Weirdest Things About Being Back The U.S. of A.

I can't go out the door and step into the makolet anymore...I now need to take the car.

I use and drive a car. Not those tiny monits. Huh.

Restaurants serve normal steaks. Solo, Prime Grill and da boyz...they all feel like real restaurants to me. Not some transients, Mom and Pop type establishments established by Moms and Pops. Literally.

I feel (slightly) out of place in the local shul, being underdressed?. In Geulah, I feel (slightly) overdressed.

My cellular phone has consistent coverage. Awesome.

The grocery stores have...groceries. Weird.

Mommy and Totty suddenly feel it's normal to call me three times a day asking me nothing at all, just to chekc where I am. Hello- Tel Aviv is just as bad as Manhattan, and I don't hang out in either city. Whatcha worried about?

Learning (read: Torah) is much more...of a chalos here. Sorry, not in the mood of translating that one atm. Figure it out or ask me on Twitter later.

Getting asked ten times a day about when I'm going back, shidduchim, etc. Probably gonna dedicate a separate post to that. (BTW- spell check wants to change "shidduchim" to "Archimedes". Really. Try it.)

Using planes again. It really is cool to take off into the air in 40 tons of steel. Miraculous, actually.

Seeing Muslims walking down Avenue J. It's like living in a forest for five years, watching deer on a daily basis, and then seeing one stroll down 13th Avenue. Different.

Goodbye, Reloaded

So I'm on a plane flying from one country to another. Like from Armenia to France. Or from Canada to Kenya. A mere transatlantic transposition, right? Except that it isn't. Not really. There are oceans of difference, actually, between traveling from Eretz Yisroel to anywhere else and a regular country change.

The difference is that apart from flying from end of the world to the other, I'm flying from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other. Notice how I said emotional spectrum, and not spiritual spectrum. That's an entirely different, although equally true, story, one which I spoke a little about here.

What do I mean by this "emotional shift"?

It's an amazing thing, really, how rarely I notice this after a year and a half of life in the Holiest City in the World. The danger. Or potential danger. Once in a while, perhaps, when bussing with an odd looking fellow who is doing something beyond the usual level of weird that passes for normal in this crazy, lovable country. Or maybe upon spotting a harmless group of Palestinian burqa clad ladies doing some peaceful shopping on Yaffo. The triggers can be wide and varied- if you've been here for any length of time no doubt you can identify a few yourself.

But for the last year or so, unlike when I first came, I am no longer daunted by the endemic soldiers and their accompanying rifles. I no longer am disturbed by the sight of a regular looking Jew with a long beard strolling down a side street of Geulah with the butt of a pistol peeking over his waistband, neatly framed by his t'chailes tzitzis. Today, the sound of jets overhead, or the steady beat of the whirling blades of military copters up above is no longer cause for consternation.

So I'll be leaving all these things I don't notice anymore that make like in Israel so unique. I'll be in a land where I can buy fruits and vegetables in a store without checking a teudah (cool, I know), and where words like ambience and decor can be found in the local restaurateur's parlance. To a city where I can no longer meander along a random street and bump into nine different nut stores, all with the same only slightly varied selection of pitzuchim and fruit leather.

As I sit here, pondering my shift in daily climate in the all too near future, I realize that these aren't good things. Both the fact that I've become desensitized to the above phenomena, and the fact that I won't be experiencing them for the next month or so. Here's why.

In those early salad days of mine, when I was, and felt like, a greener, the fine feline fellows that roam Jerusalem's streets had nothing on me. As I walked, my eyes would dart about, my every move geared for imminent disaster. Ashamed I am to admit this, but every so often I'd find myself lost in reverie-like dazes, deliberating the safest course of action one should take in a given emergency situation. Sharp noises, -commonplace enough in the capitol-of-Yeshivish-cars-Meah-Shearim- were enough to flip me out.

And what does any red blooded Yeshiva Bochur do when he flips out? How do most of us who have been raised in frum homes react when we flip out? We instinctively turn to Hashem.

So my thought process would go something like this. Walk onto number 2 bus. Spy a swarthy hombre who could pass for either an Israeli or an Arab. Get a little nervous. Fidget. Then...
"Uh oh. There's that weird looking dude sitting there in that seat...what's he doing there, under that Ha'aretz paper...is that thing black...metallic?...should I call the Mishtara...he might be a terrorist...no, get a grip...chill out---Hashem is with you, and if He wanted you dead you would be."

Realize that the above example of a Yeshiva Guy's cognitive daisy chain is by no means atypical. That would be a classic case of how most born and bred frum people might reflexively react to this sort of circumstance, with some variation or another.

Does this mean we are cheapening our Emunah, calling on it only to assuage our paranoia? Only when we need to comfort our inner delusional Chutznik? Perhaps. But the bottom line was that in those days, I was calling on Him so much more. He was an integral part of my daily life, back when the holy homeless men of Zichron Moshe used to frighten me. Now, not so much.

And I think I'm going to miss that.

Like a popular Jewish lecturer put it "Here in Yerushlayim, you gotta be much more careful what you do- G-d is only a local call away ".

And in America, He'll be a long distance call. Although I can talk to Him anywhere and anytime, I'll have to add that area code. And you want to know something... I'm already starting to miss it.

Goodbye, But Not For Long

I and quite  few other bochurim will be returning to Chutz La'aretz in just a few days. I just can't wait for that flight-NOT- tons of bochurim all on their way home. Boruch Hashem, it is mostly bochurim on this flight. The families are traveling in the opposite direction- from America to Eretz Yisroel, and those others are already here and don't go home for Yom Tov. So we really do have an easy flight.

As I start preparing myself for the flight home, though, I can't help but feel...sad. I'm gonna be leaving. Yes, I'll be coming back, iy"H, but still- I'll be leaving the land of my forefathers. My land.

I'm transported to a hot, sticky summer day...

Its 4PM on a sweltering summer Tisha Ba'av afternoon. Hundreds of us 8-12 year old boys are gathered in the main Bais Medrash of the camp, which also serves as a rec room/auditorium. Our Learning Director, a Holy Jew with a long brown beard slightly sprinkled with flecks of white is standing in front of the Aron Hakodesh. We're all here to hear a little bit about Tisha Ba'av and the Churban Habayis. And there's no question about it, this is the Rabbi to give it.  A fire and brimstone type of guy, he'd have been at home in any Southern church, lecturing lava about the hazards of drink to a sleepy audience in a fly filled sanctuary.

As he thunders on to the mostly bored kids, I remember being mostly unimpressed, and far more interested in the Mario game I was secretly playing while pretending to pay rapt attention. And then, for some reason, his voice started breaking. And things began to get interesting.

He was speaking about Eretz Yisroel, and that fact that our aveiros brought about our Exile from it. Soon, he was telling us about a recent trip of his to our country. Tears were streaming down his face, soaking his long beard. My Mario forgotten, I was completely focused on the scene in front of me. This guy was real. Live. And then he said something I've never forgotten since. Describing a trip up north, he was saying; "As we traveled, we went through many Arab settlements and villages. All over, they were. And It's my land. Don't you see, it's MY LAND. My land". This last was a broken, screaming cry, almost desperate. As if he were begging us, little kids all, to help him, to understand and share in his pain. We all sat stunned. Quiet. Game Boys aside. And perhaps, just a little...

Pained.

Ever since then, I've thought of Eretz Yisroel, in some ways, as my land. Not in a Tzioni, Rav Kook way (chas v'shalom), but in a nice, pareve type of way. Like this Rabbi, perhaps. And when I have to leave it, I feel like I'm parting with a something I own and love, without any contact until my next visit. No phone calls, pictures, or shmuessen. Because really, you need to be here to schmooze with the land. And even when you're here, most people don't know the language to be able to properly speak with our land. But if you do know the shprach, you can have the most wonderful conversations.

I'm reminded now of a story that took place in the Russian shtetl of old. A Jewish peasant was tilling the soil for his Russian nobleman; backbreaking labor. As he plowed and sowed the land he would frequently see his master in the fields. Bending over, the Russian would take a fistful of the soil, and let it slowly run through the cracks between his fingers. Then, he'd put his ear to the earth, and slowly, a beatific smile would spread across his face. After watching this scene play itself again and again over the years, the middle-aged Jewish farmer finally gathered the courage to ask his master what he was doing...what he heard when he'd put his ear to the ground. "Ah Yankel, I'm listening to the music. The music of the beloved Russian motherland."

Music?, thought the Jewish fellow wondrously. He too, put his ear to the ground, to listen and hear the music. The Russian nobleman began laughing uproariously at the Jew. "Yankel, don't you know- you'll never hear any music. It isn't your land".

Many years later, as the story goes, Yankel made aliyah. And now, when old man Yankel puts his ear earthward, he hears music. Ah, what music he hears.

Yes, I'll be going to America for Succos Bein Hazmanim.

But Boruch Hashem, I've heard the music. And although we won't be having any shmuessen, Eretz Yisroel and I, I'll be listening to the music. Once you've heard it, you see, it's always playing itself over in your ears...like a stunning symphony that you can't get of your head. And just when you think you're about to forget it, when the last strains are echoing away, you see some random sight on the street-  a Jewish vendor checking his fruits, or a meshulach in Shomer Shabbos, or even a few words of Ivrit- and the niggun crescendoes. And the nostalgia sets in again.

So goodbye, Eretz Yisroel. Arrivaderci, people of Israel. But although I go,

fear not...

The music plays on.

And finally, as the immortal MacArthur said,

"I shall return".

And IY"H, one day, we all will.

"V'Shavu Vanim Lig'Vulum."

You Know You're in Eretz Yisroel When...

...The Local Druggie burns his hovel up, and random bochurim pitch in to help him out.

...The waitress at the restaurant informs you in no uncertain terms that she'll take her tip in cash, (omits please).

...A lady give $100,000 to HU. The lady was homeless.

...You're impressed by your Egged-mates' shtatty looking Oyster Perpetual watch...until upon closer inspection you realize it says "Rol(od)ex" on it, not Rolex.

...Cars and motorcycles arbitrarily disobey traffic laws...why not?

...A random, fatherly type dude on the train scolds you, loudly, for putting your feet up- in a mussardike way. (Happened to friend).

...There, the Blacks speak Hebrew. Here, the Hebrews speak Black> (Israelis love showing off their poor command of ebonics).

...Ten men gather together to daven in a minyan...and no two belong to the same sect/denomination.

...There, the cars are BIG. Here, the cars are smallll.

...The beggars wear tefillin.

...You walk into an innocent looking coffee house to get a Coke and use the internet, and the waiter tells you "It isn't kosher here".

...You go out on a shidduch, and have loads of fun. With the wrong girl.

...You're bored at 2AM, but never fear...you can always go to the Kosel, and have a heart to heart with G-d.

...You can't for the life of you figure out the parking lot's pricing matrix...because it doesn't make any sense.

...All around you, (chareidi) men are wearing tighter shirts than (chiloni) ladies.

...You can't get over the fact that the three primary colors are not, in fact, BWB (Black, White,Black).

...People are rioting! Wait...why? No one is sure.

...Free hot cocoa; no, not in camp, but at the Kosel.