"When Israel was in Egypt's land, let my people go..."

I wasn’t expecting a bleached-blonde middle-aged woman to pick me up at Ben Gurion Airport. And from the first moments after I saw “Vered” holding a sign that read Gregory Spooner (from my passport info, I’m guessing), I felt like she was putting me on. As we walked out of the airport to her big white van, illegally parked, she told me that she worked for the government of Israel, and that picking up people at the airport at 1AM wasn’t a second job, it was part of her government job.

In our stilted English conversation on the drive to my hotel in Tel Aviv, she let me know early on that her father had been killed a few years back by a Palestinian suicide bomber. It seemed improbable that the first person I met in Israel would be affected in this way. After all, there are millions of Israelis, but only a few dozen are killed in this way each year on average. But, OK. Maybe so.

She pointed, seemingly at random, to a large building along the highway. “That’s my house.” It was a 3-story big building, maybe 400 square meters in floor space. Very large house for a midnight shuttle driver.

“I shook Barack Obama’s hand when he came to Israel.” That seemed especially improbable. In trying to hold up my end of the conversation, I asked her about Obama’s media moment in Israel when he famously went to the Kotel (the Western Wall) on his visit. “Obama did not go to Kotel.” I thought about the SF Chronicle article I read on his visit, the radio reports. Maybe we were just having a difficult time communicating.

Then Vered talked about her five children, how she had to work day and night to keep them in Playstations and Adidas. Then it was my turn. Did I want children someday? Not really, I replied. “I don’t believe you. I think you are lying.” she responded.

How about that - we’re here at the Tel Aviv Sheraton already! OK, thanks! Layla Tov! Good night!