I’m one of the few pilots considered an intellectual, since I’m forever reading. Let me amend that, Fm now reading Forster’s A Passage to India, while Yul Laviv, our only Israeli flight engineer is studying Penthouse Forum.
“Hey Chubby,” Charlie Pickles turns towards me in his Captain’s chair, You know about Salmon Rushdie, don’t you?”
“Charlie,” I declare puffing up slightly, “I’m the only person I know that actually read Satanic Verses, cover to cover.”
“No shit?”
“No shit, and it was brilliant, but a bitch to get through, all those references alluding to London and to Islam that I had to look up.”
“Well then, Rabbi, you probably know that those Imams lifted the death sentence on old Salmon.”
“Yeah, Charlie,” now smugly, “I’ve seen Rushdie interviewed a few times on those PBS interview shows.”
“Then you must have heard he’s just written another book?”
“No, No, I didn’t hear that.”
“Yeah,” Charlie informs me, Its called Buddha is a Fat Fuck!” Yul howls, I redden as I laugh, my ego sucked me into that one, and Pickles was masterful, as ever.
Yul and I were turned around upon our arrival in Paris, told by the Station Manager that we had to commercial to Athens. We had time to change into our commercial attire, sports jacket, tie, and slacks, and head for the first-class lounge. All our overseas repositioning of crew, “commercialing” is business class or better, when available.
Yul Leviv and I check into the lounge, now comfortably ensconced in plush couches, drinks in hand. “ Ve haff tree oors ‘till dee Olympic flight to Ahhthens,” Yul literally sprays this advise at me, taking another strong pull on his Absolut. “What?” I ask Yul repeats it, and this time I get it., we have three hours to kill. I’m half deaf, but Yul born in Europe and raised in Israel has an accent which defies anybody’s first hearing. The more you ask Yul to “say again,” the more excited he gets, and the worse it comes out. He spits his ‘plosives, to boot!
Yul’s an older man, with white, close-cropped hair and the lips of ‘froggy the gremlin.’ This will be the first time I’ve ever spent any private time with him. He quickly knocks back three more of the free double vodkas before we go to the gate. On the plane, Yul leans towards me to advise me, in confidence, “Portnoy iz a hamosexl!"
“What?”
“Portnoy,” he spits, “is a hammosex’l,” more spray, “Ee lives wid a mann, he haz breazts."
“Oh,” I say.
Yul leans back in his seat, satisfied now that he has alerted me to this crisis, and is at once asleep.
In Athens now, the young Greekin and reekin’ cab driver, excited to be driving two such distinguished Americans to their hotel, animatedly engages us in conversation. I’m conversing, Yul is snoring.
“How long will you be in Athens,” he asks? “About 16 hours.”
Not sure that he has used his English correctly, he repeats the questions, “No, no… How many days is your holiday in Athens, in Greece?”
Tired myself now, “Less than 16 hours.” I’m on autopilot now, trying to disregard the heavy Athens traffic, the hotel check-in process yet to come, the whole bag-drag were still faced with.
“What, you come to Athenie for, for less than one day? Why you do?”
“To eat at Chicken George’s,” I respond. Yul smiles at this, his eyes still closed, he is awake.
I have been truthful, though enigmatic with the taxi driver. After a shower and a nap, we will eat at Vasili’s place, known to the airlines as Chicken George’s. Whenever we layover in Athens, Chicken George’s is a must. Now I’m glad Yul is with me, since I’ve gotten lost trying to find the restaurant, on foot, the last few times I’ve been out here. It has no street address, and nobody knows the real name of the place, only that Vasili and his family run it, and that the food is terrific.
Sitting at Chicken George’s later that evening, we are stuffed. We’ve consumed barnyards of roast chicken, huge Greek salads, gallons of unsweetened ice tea. Rubbing my big belly, I confide, “I fly for food.” Yul agrees that he thinks that I do. Leaning forward, Yul says, “Have I told you that Portnoy is a hammosexl?”
We throw the chicken bones and leftovers to the stray dogs that lurk about the place, tired of shooing them and the aggressive hornets away from our food and sodas, we stumble tiredly back to our hotel.