Jewish World Review Nov. 30, 1998 / 13 Kislev, 5758

Tales from
the road

When you tramp a ride in Jerusalem,
you'll never know who'll stop.

By Deborah Cymrot

YOU KNOW YOU'RE GOING TO MEET lots of people when you attend the General Assembly, the annual meeting of UJA Federations of North America.

Bedecked with a badge stating your name, community and the organization you represent, and toting a nylon briefcase with the G.A. '98 logo, you're prepared to play "Jewish Geography" in all the odd times between sessions, on the hotel elevator, waiting in the shuttle bus to take you to your next meeting or on the long line to get into the opening night entertainment gala. No matter whom you find yourself next to, you're bound to know someone in common. (Even this somewhat shy reporter never once failed in the three days of the conference to find a connection.)

Still, as much as I expected to find friends, I never anticipated sharing a ride with one of Israel's best-known institutions.

It was the second evening of the G.A., and the schedule was arranged so attendees could enjoy more of Jerusalem than one can experience in the Jerusalem International Convention Center. I spent the evening with another reporter whom I had met in the G.A.'s press room. After watching her bargain with street vendors and then catching a bite at an outdoor cafe near Ben Yehuda Street, we headed to the Israel Museum, which stayed open after its normal closing hour to accommodate G.A. participants.

But by 10:15, after a few long days of travel and reporting, we were both badly in need of sleep.

Unfortunately, the next shuttle bus to our hotel wouldn't arrive at the museum for another 45 minutes. The public buses had finished their Israel Museum runs, and one lone taxi waited outside. My companion tried to convince its driver to take us, but he wanted some exorbitant sum and wouldn't budge.

Neither would she.

We asked a security guard to call us a taxi, but he had no outside line.

"I'm thinking about hitching," my fellow reporter said, whereupon this cautious soul said she would wait for the bus. But at that moment, the passenger in a van in front of the cab rolled down his window. From the distance I saw a stout, elderly man and heard a European-tinged English. I guessed that he was a wealthy Holocaust-survivor G.A. attendee.

The woman I was with, who clearly has more chutzpah than I, related with indignation her encounter with the taxi driver and asked if we could get a ride in the van, since our hotel should not be too out of the way for him. The van door opened and she got in. I hesitated. How many times I had warned my daughter on the dangers of hitching! But I could see in the middle seat a genteel-looking elderly woman sitting perfectly calmly, and I made a quick calculation that we were not likely to end up tortured, abused or dead in a wadi. With some misgiving, I also got in.

The man asked us what we were doing at the museum at that hour, and we explained. What had brought him to the museum? "Oh,"he answered, "I was talking to a group there," but he offered no further elaboration.

After ascertaining where we were from and other pleasantries, we were almost at the hotel. The other reporter asked him what line of work he was in that he gave talks at the museum.

"Well," he said, "I'm retired now, but I was the mayor of Jerusalem for 29 years."

I wonder if he enjoyed our shocked gasps. After he dropped us off and after our profuse thanks, I turned to look more closely through the passenger window. Yes, I saw clearly now, we had indeed hitched a ride from Teddy Kollek.