In 1979 I had the opportunity to visit Israel on a group rate. We were reporters who wrote about aviation and the space effort.
I was free lance, so paid my dues and got the deep discount on the rooms and tours.
When I was at a hotel on the beach at Tel Aviv, a security check was carried out by armed Israeli soldiers. I had never felt so cherished! There was barbed wire along the beach, so one had to go down to a dirt road to visit the beach. There were gunboats patroling the waters, and swimmers asked to identify themslelves. I kind of wondered how that worked. Could I keep my I.D. papers dry while swimming in my bikini?
For entertainment, when we were not touring armaments plants and getting lectures on the Air Force training, we were being bored snotless by the accordian player who thought his sqawking would serve as a caberet act.
The young “Gang of Four” at the rear tables started tossing the decorations around, mimicing a volleyball game.
The Master of Ceremonies stopped the music to scold us for being rude. We felt trapped and only wanted to go out and have some real fun in the plaza, but had to stiffle that idea because of “security”.
Later, we visited a kibbutz and the lunch included a chicken dish with the pin feathers still attached to the wing tips.
Having plucked my share of chickens for dinner, I understood the difficulty of living on a farm and preparing meals from scratch.
Later, when I was climbing out of a bunker on the Golan Heights, I skinned my knee, so was honored with the title of “First Aviation Reporter to Be Wounded On the Golan Heights”.