an experience from the spring of 2003, when the older sister of the Bat Mitzvah, then 8 years old, went with me to Paris. We arrived at the famous museum when it opened and were rewarded with long minutes of silence in front of the Mona Lisa.
Several sinologists attacked me then and reminded me how ancient and wonderful Chinese culture is. I do not disagree with this diagnosis, but only regret that little Europe is not prepared to deal with the human swarm. Wait for the middle class, which has started to form in recent years in India, to discover tourism. And I will preface a remedy: I swear I have nothing against the Indians. I refer only to quantities, by no means to qualities!
If you will, the conquest of Europe by tourists from distant countries is a kind of poetic justice for the long years in which the tiny continent ruled the entire world. As long as it functioned as a destination for intra-European tourism, plus a few Americans, it would be fine. But in recent years almost all tourism infrastructures have collapsed.
In view of these circumstances, and even in view of the security checks that were made worse and fairly prolonged, I began to give up trips, even those financed by the workplace, the ones that I used to report to in Israel – and only then find out where they were flying to. Little by little, the dose decreased: from ten flights a year to five, From them to three – then came the corona virus which left us all in the country anyway.
With my hand on my heart I will admit that the question is not only the tourist permit or the security checks, but also something in my attitude that has changed: why should I leave the house in the dead of night, stand in lines, gather for hours in a small seat and smile politely at tough immigration officials, when I can lie on the sofa in front of the screen and then To be dragged to the bed, where the mattress already has all the sockets adapted to receive me for a sweet night’s sleep?
I exaggerate and say that if it weren’t for my love of cooking and the recognition of the fact that the supply of raw materials in Israel (even in the global era) is limited and horribly expensive, I would have completely abandoned my world travels. But this time something changed after all. Perhaps it is the expected visit to the cognac house of the Goda family and perhaps the fact that a decade has passed since my previous visit to the next destination, the city that will never die – that managed to rekindle my joy of travel. And when you take into account the fact that my landing in New York is scheduled for the next day (you are invited to check the date in the diary), then it is no longer just a matter of wanderlust, but real adventure!