My journal

If you are not interested in the “Babka goes to Israel for Pesach” journey, you have permission to stop reading.

Newark Airport, Tuesday, March 24: Babka arrives with a smile on her face, the correct poundage of luggage, and a can-do attitude. Line is moving smoothly, people are friendly. I found out that several people only found out that morning that their flights from Kennedy airport were now going to be at Newark. Met a lovely couple — he husband, probably 15 to 20 years older than I am (but who knows) was born in Iran, his family moved to Israel, and now he lives in America. Assume you know what the next 20 minutes of conversation were about. Then he told me that even though he can afford business class, his wife only wants to fly coach. I asked him to be Husband #2. Just kidding.

As friends had warned us, if you had an American passport, they ask you why you are going and make you wait for “approval.” Since I knew about this and was told to stay calm, I stayed calm. The man in front of me did not know about this, and I had to calm him down. My, how the tables have turned. He ended up sitting next to me on the plane, and I asked him to be Husband #2. Just kidding.

Flight was uneventful, baruch Hashem. There was an empty middle seat between me and another sweet man who was making aliyah. Aside from that empty seat, there might have been two or three more; other than that, the plane was full. The limited menu we had been told about seemed to be the same menu they usually have and a really, really nice flight attendant game to give me two cups of apple juice.

I watched three movies. “Shawshank Redemption” was the first. I always like to watch something that I know my dad has seen. Yes, I know that sounds strange, but why are you surprised?

We land in Israel, and everyone is clapping more than usual. Of course, 20 minutes before we land, the pilot announces that in the event of a siren, please leave all your luggage, except for your cell phone and your passport and proceed in an orderly fashion to the shelter. Of course I am wondering if I can bring my Mickey knapsack that has all my chocolate. I decide not to if the situation arises.

Welcome to Israel. We get off of the plane and see the fighter jets “parked” in Ben Gurion. We all comment to each other how at least, thank God, there are no more pictures of the hostages. God bless this amazing country.

And then we get to those machines where you put in your passport and you are supposed to get that little piece of paper with your picture on it. Because I am technologically challenged, I screw that up and don’t seem to see the two big pictures of cameras that I am supposed to look through, and I end up having to go to the border patrol office and apologize for my stupidity.

Wait on another line, wait at baggage claim — why does everyone have to stand in the same spot?? That’s for another time. Get my bag and go wait for the adorable yeshivish man that Son #2 sent to pick me up. (By the way, that car service is the best deal in town for airport pick up and drop off. No, I don’t know the name of it, but I can find out if you ask nicely.)

Driving to see Danish and her sisters, I am always amazed looking out the window. At this point, it is pouring out. But who cares?

Danish is waiting on her balcony screaming “Babka is here! Babka is here!” I can hear her with the car window open. Thank you Hashem.

Her sister fell down the stairs the day before I got there. Thank God, she is ok, but her eye is swollen shut and we have been calling her Rocky Balboa. It doesn’t seem to bother her at all, especially when she was eating five pieces of lasagna. Apparently she takes after me.

Thursday, March 26, 2026: Three sirens before 8:30 am.

Welcome to Israel.

To be continued.

Banji Ganchrow of Teaneck was so happy that Husband #1 and grandma made it to Israel.