The Joys of Travel...
Rwanda - Brussels - Israel --- the long way.

I left Rwanda yesterday – Thursday – at 5 PM. We drove down the newly finished red dirt road and made our way toward Kigali, the capital city. We passed deep green valleys and a forest of eucalyptus trees. Along the road, and on it, were villagers walking in every direction, carrying water, baskets and bushels on their heads. A boy, no older than six, ran along side the road, spinning a bicycle tire with a stick.

Rwanda is beautiful. Stunning, lush, tropical, breathtaking beauty that belies the country’s recent history. There are birds with feathery plumes of the brightest blue and orange that pecked at our windows in the morning. Flowers grow large and quickly in the warm and fertile growing seasons that come with the rains. The capital city has coffee shops (some with WiFi!)and at least one shopping mall. The government is quickly cleaning out its slums – replacing them with walled villas or open green space. Despite being one of the poorest countries in the world, Rwanda is clean and small, accessible, and relatively easy to negotiate. (I have to admit that I saw a miniscule portion of this country and am only reporting on this TINY portion that I experienced. From what I have read, the vast majority of Rwandans live in poor agricultural villages spread throughout the country.) I look forward to going back, to learning more. I know so little about the place, had such little chance to talk to people, to listen, to hear stories, or to share culture.

Despite all the beauty, and experiences still awaiting me there, I was thrilled to be going back to Israel. But what a long long way it seems…. A direct plane from Rwanda to Israel would not take very long – perhaps 8 hours. Even with a stopover in Addis Ababa, it should only be about 12. I had the fortune of being routed through Brussels, with a 13 hour layover between flights.
We arrived very early at the Kigali Airport, and learned that our flight was delayed. On the second floor of the airport, there is not much to keep a traveler entertained. For entertainment, we had only the two small duty free shops selling familiar souvenirs, chocolates, liquors and wine. We grabbed the last table at the cafeteria and learned the kitchen was closed. I had a dinner of Macadamia nuts and two granola bars, chatted with my companions and read emails. At this point, a man at the next table asked me to check the homepage of Brussels Airport; we learned that a snowstorm was in full-force in the city, and was expected to last the whole night. Most flights were delayed; many were canceled. Were we going to leave Kigali at all? Would we be there another four or five days waiting for the next flight out? Or crazier yet, perhaps we would get stranded in Entebbe of all places – where our plane was scheduled to pick up more passengers. (As a Jew, it was hard for me to imagine that I would be in Entebbe at all; it was not a city I’d ever expected to step foot in, and wrong as it is, in my mind the word connotes only one thing.)

As it happened, we did our board out plan and we did fly 35 minutes to Entebbe. Right after take off, two flight attendants raced down the aisle spraying some sickening-sweet-smelling substance from two aerosol cans held high above their heads. Simultaneously, a loudspeaker reassured us that this spray was completely harmless, and was simply part of health code regulations on certain flights. Yet even the flight attendants seemed to be trying to escape the stuff, spraying it high into the overhead bins, and running a few steps ahead of the mysterious mist. No further explanation was offered as to the nature or purpose of this fumigation. I buried my face into the pillows, wondering what the “Brussels Airway Health Spray Policy” might look like. They sprayed again after we took off from Entebbe.

Despite being a frequent flier, and a pretty relaxed one at that, I am often struck by the total lack of control or agency that we have as airplane passengers. Strangers touch our bodies, tell us to remove our shoes, to take apart our belongings, to sit for hours in a chair, to wear our seat belts, to sit straight up, to not talk on the phone. We are told when we can use the bathroom, when to eat, what to eat, and when we can use our computers or lean back in our chairs. We have to beg for a blanket or a glass of water. If things don’t go our way, there are few choices. First class, business and coach alike, we are all prisoners of airport regulations and the whims of airlines. These experiences are part of the price we pay for the luxury – and it is an incredible luxury – of having the world accessible to us, and for the privilege of being transported, safely and efficiently, from place to place.

In Entebbe, none of us had any choice except to sit for two hours, while the airline searched for one man. They woke up everyone who was sleeping to see if he was the “missing’ passenger. AS it turned out, the person in question had left the airplane in Entebbe, not realizing that passengers continuing to Brussels were supposed to stay on the aircraft. The flight attendants counted us three times, before they finally found the man, wandering, oblivious, somewhere in the Ugandan terminal.

We took off again, and I fell asleep on my tray table until dinner was served. We still did not know if the Brussels Airport was open, but we crossed our fingers and settled in for the long flight.


Brussels

We arrived in Brussels around nine in the morning, tired and happy to have made it. The runaways were lined with fresh white snow and we shivered outside in the shocking 20 degree air as we waited for a bus to the terminal. The airport was full of exhausted, stranded passengers waiting for rescheduled and delayed flights to finally board. I said goodbye to my friends and hopped on a train to the city, 15 minutes away.

I slid along the slushy cobblestone streets, ducking into stores every few minutes to avoid a deep freeze. I had a winter jacket and a wool hat, but had gotten dressed the previous morning in Rwanda. My thin cotton pants and shirt were hardly enough.

Even though there had been decorations in Rwanda it didn’t quite feel like Christmas. The heat and lush scenery didn’t fit in my Christmas schema, and until my day in Brussels, it had been several years since I had experienced the Christmas spirit. Even as a Jew, there is something cozy and enchanting about the season. In Brussels, it was in full force. A giant Christmas tree stood in the central square and lights dangled across the streets dangling from one quaint building to another, beckoning my eyes up to the ornate lamp posts and carved edifices overhead. The Christmas Market seemed to spread across the whole city center. Dozens of little booths were set up in each plaza, with crafts, jewelry, scarves, and endlessly tempting foods. There were all the delights that I recognized from France – cheeses and pates, tapenades and herbal blends. There were people huddled everywhere outside the booths, snacking on sausage or French fries, warm wine, waffles and chorros. The stores, too, were fascinating. There was a store full only of exotic mushrooms, and another only for herbs. There were many full of delicately crocheted lace, endless chocolate boutiques and beer breweries. I sampled a glass of hot wine, ate a big bowl of handmade, fresh noodle soup and tasted my first, unforgettable, Belgian Waffle.

Too cold to tour any longer, I hopped on a train back to the airport. When the conductor came by to collect my ticket, he looked concerned. He informed me, as if it was painful for him, that I was on the wrong train. The woman behind me confirmed that the sign on the platform had indeed said that this was the train for the airport. The sign had been wrong. We were headed express for a town not far from the German border. The generous conducted spent a good five minutes with me, explaining exactly which trains to take in order to make it to the airport. He wrote out a special receipt so that none of the backtracking would cost extra and carefully explained which trains I should take, and when. Meanwhile, I chatted a bit to the woman behind me and enjoyed my free scenic tour of Belgium.

The fields and streets were white blankets; the houses and towns seemed model sized versions of an idyllic Europe. After 40 minutes or so, we arrived at the station and I turned around within 10 minutes on the express train back to Brussels. From Brussels, the trains to the airport were either canceled or running late. After a confusing twenty minutes or so filled with announcements sending us to a series of different tracks, our crowd of travelers finally found the correct platform. We packed ourselves into the train, luggage and all. By now, my 13 hour layover had dwindled to less than two hours. I was glad to see the train arrive and hoped we would make it to the airport without incident.

I need not have felt rushed.

I walked inside the Departure Hall, looked up at the screen of Departing Flights, rubbed my eyes twice, and checked with the woman speaking Hebrew beside me before finally admitting to myself what was written before me. Tel Aviv Flight: Delayed. 4 1/2
hours.

I had six and half MORE hours to entertain myself in the small Brussels terminal. The first hour was spent looking at every duty-free item on sale. Every one. Belts and handbags, blush and diamonds, cheeses and goose liver, perfumes, liquors and cigars. I walked from one end to the other and back again. Four times. Desperately bored, and feeling brave, I tried to snag internet by sitting near the Airline Lounges. To no avail. I splurged on 30 minutes of Internet time and then walked the length of the terminal a few more times. I made a few friends and struggled to stay awake. Somewhere around midnight, we finally took off.

I had a lovely aisle seat, in the very last row. The seat didn't go back and I was next to the bathroom, but none of this prevented slumber. I took my customary position on the tray table and relished the four hours to Tel Aviv. Arriving there, I could barely get off the plane fast enough. Again, (lesson learned?) I need not have rushed.
There were no lines as my passport was checked and I made it to the baggage claim before a single piece of luggage had begun to circle to belt. Most of the passengers were already down, and I thought to myself that this was the first time I had ever waited for luggage at Ben Gurion. They are usually remarkably efficient. Lesson learned?
A few minutes later, they announced: Passengers from Brussels Airport, please come to the Luggage Desk. We were informed that, due to a strike in Brussels, we would not be receiving our luggage. Each one of us had to fill out a form, get it checked by customs and then file the report with one of three or four agents working at the Luggage Desk. Frustrated, exhausted and at a point where I could only just laugh, I filled out the form and headed home at last.
Two days later, my luggage has yet to arrive.