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."

On Coffee Shops and Camaraderie

Let me live in a house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat
Nor hurl the cynic's ban-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

-Sam Walter Foss

Boruch Hashem, I had a very enjoyable Bein Hazmanim. Unfortunately, I can't discuss too much of the specifics of my BH, due to my desire to retain my anonymity...but there was a little action, some trip-ing (no, no that kind), and a LOT of chilling.
When I say chilling, I mean more than just sleeping. Or sitting around the dira engaged in b**l schmoozing passing the night single-handedly rectifying the problems plaguing the yeshivishe velt- I can do that during the zman. Kidding.

Anyway, chilling, for me, means people. Watching. Observing. Even sometimes interacting. And doing so from a discreet, relaxed position, listening to music or whatever.

And not just any people. Oh no. My people; My Yidden. All of them. "The men who are good, and the men who are bad, as good and as bad as I". I can watch them for hours. So where do I that, you ask?

And here I let you, my dear reader, in on a wonderful secret- assuming you aren't a title reader (I know I'm not), and haven't discovered it already. The coffee houses of Israel house the most eclectic, diverse cross section of the Israeli culture around. Perhaps second only to diversity at the Kosel, all types are there, and all over. Yaffo, King George, Rechavia, Ramat Eshkol, Moshav Germanit, and even out of town. I enjoy few things more than rolling into
a cafe and chilling, writing, listening to tunes, and of course watching the people.

So what did I observe? What did I see on this Bein Hazmanim's journey through the cafes of the land? What about the people so attracts, nay, demands my attention? Can engage my interest, and hold it (no mean feat) for hours? I'll do my best to explain, but the truth is you have to try it for yourself to see what I mean...

"The men who are good".

This one spiffilly dressed accounting student type was having serious connection based issues with his laptop. He initially asked the in-house techie of the cafe, and when the techie couldn't help him, the guy was stuck. Or so you'd think.
In a matter of minutes, a number of ordinary patrons with no vested interest in getting this guy up and running did just that- got the guy up and running. (BTW, good bit of trivia to know- "ordinary" patrons in cafes often have serious computer skillz).

In a similar vein, on more than one occasion I've seen random, unconnected Yiddelach help out others. From small things like watching people's stuff while they use the W.C., or even rearranging seat locations to provide others with access to power outlets- nothing surprises
anymore here.

And then, there are

"The men who are bad".

Just the other day, towards the end of the night when the cafe I was in was almost empty, an average American Bais type of bochur around 18/19 years old strolls in.
He needs to use the bathroom. Nothing new. I've seen many people walk in to use the facilities. He's decked out in in a white polo shirt, green khakis, and a leather yarmulke clipped to his head. As he makes his way towards the W.C. door, one of the cafe's servers
bars his way. "Hizmanta Mashehu", he asks? "Huh", he mutters in reply. Clearly no linguist, this bochur. After a minute of exchanging grunts back and forth, the bochur finally chaps what the server wants.
"No, I didn't buy anything".
And in stupefied silence, I watch the Israeli cafe staffer deny the hapless bochur entrance to the bathroom. As the guy turned to make his confused and somewhat embarrassed way out, I observed one more thing.

The staffer was chiloni.

So yeah, there are all types in the coffee houses of Jerusalem. And then again, there was the small coffee shop owner who apologized profusely to me when he realized I couldn't eat anything because of the non-Mehadrin hashgacha. He explained to me why it wasn't Mehadrin;
and made it clear to me that I could sit there as long as I liked- gratis.

Small shop, big man.

And the diversity! Oh, the diversity. All types. Yeshiva guys. Mizrachi. Chiloni. Dati Leumi types. Families in the middle of the day, just stopping in for a minute to cool off with an iced drink. Tech types with huge laptops, using the cafes as offices away from the office.
Dates. Loads of them. Foreigners; Americans, Euros, and even Arabs. Even some organized meets...like this one.
And random groups of friends bumping into other random groups of friends. The atmosphere is, somehow, very homey. One big happy family. And while it may be that the prevailing energy and vibe in cafes is good only for collective benefit reasons (see this piece for more on that), the bottom line is that the overall attitude is:

"And let me be a friend to man".

So while Foss likely didn't mean a coffee "house", I have little doubt that he'd have been at home in one. Or at least in an Israeli one.

So that's my Bein Hazmanim piece, and this is Yeshiva Guy, signing off for Elul Zman. I'll have some pre-scheduled pieces going up, but won't be online-mostly.
If you need something specific, or just want to drop me a line, I'll be on Twitter, or you can get me via the Be BKesher form at the top of the page or here.

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.

Kosel Kalling: My Friday Night Seudah Gamble

(Guest Posted by the Anonymous Bochur)

It’s Friday night, and I’m in that same place again. Wondering where to eat the seudah. One of the most classic of yeshiva bochur conundrums, the options are fairly numerous, and the spectrum quite varied. Obviously, I didn’t have a specific invitation, and I along with my friend were klerring the various options. Brodstein? Shwadron? A different open house? Or perhaps a chilled dira seudah? All these and more are heavily debated, each undergoing deep scrutiny before being rejected for some reason or other.

After much give-and-take, my friend and I decide we’re going to go to the Wall to find a meal. Should be interesting, right? Used to be, us Jews would make the pilgrimage to the Wall from all over the world to pray, but nevermore. Today, the Kosel is one of the best places to find a meal Friday night. We don’t enjoy the half hour brisk walk through the old city, being that we are, of course, late. We do, however, notice at least three separate Birthright tours, each with around 50 chevra or so. One of the teenagers of the group, a real Harry-ess is ticked with the loud comments coming from behind her and she calls out in perfect Har Nof style Ivrit “Sheket”. We’re rolling with laughter as we hurry along.

We finally reach the Kosel, and discover that the place is basically empty. We figure that we’re too late; I’m envisioning not-too-appetizing hard rolls from last week with some chummous older than that, but not to worry. As we walk up the path to the Wall, we’re offered two places to eat, not including the great Jeff Seidel option. Who by the way, has the most interesting brown/white shoes I’ve ever seen on a frum yid on Shabbos. Or any other time for that matter.

The latter of our two invitations came from a fine fellow who was clearly a Lubavitcher, although that didn’t put me off. A quick, potentially sensitive question later (“Do you eat Rabbanut Mehadrin”?) and an equally quick “I’m here on vacation and everything has been cooked by a fine Meah Shearim caterer” response settles our Kashrus worries.

We agree to meet our host at the Kippah stand after we finish Ma’ariv. While we daven, our Lubavitcher friend manages to snag three more lost souls, and together we make our way to the most amazing dira I’ve ever been in. Not kidding. This guy was staying in a dira with THE ULTIMATE VIEW. That’s right, look out the panoramic living room window and see the Wall. And all the holy yidden assembled there to pray…or find a meal. And when you’re through doing that, turn around to watch TV on the 50” Sony Bravia HDTV. Life is good for some people.

Turns out that one of the people he’s hooked is a completely lost yeshiva bochur, of sorts. He’s learning here for the summer…sort of. Where’s he learning? The JTS. Seriously. I never knew this, but apparently, at the JTS yeshiva program here in Israel, there are 100 people. 50 guys and 50 girls. I ask half jokingly if they learn b’chavrusa with the other gender and he responds positively. I’m blown away. I feel like screaming at him, but manage to control myself. The other two people are an uninteresting couple (both teachers) from Queens who have nothing particularly interesting to say, except when the Messianic age schmooze begins. At that point, the lady perks up, and declares that she “would not want to live in that age”. Why not, we all ask in unison? She answers with this really weird moshel from…The Lord of the Rings. Something about Gollum and the Hobbit. I kid you not.

But by far the coolest part of the meal is the friend of our host who lives full time in the old city. A fascinating fellow, he lectures internationally on the Jewish faith, how it relates, or doesn’t, to Islam and Christianity, and in the process had scuba dived just about everywhere. Basically, we sit enraptured by the Jewish people’s history for almost five hours. In between, we discuss politics- both Israeli and American, cooking- how to make the nastiest cholent ever, and everything in between.

But this guy’s big shtick is the Messianic era. He has Tanach on his fingertips, and throughout the meal quotes liberally from it; chapter and verse too. And when one of the guests asks something out of John, he answers her with chapter and verse too!

By the end of the meal, us (my friend and I) and this guy have gotten into a mildly heated debate about Zionists, Ben Hecht, and Chassidish Rebbes while everyone else looks on. Soon, though, we decide that the time has come to end the meal (its one o’clock by now, and our host is poofing away- he’s retired some time ago). We bentsch and make our way out of there. According to the Conservative bochur, it was, and I quote directly, “the perfect Shabbat evening”. I couldn’t agree more.

So the next time you’re stuck for a meal on Friday night, head down to the Kosel; you may not enjoy the meal, but you’ll likely have an experience to remember. After all, this is the most interesting city in the world!

Original Mitzvah

Check out this guy's right hand (on your left, duh).

He's holding a half eaten apple. Granny Smith, if you're wondering.
So what's so interesting about that, you wonder.

Here what:

I was walking along that road, and I happened to notice an apple about 10 feet in front of me. This bochur did too, but instead of just noticing it, he picked it up and placed it on the wall to his right.

Terrific!

The Case for Learning in Israel

Lately, as it has become the fashion to send to bochurim to Eretz Yisroel, it has become all the rage to bash Eretz Yisroel. They say: What's the point? There's no hashgacha there anyway! Better they should learn here...All this and more, I've heard, echoing throughout the minds of concerned parents across America. And indeed, they have a point. Its true, there is much less hashgacha here in Eretz Yisroel. There is, however, at the same time, much more hashgacha; albeit a different kind of hasgacha. The Hashgacha. And as frum yidden, we all believe in that higher hashgacha. I'm not referring to the Great Hashgacha here; I'm referring to Torah, and its unique brand of protection that it, and only it, can provide.

While it may be true that bochurim here have the time of their life, and that bochurim here have tons of fun, and that bochurim here...yada yada yada, its also true that bochurim here grow in ways they never could in America. The reasons for this are as many as they are few. That is, many reasons have been proffered, but I'd stick with the Gemara;
"Aveerah D'Yisroel Machkim".

I rest my case.

(Photo by turmsegler)