Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Hold the Onions


I bageled someone in the airport yesterday.

It's not as invasive as it sounds.  It's our (the Jewish People's) way of finding out if a stranger is a Member of the Tribe (MOT*), or just someone from Manhattan.

I could have come right out and said, "So, are you rushing home for Kol Nidre?" 
But that would be too obvious. 

So, I waited til the conversation naturally came around to the perfect moment.

We are sitting in the fairly comfortable Sea-Tac (now I understand... Seattle-Tacoma! Ah-hah!) waiting area for our flight.  Facing the big window and watching the planes.  I'm on my laptop.  She's on her phone.  She's speaking so loudly that I can't help but hear every word of her conversation, which is not unpleasant, but just a bit distracting. Lots of food mentions.  So far these are my three clues, not to stereotype my own people or anything.  But, actually no mention of Rosh HaShannah, the Jewish New Year I assume she has just celebrated with them all, or Yom Kippur, the mighty day of awe I figure we are both trying to get back for.  More clues are needed.

She's off the phone. Brand new iPad is out.  She is complaining loudly to it.  Hmm. So she's richer than me, and probably older than me, but this is also not a dead give-away.   She's muttering about how to get "the Internet hooked up" around here.  I'm pretty sure I can help... do I dive in?  No need, her phone rings again.

Why am I compelled to connect with this woman in the airport who might be Jewish?  Is is because I have been travelling already half a day and have hours more, and just want to chat with someone?  Is it because I feel the need to find another MOT (member of the tribe, remember?) in middle of an area where we are so few? Or maybe, during these "Days of Awe" as we call them, when we are supposed to take time to reflect, I have been so busy I have not stopped to BE.  And seeing this woman made me feel that it was time to come home to my people.  (Which I literally was on my way to do...)

And then my chance came.

She hangs up the phone, and this time I had been so deep in my thoughts, and updating my Facebook page, that I actually had not been eavesdropping on her conversation.

"Excuse me...?"  It's her! 
"Yes?"  She has an upset look.
"Do you know what kind of plane we will be on?  My daughter just told me it's a small one.  I'm nervous."
"I do actually.  I looked it up.  It's a 737.  It's two rows of 3 seats.  A lot bigger than the plane I took here from Portland."  
"Is it safe?"
She's serious.  Wow.  Isn't every plane pretty safe except when it's not?  
"Yes!  Of course... and look, it doesn't even look like it'll be that crowded... When I flew out here, every seat was filled and I had a middle seat.  I'll tell you, I had such shpilkes**"

That was it.  I had my chance.  I bageled her.  She not only forgot she was nervous, she took the bait, or shall  I say, the lox, and we had a great conversation about Judaism.  She shared some of her story with me, and I shared mine.  And she WAS in fact, rushing home for Yom Kippur, as I was.  There we were, the only two Jews in all of Sea-Tac, finding each other at gate N-9, waiting for a plane.

Later on the plane, I heard two people from the exact same tiny  town in Minnesota make a similar connection.  I wonder what they call it?  Beef Jerkeying each other?  

I wanted to say good-bye to her when I saw her at the baggage claim, but, of course, she was on her phone.  So I gave her a little wave and went on my way.  

I didn't make up the term "Bageling," and I don't remember who did, but I love it. If you have a similar story, I'd love to hear it.  And now back to preparing for the awe-filled days of awe.
Yep, I traveled on Air Alaska. For the record, just as sub-par as the rest of them.


*Thanks to Marjorie S. for this nifty new abbreviation!
**Shpilkes:  When you cannot possibly sit still one more second.  

Friday, September 14, 2012

Good-bye Dear Friend

A beloved friend, Aharon Bezalel, passed away about 3 weeks ago.  I have known him more than half my life, and have come to think of him more as family than as a friend.

I can't think when I first met him.

But I do know exactly when I last saw him.  My dad and I were spending a few days in Jerusalem this past January, and I could see that Aharon was not his usual self.  I didn't know this would be the last time I would see him.

Aharon was an Israeli, born in Afghanistan where the climate was not particularly friendly to Jews.  (Not like now!)  According to Bezalel legend, he was a little boy when he and his family walked to Eretz Yisrael (the land of Israel) so they could live in freedom as Jews.

When I really got to know Aharon, his wife, and his three daughter, Butzit, Tali and Yael, I was living in Tel Aviv for my Junior Year of college.  They were the closest thing I had to family, and Aharon insisted that I join them on many weekends.  I can remember arriving just in time for a lively family meal, where I was included at the table and enjoyed great dinners and conversations that I could barely understand at first.  Saturday, Shabbat, I was left to my own devices as the sisters all went out on their own, and Aharon disappeared into his workshop in the morning and then he and his wife would spend the afternoon napping. I'm now quite a fan of the Shabbat nap!  But back then I'd take long walks and explore Jerusalem, or sit and read in their fantastic garden.  It was here that my Hebrew got better and better, I felt at home in Jerusalem, and in their house. By the end of my semester, they had become my Israeli family.   
Yes, that's me with the short hair, making matzah with Aharon in 1980.
  Over the next 20 years, we would see each other whenever we could.  Aharon's art was famous on an international level, and he frequently travelled to New York, among other places.  He was a guest at our Passover Seder on more than one occasion, and he loved it when I told the story of making matzah in his brother's garage when I celebrated Passover with his family in 1980.  I saw his daughters less often, but we tried to stay in touch, and finally with email and then with Facebook, we started to reconnect in ways that we could not have done before.  I remember conversations with Aharon in my parents' living room that showed how deeply he understood me, and the love he had for me and my family.  It was startling sometimes to see how much could be conveyed without and beyond words.

Perhaps the most moving, emotional and uplifting time we shared as a family was when my oldest son, Daniel, became a Bar Mitzvah in 2000.  It had been his dream, and ours as well, to celebrate in Israel.  But of course, we also knew that we wanted Daniel to be called to the Torah here in the US, so that we could share this simcha with the family here.  So that is what we did.  In May of that year, Daniel became a Bar Mitzvah at our synagogue in Suffern NY, and when school ended we took a family trip to Israel with Maya, who was 10, little Jack, who was 6.  Joining us were my parents, my in-laws, my brother's family, our best friends, and a dear friend of my mother-in-law.  My mother, who has spent more than half of her life dedicated to leading trips to Israel for our local Y, sat with me and helped me to plan the trip of a lifetime for this family group.  We'd get our own bus, and we'd have the most remarkable tour-guide.

But where should we have Daniel's Bar Mitzvah ceremony?  

Since Daniel had already become a Bar Mitzvah, I had been working with him to write a short, meaningful service, which could include a few different readers. We immediately eschewed the idea of the Western Wall, as we would not be at all comfortable with separating men and women for an event like this.  Another popular option for many tourists is on top of Masada, but this did not sit right either.  And because it was July, we were not sure everyone in our group would even make it to the top of that mountain in the desert.  

My mom was researching restaurants that be big enough to accommodate our whole group, as well as the ever-growing Bezalel family.  But there was no need for her to make the phone calls.   Aharon lived in a great place just above his sculpture studio.  He invited us to bring our party to his house! Although our group would never fit inside his house, we could dine on his rooftop.  

We were thrilled with the idea and when we got there it was overwhelmingly beautiful. He had ordered wonderful  food from a Lebanese restaurant in town and his daughters had decorated his rooftop with fresh flowers, candles, and tiny little lights strung from poles across the walls.  By now his three daughters were parents as well, and their children couldn't wait to meet their American "cousins" and try out their English.  Daniel led the short service, and they all ooh'd and ahh'd at his flawless, yet American-accented, Hebrew.  Then we ate,  drank, and sang songs, while the lights of Jerusalem danced in the distance.  After a while, the kids disappeared to play inside, and the grown-ups continued to eat and drink and sing some more.  Aharon sat contentedly at the head of the table, with a huge grin, knowing he had brought his family together.  Hebrew and English were co-mingling right there at the table, and it was a truly a celebration of much more than one young man's rite of passage.  It was the joy of two families sharing a real bond that transcended beyond age and  language.
Aharon, in the center of things, has made the crowd laugh.

I couldn't resist.  Young Daniel, at 13, leading us in prayer.


Since then we have been together many more times.  

When Daniel turned 20 and took his Junior Year in Israel, he spent many weekends at Aharon's house, and spent a Passover there that was unforgettable.  Although we missed him at our Seder table, at least we knew he was with his "other family."


Tali, Yael, Me, Butzit, January 2012
And this past January, my Dad and I took a trip there.  I was so glad that I spent time, meaningful time, with Yael, Butsit, and Tali, my Israeli family.  And I saw our beloved Aharon, this patriarch, for the last time. 

May his memory be a blessing to us all of us who knew him, and may his story inspire all those who are fortunate enough to be touched by it.