Transporting a bicycle on a plane isn't all that tricky. If, when buying a ticket online, you can select "sports equipment," or, even better, "bicycle," you should do so, having first carefully read all the terms and conditions of the specific airline.
Usually, this pleasure costs between 30 and 40 euros one way, and they ask you to pack it (if they ask at all) in a special bike bag, a bike sleeve, or a cardboard box. Simple trash bags wrapped in duct tape will also do the trick if there are no other options, which is often the case on the way back (so you don't have to lug the packaging around with you). When packing, you need to turn the handlebars sideways, unscrew the pedals, and let some air out of the tires.
I went with the tried-and-true option of a box, scored for a "thank you" at my local bike shop, "Veloserviss," the one near the market and the central high school, right across from "Sport 2000." The box successfully fit into my dad's Volkswagen Polo, even though it's not a big car. We made it to Vilniaus Oro Uostas (Vilnius Airport) in a jiffy, and even made a detour to the Akropolis mall along the way, since my dad sincerely believes that Lithuanian bread radiates some particularly blissful emanations.
The airport in Vilnius is small, and the parking meter only takes local coins. I think this is absolute savagery and barbarism; if you don't know about it, you might just end up spending the night in the parking lot. There's a plus side, too — it's easy to get to check-in and the gate, and there's no crowding. Having slipped into shorts and a t-shirt, and having finally sealed the bike in its box, I chilled in line for an hour and handed my trusty steed over to the special oversize baggage belt. Everything went smoothly, without a hitch, although I was ready for them to ask me to open the box — there had been precedents. Ever since, I tape the top shut with packing tape that can easily be ripped off and stuck back on if necessary, just to humor meticulous border guards.
A surprise was waiting for us at the entrance to the gate: an additional screening of our personal belongings, both visual and with a metal detector. Mind you, we had already passed through the regular airport security by that point. And there's the first sign telling you just how uneasy the existence of the Jewish state is, surrounded by hostile Arab regimes. Almost all the countries surrounding Israel (and those are Lebanon, Syria, Egypt, and Jordan) are either openly hostile towards it (Lebanon and Syria) or wary of it (Egypt). The only exception, perhaps, is Jordan, but even with them, things aren't perfectly smooth either.
Well, I won't melt in the rain, and even though I prefer being groped by girls rather than dudes, I bravely endured two full-body pat-downs — one at airport security, the other before the gate. That didn't even turn out to be the hardest part — what was worse was the long wait in the boarding line in a freezing corridor. As Natan (my first host) later accurately pointed out, when you fly from a cold country to a warm one, you either freeze your ass off upon departure or boil in your own sweat upon arrival. I possess a thick, protective layer of fatty tissue, so at the moment of migration, I prefer the pleasant coolness of the Baltic autumn over the exhausting heat of Tel Aviv.
In that very same line, we exchanged a few words with other travelers. A couple of Lithuanians were asking a seasoned Jewish traveler how they could get to the Hilton, to which everyone around reasonably replied: if you're headed to the Hilton, just grab a taxi. Something's off here, I figured, people don't fly Wizz Air to the Hilton. And that turned out to be the case; we all had a good laugh about it.
Meanwhile, the Tel Aviv local was telling us about his visit to Las Vegas, and when he found out that I was heading to the Negev desert, he declared that the towns there were dumps and there was generally nothing to do. Different worldviews, different values. For me, fortunately, it turned out to be just right, exactly as I had hoped.
Long story short, they finally let us into the belly of the airborne whale. The flight, however, was delayed for reasons poorly known to science — supposedly, Cyprus asked us not to enter its airspace. It also seemed to me that the audibility in the cabin of this particular specimen of the Wizz Air fleet was worse than on other aircraft I've happened to be on.
The dim lights of Vilnius streetlamps, clouds, seas, lightning and thunderstorms in the clouds right next to the plane, the bright, festive kaleidoscope of lights of the Tel Aviv-Yafo urban agglomeration, watching the baggage handlers transfer suitcases and my bike box onto a worm-like electric cart with multiple segments, and finally, I stepped onto the surface of an uncharted land, or rather, a concrete runway with safety markings.
The main duty-free hall is nicely decorated, and the fountain is just a very popular Israeli theme in general
The border guard subjected me to a short and uncomplicated interrogation:
- Why are you in Israel?
- To ride my bike.
- Where to?
- The Negev.
- Why not with a group?
- I manage just fine on my own; hey, I was in Iceland recently, organized it myself.
- What do you do for a living?
- Programmer.
- Place of work?
- Binitex.
That last question is a trap, albeit a naive one. If you have to think about where you work, you either have issues with your head, or you're a black-bearded terrorist with no fixed abode, that's how I see it. I passed the check, and I picked up the bike myself, having guessed where the oversized baggage would pop out (it usually arrives separately), even though an airport worker was already rushing towards me.
After that, I cooled my heels at the entrance for a long time, waiting for Natan. The usual hiccups with communication and expectations: he wrote that he would make a sign on a piece of paper, but got lazy, knowing that I would be with a bike and it wouldn't be hard to find me. But my bike, like the Little Prince's sheep, was in a box, and the inertia of thinking played a cruel joke here. In the end, I had time to exchange some money, buy a SIM card, and only then did I scribble a text to my host asking him to rescue me from the motley flock of restless souls wandering around the arrivals exit.
The bike, along with its massive box, was tossed into the trunk, and we shared our impressions on the road. It was warm and humid outside; Tel Aviv had long since merged with its surrounding towns and the metropolis of Yafo into a single agglomeration. Natan, who suddenly turned out to be Anton, having left Moscow at the age of four, regaled me with all sorts of curious facts along the way. The coolness factor of these towns with funny names like Ramat Gan, Kiryat Ono, and Petah Tikva is determined by the number of roundabouts built in them, and if there's also an illuminated fountain or statue in the center of the circle — that's just golden, nothing to be ashamed of in front of the neighbors. They really love fountains in Israel in general, which apparently stems from a desire to prove that the desert has long been landscaped into a blooming garden (which is largely true) and that there are no problems with water shortages in the country (which is completely untrue).
I lived in a room with a little window just like this
The walls are decorated with drawings
The kitchen is merged with the living room, studio-style
Waiting for a famous brand to sponsor my blog for the advertising
Where would we be without a flat screen and an Xbox underneath it
A highly popular amusement is shisha, or as we simply call it, hookah
Outside the window — a construction site
Natan's building is being completed and expanded on both sides right with the tenants inside, which creates a surreal impression. It seems that this method is not uncommon in Israel.
You can immediately tell that the country ranks second in the world for the number of people with post-secondary education diplomas; most people here speak two or three languages (at a minimum, Hebrew and English, and immigrants often also speak their native language, for example, Russian). Naturally, many also play musical instruments, travel, and everyone I asked knows where Latvia is, and many can even name the capital. Intellect and knowledge are assigned a major role in Jewish culture. If you can't withstand the strength and influence of your neighbors, overwhelm them with intellect.