On Paper It Was the Perfect Vacation

Business class flight. Fully equipped duplex apartment with view and Netflix. Fresh fish and olives. Endless shopping. Museums. Cruise ship home.

Or not.

What began as a simple five-day getaway to Athens in sunny June turned into the most challenging experience of my life — one that took me to emotional depths I never imagined, and then back up to unanticipated euphoria, all within a few short hours.

Here’s the timeline.

My husband and I aren’t big travelers, nor are we risk-takers. But once a year, we treat ourselves to a brief trip abroad — easy destinations, no more than a week, low-key and low-cost. This time, we packed our bags and flew to Athens on a sunny Sunday morning. After debating checked luggage vs. carry-on, we chose luggage — mostly for kashrut reasons. Our usual kit: a trusty frying pan, boil-in-bag vegan meals, tuna, nuts, and easy-to-make pasta. We planned to supplement with local produce, bread, eggs, and yogurt. A tried-and-true method.

Once we arrived at our Airbnb, we quickly koshered a pot (with a rock we found outside — harder than you’d think in an urban area) and settled in. All prepped for a pleasant few days.

Or so we thought.

We had a great time. But by Thursday night, we were eager to go home. Athens is nice—but three or four days was more than enough for us. We visited the archaeology (of course), rode the excellent subway system, visited Piraeus twice, and even took a ferry to Aegina. Another Greek island? Check. Beautiful? Sure. But we were ready to return home.

We packed Thursday night for a 5:30 a.m. ride to the airport.

That’s when things changed.

A bit before my alarm was set to ring, my WhatsApp started going crazy. I looked.

Israel had attacked Iran.

With no word from the airline or any authorities, we headed to the airport to join hundreds of other Israelis waiting in uncertainty. It was Friday — erev Shabbat. With no apartment, we watched fellow Israelis find accommodations, and then reached out to our host. Thankfully, Olga said the apartment was available one more day, and she’d check if her friend’s Airbnb would be available afterward. We didn’t know what to do but agreed, knowing we might have a problem regarding Shabbat.

Though Olga was sympathetic, we kept a low profile — we didn’t explain that we keep kosher or Shabbat. It wasn’t the time. Luckily, we were able to stay until Sunday, at which point we moved a few blocks to her friend’s place. We prepared for Shabbat as best we could. (It started late—8:30 p.m.—and ended at 9:40 p.m.)

The new place was a duplex with a washing machine, full kitchen, balconies, and — thanks to our daughter — Netflix! It was worth much more than Olga’s, but she charged the same (in cash, of course — another challenge). We hoped we wouldn’t need it for the week. One Shabbat away was enough for us.

But we did. And sadly, I also missed my mother’s yahrzeit back in Israel.

Each day: no flights. Alternatives started to appear—30-hour private yacht trips (bring your own food, water, and sheets), detours via Jordan (a Level 4 safety risk). But no direct flights. Eventually, Arkia/Kishrei Teufa finally sent a correspondence, saying they’d refund us, and we were on our own. The embassy was useless. El Al couldn’t help—we weren’t their customers. Chabad was only useful if you wanted pricey kosher meals. At that point, frugal became the survival phrase, and we feared reaching out to Chabad since, frankly, we didn’t want to congregate with other Jews and Israelis.

So we stayed. Mornings were spent trying to make plans, reworking finances, and hoping. Afternoons, we tried to retain some semblance of sanity—museums, shops (Attica reminded me of Macy’s in the 1980s), the fresh fish market. I’ve had my fill of Monastiraki, Syntagma Square, the Parliament changing of the guard, Plaka, Agora, Psiri, Omonoia, Anafiotika, Kolonaki, and Exarcheia.

The stress was mounting. What if we maxed out our credit line? What if we were pick-pocketed? What if one of us got sick or injured? And then there was the fear of antisemitism—radical graffiti all over Athens. We kept Hebrew off our screens, stayed silent on the phone in public. A pro-Palestinian protest marched near our balcony that first Shabbat. Scary.

Do you keep your passports in the apartment (not knowing who has keys) or carry them (risking loss or theft)? These challenges are hard enough in good times—but during war, when no one can help you? You’re stuck.

During the second week, we saw on Facebook that Bank Leumi and Mano were organizing a boat ride from Cyprus. Our kids launched a mini חמ”ל (war room) and got us registered. We received a registration number with a “no need to call us, we’ll be in touch 15 hours before we depart.” So we assumed the best.

We quickly booked a Sunday flight to Larnaca and a hotel in Limassol (we didn’t see the point in moving to Cyprus before Shabbat since we’d already figured out the rhythm and adopted a routine in Athens). We flew business class—it was all we could get, and by then, money had become secondary. Wow. Business class! A luxury lounge, foot space, private bathroom, and breakfast (albeit not kosher). We arrived in Cyprus with hundreds of other Israelis.

And there we learned that some had been contacted about the boat. We hadn’t.

I panicked.

That Sunday, in a “4-star” hotel room (turned out it was actually a 3-star, and the room reeked of urine), I spent the entire day on the phone with Bank Leumi, Mano, and our kids. “Sorry, you’re not on the list,” was the consistent reply.

I broke down. Hysterical sobbing. My calm husband didn’t know what to do. We felt invisible. Abandoned. I know what people in Israel were going through under repeated Iranian ballistic missile fire, and it was horrific. But we were also facing a serious issue—albeit of a different kind. And little challenges had turned into big ones, such as discovering that the electric outlets didn’t match our plugs. To quote my husband, who wears a hearing aid: “It’s one thing not to be able to communicate with the world, but not to communicate with my wife? No way.” We found an adapter (and a nail clipper—we’d been away so long!) at the corner kiosk.

We weighed options. Go to the port and beg? Go to Larnaca Airport and hope for standby? Try the Jordan-Aqaba route? Yacht was a hard no. And yes—we were prepared to travel on Shabbat. It felt like pikuach nefesh.

So, the next morning, Monday—after a dinner of a hard boiled egg, cucumber, and banana—we tried to call a cab to the new Limassol cruise port.

No cabs available.

At all.

Every Israeli in town was trying to get there.

Luckily, we started talking to other Israelis and learned that there was a bus on the corner that went straight to the port. Not only a massive savings in cost—but it worked! We got on and prayed.

Once near the port, I sent a message to a contact at Mano. He couldn’t help directly but was with me on WhatsApp late at night and again first thing in the morning. We showed up at the port.

It was organized. Calm. Hundreds of Israelis. Staff who knew what they were doing. They even gave out water bottles. And it was air conditioned.

Israelis. Right place, right time.

We were directed to a Bank Leumi rep handling “special cases.” Within ten minutes, after showing our passports and the screenshot with the original confirmation number, he told us with a smile: “Sit and relax. I’ll handle the rest.”

Within about ten minutes of arriving, our odds felt like they’d gone from one percent to fifty-fifty.

I can’t describe the release I felt in that moment. The nightmare might be ending.

A few hours later, we got a room assignment and a phone call to arrange payment. I cried—out of relief and joy, not anxiety and fear. I was thrilled to pay. Instead of hoping to wake from a nightmare, I was living a dream.

The boat wasn’t a ferry with deck chairs and sandwiches. It was a cruise.

• Fully equipped cabin with all the amenities.
• Three full, amazing kosher meals.
• Alcoholic beverages for those who wished (and paid!).
• Duty-free shops.
• A full entertainment schedule with warm international staff.
• But—at Bank Leumi’s insightful insistence—no casino.

We all boarded in shock. Then loosened up. Some hit the pool. Others napped or read.

We were going home.

As we neared Ashdod, the Iranians attacked again, Home Command stepped into action, and docking was delayed a few hours. But the uplifting sound of passengers yelling, “Look! The coastline! I can see Ashdod!” is something I’ll never forget.

Debarkation proceeded like a true army operation—with unprecedented efficiency to get us all dispersed quickly and safely. Luggage was sorted by deck and color code, passport control and customs zoomed, and buses were waiting to take us to pre-designated locations—Ashdod, Tel Aviv, BGA.

We were all home. Each of us with our own story.

Some friends and family said insensitive, unhelpful things while we were stuck. But others stepped up—especially those who supported our kids while they dealt with rockets and getting us home. Special thanks to an old family friend, a European airport security officer who tried to help, and to the Bank Leumi and Mano reps who, in the end, made it work. They received letters of thanks from me.

We are now back, praying for the release of the remaining hostages in Gaza—and for some peace and quiet.