What every Jew wants, plus my beautiful toes
SATURDAY MORNING, GATWICK AIRPORT
l I’m flying to Jamaica. “Like a ride, sir?” asks a woman pushing an empty wheelchair. I look behind me for the old man she’s talking to — only there isn’t one. “How far is it to the gate for the Jamaica flight?” I ask.
“About a 20 minute walk.” I jump aboard. “OK! Lets go!” No matter what the song said, these feet aren’t made for walking.
SATURDAY EVENING
l We land at Montego Bay Airport. Somehow we’ve managed to get here without the captain having to turn the plane around halfway across the Atlantic because a passenger refused to wear their mask, flew into a rage and punched the flight attendant, or got drunk and mooned at the First Class passengers — and even without any Israelis attempting to self-upgrade themselves from Economy into Business, like they did on a United Airlines flight from NYC to Tel Aviv last week. That one was also turned around.
“Every Jew wants an upgrade,” my friend Howard once told me.
Thirty years ago on a flight to Israel El Al security took my beard away. It was a false beard (it’s a long story).
My beard flew Business in a seat to itself while I was in the back in Economy sandwiched between two Strictly Orthodox men who looked exactly like me before my beard was confiscated.
Thirty minutes into the flight I rang for the attendant. “My beard is a nervous first time flyer. It’s up there all alone in Business. Can I go and sit next to it please?” Amazingly, I didn’t get the upgrade. I still don’t understand her lack of compassion.
“Welcome home!”, the hotel receptionist greets me at the hotel. I’m a regular here. “Where’s your beard gone Mr Rosengard?”
“I was mugged last month in New York.”
“He stole your beard!?”
“He said, ‘Your beard or your life?’. He had a gun. I had no choice. He pulled out a little stool, put a robe round me, pulled out a brush and soap, lathered my face, took out a cutthroat razor and gave me a shave.” “That’s amazing, Mr Rosengard.” ““OK, I wasn’t mugged for my beard. It’s a joke. My daughter had told me I’d look younger without it so I had it shaved off.”
SUNDAY MORNING
l I’m in my shorts on the verandah of my room by the beach, lying back in an armchair with my feet stretched out on the table in front of me, sipping a Bahama Mama, looking at the blue ocean . Sheryl is cleaning my room.
“How long have you been a chambermaid, Sheryl?”
“I’m not a chambermaid any more Mr Peter. They changed it to ‘housekeeper’ since you were last here three years ago. But with the Covid I have got a new title. I’m now your ‘Technical Room Attendant’.” “Really? So what do you do now?” “I clean your room.”
“Your feet! Mr Rosengard!” she exclaims.
“What about my feet? Whats wrong with my feet?”
“They are beautiful! Who looks after them for you?”
“My feet? Nobody looks after my feet Sheryl.”
“I think they must do. Are you certain? Maybe when when you’re sleeping.”
“Sheryl, you’re the first person in my entire life who has ever told me that I’ve got beautiful feet.”
“You are joking me, Mr Peter? Your wife never told you you have beautiful feet?” “
“No, none of my wives have ever mentioned my feet at any time. Apart from when they said, ‘Pete, get on your feet and get out and never come back again.’”
“No girlfriend ever told you that you got beautiful feet?”
“No, never.”
“So who looks after them for you then?”
“Nobody looks after them, Sheryl. They are just there, at the end of my legs.They get on perfectly well by themselves.”
I sit up and look at my feet. “What’s so beautiful about them anyway?”
“Look at them. Look at your toes Mr Peter.”
“I can see my toes. They just look like toes.”
“You don’t know anything about feet Mr Peter.”
The phone rings. It’s the receptionist at the front desk. “Mr Peter, I got you that free upgrade to the cottage you asked for when you arrived…the one right on the water’s edge.”
An upgrade!