Watching the Sharfstein complaining extravaganza has its costs, however. When my relatives take action, the best location for any onlooker is six feet beneath the ground.

My uncle (while sitting next to me!) told a stewardess, "I just want you to know that this is the worst airline I have ever flown in my entire life." Judging by the look the stewardess gave me, my uncle might as well have added, "And here next to me is my nephew, who probably hates you more than I do."

My father yells at El Al representatives too, but, fortunately, does not complete his sentences. After he finishes, I lean over and tell them, "Thank you. I enjoyed the flight as well."

My mother, in contrast, becomes dangerous if left alone. She works her way through the crowd and explains to total strangers how the entire delay is my fault.

A gang of six elderly women began staring at me and waving their canes in anger. I had to calm them down by pointing at my grandfather and telling them that they didn't know who they were dealing with. I had my uncle threaten them with a lawsuit.

EVENTUALLY the wait even got to me; I too had an existentialist crisis. I was seized with a desire to write a book called, "The Traveler," which began:

"I flew to Israel today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I can't be sure."