Every time I come across, say, the garbage man who wears a
kippah, or the plumber, librarian, police officer, etc etc who are religious, I have this weird moment of feeling that I'm living in some Ayn Rand-esque alternate universe. So when our old friends Damon and Manny came for a weekend visit, I (rather belatedly, I admit) asked Damon to take a stab at writing a blog post about what it was like to be here as someone other than a religious Jew, and give me (and you!) the chance to see our city, and our life, through his eyes. Thank you, Damon, for more-than rising to the occasion!!!! And now, without further ado:
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I had visited The Goldbergs the first time they lived in Israel…in Jerusalem, 1999. Though it was an abbreviated visit at the tail end of a group tour, the impact was indelible. Haunting, at times, really. In addition to being an intense time in my life, it was still…at its core…JERUSALEM. I can still hear Ellen’s voice as we sat in their living room: “This isn’t just another city one visits”. That was, and is, incredibly true.
Why it took me another 20 years to return, I’m not quite sure, but Israel was always on my radar for a return visit. This Spring, it worked out that my friend Manny and I would be taking part in a small group tour to Jordan. Naturally, as one does (or does NOT…EVER…), we were so close geographically, we figured “as long as we’re in Jordan, how can we NOT visit Beit Shemesh?” I’ll spare the gory details of the potential “bus…to border…to walk over the border…to bus…to…oblivion???”, which we never really considered anyway since…arriving on a Friday…it was all about being IN ISRAEL as early as possible so as not to be stranded in a situation where no engine-running vehicle would dare enter Beit Shemesh (and reasonably so). Given this, we chose the one-way flight that cost more than a roundtrip flight between almost any two cities in the United States. Because, well, this was the opportunity to not only VISIT The Goldbergs, but share Shabbos with them. Done deal.
Ellen had “gently forewarned me” about the traditions and customs regarding men and women in a more Orthodox setting, and that Manny and I shouldn’t feel slighted if we were not to hug/embrace her when we arrived at Ben Gurion. Of course, this set off all sorts of visions in my head of scenes from DANCES WITH WOLVES, where Manny and I would cavort about Ellen in a circle, as if she were a campfire in the wilderness, singing joyously before hunting Titonka in the hills of Beit Shemesh. BTW, we didn’t do either of those things, so The Buffalo continue to roam the hills of Beit Shemesh…at least in my mind.
Ellen arrived just as we were departing the terminal, aptly driving her Jazz. I wondered to myself if she might feel pressured to drive the car with jazz hands, and if we might be in any danger as a result, but I chose to keep that one as “inside voice”. Our first stop on the way home was to the local bakery. Swoon-worthy, at worst, the aromas battering our olfactory senses were delightful, and when Ellen asked “anything in particular you might like?”…my initial thought was “can’t we just bring it all home?”. We didn’t, but what WAS brought home was ridiculously heavenly.
We ventured out to the local caves, which were fascinating and radiant (and remarkably good for our breathing). Just a lovely afternoon strolling and marveling at what time can produce with a little (OK, a lot of) help from Mother Nature. Some of it was like a game of “clouds”, where you could see…well… whatever you wanted to see, really…but in some cases, there were distinct caricatures and outlines to the stalactites and stalagmites. Up close, a face, or a dragon, or a cat. From farther away, a concoction of shapes and colors with radiant lights cascading from one surface to another. Like underground fireworks without the sound (and, honestly, I don’t think ANY of us were hoping for the sound of fireworks down there).
After a brief rest at the house, it was time for Shabbos Dinner. It’s difficult to put into words the feeling of being invited into a friend’s home, and to share a meal with their family, but it is entirely another level to share such a special experience such as this. My initial feeling while standing at the table before we were all seated was one of reverence. Of complete gratitude. Of safety, comfort, and acceptance. At the heart of it all, of friendship. Though I have known Ellen since we were…oy…12 years old (?) (!!!), I have also know Shalom Shachne (hereinafter to be known in this particular blog entry as “SS” for carpal tunnel reasons) for well over two decades. I have known him to be a Man of great wisdom, humility, confidence, affection, and understanding. To stand to his right at the family dinner table was an honor for me. To stand at that family dinner table, at all, felt monumental. At that moment, it was silent outside. The cars had stopped. There were no cell phones. For someone who has lived in NYC for the past 17+ years, this was beyond bliss.
As we sat, and SS recited the blessings and cut/salted the challah, my secular American alarm went off when he ate the challah first. “But…what about the WOMEN?”. Such nonsense, we secular Americans. I understood, so it was only a momentary lapse in traveling sanity, to which I also thought “how brave…if the challah is poison, or…even worse…STALE…SS gets it first”. Lo and behold, the challah was just as delicious as it looked, and dinner was off and running, and completely delicious.
What I may remember most from this entire trip, beyond Petra, beyond the Western Wall, beyond lunch at Machneyuda (if you’re in Jerusalem, just GO!), was a moment of extreme peace. The moment during the Shabbos ceremony when the parents bless their children. I never had children of my own, and I suspect that will not change, but I remember what it used to feel like when my Mother and Father would hold me, or comfort me. There is a unique calm. A protection. A fortress of invincibility, that someone loves me SO MUCH that I cannot help but feel it. Standing in the living room as SS and Ellen held the heads of Penina and Ilana close…heads touching…eyes closed…breathing slowed. It’s as if someone reached into my chest and took hold of my heart to turn the eyes of my heart around to truly SEE this. To feel it. To bear witness to one of the most amazing, moving, personal experiences one human being can have with another. The bond between parent and child. In the Holiest Land on Earth, here was something even more holy than The Land, or its People. This was G-d standing directly in front of me. I have said many times before: You cannot teach “Mom” or “Dad”; You simply are.
At that point, we were ready to head out to Shul. I had attended Shul in Jerusalem in 1999 during Shabbos, but I could tell this was going to be different. And it was. Manny and I stood next to SS during the ceremony. There was a buzz throughout the ceremony, which I’m not sure had an official beginning nor end, as it seemed as though The Community sort of decided how long, how focused, and how jovial the evening might be. There were prayers being uttered up front, and smaller “ceremonies” within the service, the hum of men’s voices, the sound of hands clasping as neighbors met one another, smiles gleaming, little boys running from place to place, and some pretty ornate yarmulke and prayer shawls that might garner some attention during NYC Fashion Week. Most of all, especially for Manny and me, it was welcoming. Handshakes, smiles, and even an invitation to dance in the circle (I don’t know WHY we didn’t enter the circle, perhaps out of fear or respect or sheer stupidity, but it was still such an uplifting sight to see the Men dance in a circle). Songs were sung. More prayers were uttered. Davening to the left, right, forward, and aft. It was a cacophony of sensory overload of only the most enjoyable degree.
And through this all…dinner, Shul, post-Shul…I would glance at SS, and saw the same joy and peace on his face that I remember from my visit in 1999. There is something to be said about the most striking moments of a visit involving sheer observation of emotions that cannot be falsified on a person’s face.
We returned to the house for a wonderful evening of conversation, MORE food, and rest. Much of Saturday held these blessings as well, including a stroll around town. Children playing and talking, couples walking with their children and strollers, more smiles. I’ve never been one to believe in Utopia, but it was pretty inspiring to be in a town where, essentially, so much is “aligned”. People sharing the same religion (even if somewhat varying intensities), family values (where SS mentioned to me that having ONLY four children was on the smaller end for Beit Shemesh), multiple spaces for prayer and observation…a true Community. After our walk, another sumptuous feast that evening and…of course…SS, Manny, and I going out to play billiards. I mean, what else does one do in Israel after Shabbos? Now, when I say “play billiards”, I mean “hold a stick in our hands and NOT sink too many shots”. This, once again, was SS’s domain, and his humility once again burst through as Manny and I missed shot after shot. But, hey, it was still a total blast. Even if SS somehow hustled 142 Israeli Shekels from us.
That evening, probably a bit TOO late that evening, SS brought out his guitar, and we fumbled through a few Beatles tunes before settling on a full-on rendition of The Eagles’ “Hotel California”. I had never sung the song full-voice, so I figured this may be my only shot. I know Chez Goldberg is three stories tall, but I’m pretty sure the sounds of SS and I just MAY have made it to the second floor. I wondered if the kids might come down and join us, or simply come down the stairs to throw jagged, solid objects at us. They did neither, though I did hear a rumor that Ellen may have said something the next morning to the effect of “sing that loudly that late again, and I’ll send you BOTH to the Hotel California!”. Nah. Just a rumor. Ellen would never say THAT. ;-)
On Sunday, we were escorted us to the Friends of Zion Museum in Jerusalem. A very cool exhibition, should you have the chance to visit. We followed that up with dinner near the village, and one final evening taking Manny to the airport for his flight back to Boston. In one of the greatest gifts I received during my travel this Spring, it was just SS and I in the car driving back to Beit Shemesh from Ben Gurion. During this drive home, we talked as we often talk. About life. About love. About family and religion and culture and respect. This time, we also talked about travel. I was at the very end of having traveled for about 35 of the past 40 days (stopping in NYC to do laundry and re-pack between trips to France/Spain and, now, Jordan/Israel), and we spoke about places SS might like to visit with the family. However, what came out of this conversation was illuminating. SS spoke of how much he loves his life in Israel. It’s not difficult to notice when one is in his presence, but there is such serenity and joy in his day, from getting up in the morning, to praying, to work, to spending time with the Community and his family. It’s all here. That’s most likely one of the strongest reasons The Goldbergs chose to move back to Israel. This is Home. This is where they feel the most “in-pocket”. This is where they belong. As I listened to SS basically say “sure, I’d like to visit XYZ, but what I give up here to do so has such an overwhelmingly positive effect on me”. I’m paraphrasing, perhaps erroneously, but once again, SS was on to something. He understands how important the foundations of Home and Community are, and I loved hearing the story of how, when they traveled to Florida, they found a group of people who were celebrating Shabbos, so that they could join in the tradition/celebration, even away from home. Food for the Soul.
Ellen would drive me to Jerusalem Monday morning for the final few days of my journey, of course offering a ride to a friend whose wife had just given birth, and who needed a ride to the hospital to visit her and their new child. Because that’s what Community does. That’s what friends do.
I’m not much for purchasing souvenirs when overseas, but a refrigerator magnet (well, I guess it’s only a refrigerator magnet because I put the magnet on my refrigerator) with a scene from the Western Wall caught my eye at the FOZ gift shop. I didn’t think much of it at the time I bought it, but as it sits on my somewhat empty single dude’s refrigerator here in NYC, it makes me think. I see the Western Wall on this magnet, and I think about 1999, as well as 2019. I think of the journey The Goldbergs have made to come Home. To live where it feels the most comfortable, and to live a life full of powerful beliefs and customs, of love and connection…to their Community, to Each Other, to their Family and Friends, and to G-d. Most of all, I remember what I felt while I was with them. Maya Angelou said it best: “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel”. At a time in my life when I really craved a Home away from Home…when I needed my heart to be reminded of what love and happiness feel like…that is what my visit with The Goldbergs gave to me. Toda, indeed…
