Aliyah Baby!

I don’t know where to start as I haven’t really directly written about this journey of ours.
This adventure.
This decision to uproot our lovely and comfortable lives in London to start again in Israel.
And we’re not spring chickens.
And some things were actually not that comfortable, were they?
So I’m awake early, I’ve made my coffee and with Tony snoring contentedly beside me, I shall attempt to put at least some of this down on ‘paper’.
Most of you may know that Tony is actually already Israeli having lived here for a few years and done the army back in the eighties. He came back to the UK, met me, we had babies and, what can I say, life happened. Tony always yearned to come back and I was the one who enjoyed coming for holidays and loved Israel, sure, but didn’t have a passion to make Aliyah.
So why now?
Truth is that I saw a window.
We are at a stage in life where we sadly no longer have parents. The kids are all grown up and yeah, we can, we can go and do something for ourselves.
For me, October 7th changed everything.
This horrific day in our lives was the turning point.
It made me realise how I felt about being Jewish and my love for Israel.
Instead of holidaying in Portugal or Italy, we kept coming to Israel to volunteer. Anyway, you know this bit, so I’m going to skip to this year and the whole process or else I’m going to be wittering away far too long even by my standards.
We started early this year and went to an Aliyah fair in St John’s Wood shul. There we met an agency called Shivat Zion and booked a Zoom call with them so they could help with getting us here. This bit was quite straight forward and I would recommend using their services if you are thinking of making Aliyah.
Okay, so I was in, but where would we live?
I must admit that Tony was so shocked and excited that I was on board, that I did hold the power here. If I was going to leave my kids, my sister, my friends and my life where I had a nice house, car and freedom to swan around London restauranting and apart from 26 hours a week working, generally doing what I please, I wanted somewhere good.
I wanted to be by the sea.
Not in the middle of nowhere though, I wanted people I knew and the potential to meet more souls whose first language is English. Anglos.
Hardly the Chalutznic dream, I know, but I am being honest.
Was he on board?
Hell yeah.
This man who loves nothing more than being alone in a forest whittling and making nettle tea agreed to join me in Netanya.
He opened an Aliyah file for me and by March the house was on the market.
I knew I had to start the process and it would take a while (and be horrible) but if I finished it too quickly and we hadn’t sold the house, the police check would run over the 6 month shelf life and I’d have to start again.
I’d love to tell you that the process is easy and cheap, but it’s not.
It’s pedantic, expensive and downright annoying.
Forms, apostilles, interviews, then the golden ticket – the visa. Honestly, it was like being in a reality show where you kept getting knocks, but you had to keep picking yourself up and get to the end. A real life Snakes and Ladders.
I could go deeper to tell you about the torturous process and how we had to co-ordinate it with exchanging and completing on the house, but it’s now light and I want to shower and go for my first solo Aliyah walk.
Not yet, though.
Suffice to say that at our farewell drinks at The Duck in the Pond last Tuesday night, we knew we’d have to be out of the house on September 28th, but I still didn’t have my visa. Cyprus was looking cheaper than north west London hotel life and maybe we’d perch there. A couple of consecutive trips to the Israeli Consulate and what do you know, my visa was granted and we booked our flights for yesterday. We’d only have one night of UK homelessness. There was a slight complication with putting the mattresses out to be collected by Harrow Council, so we’d hotel it that night too.
The shippers were booked for the Friday and surely packing our suitcases to take with us on the plane after and getting rid of a few bits wouldn’t be too difficult.
WRONG!
There was just SO much to do. Three trips to the tip, copious visits to offload to charity shops (stuff, not verbal rants) and masses and masses of sorting and chucking. It was extremely stressful and we never managed to get on top of it, constantly finding more and more stuff to do. In hindsight we should have packed in our jobs earlier, but it was just so tricky to coordinate everything.
Do you want to know how un-on top of it we got?
We completed on Monday and the lovely buyers brought all their family round to party while we still sorting, chucking and packing. Yes. I kid you not, they were sitting drinking gin and tonics, their kids eating pizza in THEIR house while Tony beavered away deliberating what to do with a cup that had sentimental value because his mum used to drink from it when she helped him at his shop in Burnt Oak in the 2000s. I was just about finished by this time and I did not know what to do with myself, so sat in THEIR front room quietly and internally losing my shit.
What were they doing in OUR house?
Why are they ordering pizza and answering my door?
We had been there all of our married life – 33 years. Everything had happened in that house.
And then something shifted.
My connection with the bricks and mortar started to detach. It was THEIR house and THEIR kids were in it. What a bonus that house was being passed on to people that we really liked (and had dropped down delicious Indian food a few days earlier).
Tony was still frantically packing, but finally the forgotten milky potato masher and ‘just in case cheque books’ were dealt with and we were closing the door of Number 7 for the final time.
Next were some tearful goodbyes and the handing over of my beloved Honda to Ilana.
We were homeless, unemployed and carless.
No keys.
An Uber XL was the only way to get to our hotel – cleverly booked, or so I thought, at Luton airport itself, convenient for our 7.30 am flight.
I had been hoping for an early night, having only slept about 5 hours a night for the last couple of this weeks,
Not a chance.
The car pulled up at the hotel before ten, but how to get in? The entrance was closed off with bollards and there was no way we could lug the cases up the ramp. WTF?
The poor driver drove round and round Luton in search of another entrance, but it could not be found.
Eventually he parked in the original spot and went to get two of the charmless hotel staff to lug our cases up for us. (Forgot to tell you that we had a 32 kg allowance for the big case EACH.)
By that time my phone, yes Tony & Ethan I shouldn’t have got a refurbished one off Back Market and shelled out for a new one, had ran out of charge and I couldn’t find my power bank. Therefore, we had to book an Uber from a special machine for 4.45 am.
WTF anyway? When I booked on the hotel app, it looked like it was so close to the terminal that we could virtually walk across. (That reminds me, must write a snotty email and try and recoup some of the money we laid out on rubbish hotels and cabs).
The room was passable and we could get 4 hours sleep.
I’m gonna pause with the story now, as I have forgotten to tell you one major thing.
You are probably wondering how I got through all of this emotionally.
Did it feel real?
Did I have regrets?
Cold feet even?
You know what, the last few weeks have all felt unreal and I have been in an uncharacteristically numb state. Honestly, I think I cried so much after my mum died that I don’t have many left in the tank. The few tears I have left are generally triggered when someone else starts welling up – doesn’t matter who it is.
What can I tell you? I guess this has been my coping mechanism.
And you know what else – I must quite like Tony, after all. We’ve got through all of this with minimal recriminations and fights (although there has been a fair amount of bickering).
We are in it together.
On the same page.
We share a love for Israel and are in agreement that it is the right time for us.
A time to do something for ourselves.
I can’t tell you how many times I would watch him sighing with his head in his hands while I would be making dinner.
He would rant on the decline of the UK while I would deliberate over using cous cous or bulgar wheat.
As soon as I told him I was ‘in’, the sighing stopped.
There was a future for us – one that he was excited about.
After giving birth to his two loves, this was the biggest Angiepoint ever.

Right, where was I? Oh yes, so we got downstairs yesterday (yesterday?) at 4.40 am in the dark Luton drizzle to wait for the next Uber XL.
It did not come.
I was ordered, perhaps a little sharply but we’ll let it go, back into the hotel to book a local cab.
This I did and it turned up a few minutes later.
Another lovely and helpful driver.
Another 20 quid.
In the check-in queue, the conversation turned once more to the panicked packing of the previous evening and how my case could not possibly be under 32 kg.
It wasn’t.
And what’s more, the conveyor belt does not move if a case is over this weight.
The check-in guy was helpful and agreed to us transferring some of the weight, it only needed to be about a kilo, into Tony’s case.
Out came a boot, my hair dryer and a meaty bowl.
Sorted.
And I must say, the next few hours of airport and plane passed without incident. Oh, I did get emotional just before we boarded and thought about not getting on. I quipped to Tony that a bit of low level antisemitism in Luton would have helped to give me that final push, but actually everyone we had come across there had been fine.
I had downloaded tv shows to watch on my phone and we’d bought supplies in Wasabi. For once, we sat next to each other (across the aisle) and chatted happily for the first hour or so, even intermittently holding hands. (Not that practical for other passengers trying to get by).
Did I cry when we landed?
Actually, no. Ouch, I dunno, I think I was just so, so knackered.
We were met off the plane by a young woman with a sign saying “Olim” (immigrants) and whisked through alternative passport verification points and eventually to an office to be processed. There were refreshments there. Tony had a coffee and I had a bit of a biscuit that didn’t know if it was sweet or savoury. I joked to Tony “hey, has anyone seen my weed?” and he laughed, again. Careful Tone, this may become a thing.
I got ‘done’ with minimal professionalism, humour and enthusiasm, but the guy did offer me some of his white Toblerone at the end. (I declined as I need to be in ‘living’ eating mode, rather than ‘holiday’ as I don’t want to put on a pound a day).
What was amazing was that they put us in a paid for taxi that sped along in a special lane and had us in Netanya in no time at all. There was a hairy moment though when the driver drove through some deserted bus station and I thought we were going to be dropped off with our 32 kg cases and my inferior battery life. For once, my husband was correct and he was just taking a short cut.
Our gorgeous cousins were waiting for us with goodies at our Airbnb and this will be our home for the next 9 days or so. (Not going to tell you anything about the next stage, just yet).
Last night we strolled to the nearby shopping/restaurant plaza called Piano and ate too spicy for Tony food at Wok to Walk. We then hit the local ‘super’ where we couldn’t find cottage cheese. The cashier couldn’t give much of a shit and said it is probably ‘nigmar’ – ran out.
Today we are going to catch up on UK admin, but probably won’t manage to start on the Israeli stuff as the hours of various offices are shorter as it’s Succot.
It’s different this time.
We are not on holiday, we are living here.
We don’t have to pack everything and everyone in in a fortnight.
And, as I’ve said, I cannot stuff myself silly claiming holiday calories don’t count.
Sleeping Beauty has woken up and we are going to start the first of our new life together.
Over and out….for now.