Coming to America: The First Shabbat

Conflict of Interests

At home in Ramat Gan, we have a very clear, set schedule for Friday night.  During the summer, we start Shabbat early (what's call Plag HaMincha) so that the younger children can participate in the meal and still go to bed at a reasonable hour.  Being away from home, we had to strategize with conflicting interests.  On the one hand, we wanted to have a pleasant and calm Shabbat dinner with the whole extended family.  On the other hand, we wanted to attend synagogue, which only started at 7:30 pm.  Normally, the meal is eaten only after services.  And on the third hand, the earliest Shabbat can be started is one and a quarter hours before sundown, which came out to be 6:30 pm.  In order for the meal to count as one of the three Shabbat feasts, it needs to be held on Shabbat.

In the end our plan was to do the afternoon prayers at home, earlier, so that we could aim to get to synagogue for just Kabbalat Shabbat, which I estimated to start close to 8 o'clock.  That way, we could start Shabbat at the earliest possible time and have a leisurely meal before leaving the house at 7:40.  What actually happened was that we didn't finish preparing the meal until after 7 o'clock, then we ate a somewhat abbreviated meal and left the house to run to synagogue (just Binyamin and I) at 8:04.  We arrived just in time for Adon Olam, the hymn said at the conclusion of the Friday night prayers.  Oh well.  Better luck next time.

Feast of Goodness

For Shabbat lunch, which, due to our insistence that children have relatively standard bedtimes even on weekends, is the only opportunity for us to go out for a Shabbat meal, we had been hooked up with a family that has a kind of open house every Shabbat.  The mother of a former college roommate of Michal's, who lives in the area, had suggested we take advantage of their hospitality, since they're always happy to have more people join them.  She suggested we meet around noon at the synagogue, since guests usually head to their house in a group, using the synagogue as a departure point.  Shabbat morning was overcast, and by 11 am it was raining fairly hard.  At 11:40, when it was time for us to leave, it was basically pouring.  We borrowed raincoats from Sonya and Adam (umbrellas are prohibited on Shabbat), put a nylon cover on the stroller, and started to make our way in the rain.

We made it to the synagogue in good spirits but quite wet, only to hear from our host that the group wasn't leaving until 12:45.  So we nibbled on cookies and vegetables at the kiddush that was still going on, and chatted a little with some of the members of the community who recognized us as out-of-towners.  By the time 12:45 rolled around, the rain had completely stopped.  We threw all the wet rain gear over the top of the stroller and joined the lunch party for a 20 minute stroll.  Eventually we reached a stone house with a piece of paper taped to the front door.  It read, in Hebrew, "Cohen family - Welcome!"

Inside we were warmly greeted by our hosts, an elderly couple who were impeccably dressed and overly welcoming.  As everyone filed in and got comfortable, the kids were invited to play with magnet sets and scoot around the floor on little kiddie vehicles they referred to as "flying turtles".  Within a few minutes we were called to table for kiddush.  The table was very long, and set with very stylish, almost lavish, dishes and decor.  Everyone, even the youngest children, had a tall crystal glass to drink from.  Bottles of flavored soda were distributed equally down the table.  A towering centerpiece with large flowers was set in the center of the table, but somehow was slender enough not to block our view of anyone else.  Booster seats and high chairs were available for all our children.  Even though five other guests had come with us (for a total of 16 people at the table), in the end there were two extra place settings.  I was mesmerized.  What was this place?

The host pronounced the blessings with a thick Brooklyn accent, grape juice was drunk, hands washed, and bread broken.  The meal was underway.  The hosts were exceedingly courteous and gracious.  While a constant barrage of chicken and deli meats flowed from the kitchen, along with kugel, cholent, salad, and other dishes, the hosts inquired after each of the guests.  Henry, the host (I don't recall his wife's name), would casually toss out a dvar torah from time to time, and he also invited one of the guests (our guide, as it turned out) to deliver some of her own insights on the Torah reading.  She chose to speak about the mitzva of caring for the stranger, the sojourner, and the greater social meaning of the commandment.  When she finished, I commented that we have before us, in this house, a fantastic application of that very commandment, since our hosts extend an open invitation to any who need it.  About midway through my second sentence, Henry and his wife abruptly left the dining room for the safety of the kitchen.  I was left with my mouth slightly agape, the unfinished thought still on my lips, whilst the other guests looked on, seeming slightly amused at what had happened.  A few moments later, our hosts reemerged.  Before taking his seat, Henry asked me if I'd finished with what I had to say.  I almost began to repeat myself from the beginning, but then immediately understand what had transpired, and just said yes, I'm done.  Then Henry proceeded to explain that they don't appreciate hearing praise about what they do, because they don't feel like it's anything extraordinary.  "We're all sojourners," he told me, "me just the same as you.  That's just a part of being Jewish."  I tried to protest and insist that Jews are no longer strangers, no longer the homeless people.  We can go home now, to Israel.  My words fell on deaf ears.  I can't say I was surprised.

By the time we'd finished eating - for dessert they brought out two flavors of pareve ice cream and four kinds of cookies, and the kids had played sufficient on the (still wet) backyard playground, many hours had passed.  Throughout the whole encounter, I had been completely astounded by the couple's patience, generosity, humility, and piety.  When we decided it was time to go, Amiel and Chanania came to the back door from the play equipment with thoroughly muddy feet.  I caught them just as they were about to step in, and ordered them to go around and come in the front entrance, so that they could wipe their feet on the mat.  Henry overheard and waved his hand dismissively, saying, "It's fine, I don't mind.  Let them come in."  I was totally blown away, but I still insisted they go around to the front.  Leaving their house, I was reminded of many a chasidic tale, in which one of the characters is a pious, generous, rich man.  Perhaps there are still some of those left in the world.

Birds of a Feather

We returned to the house and passed the remainder of Shabbat napping (the adults) and playing board games with the cousins (the kids).  Binyamin and I returned to synagogue after 7 pm for the prayers at the conclusion of Shabbat. 

In many Orthodox synagogues, a small meal is served at the end of Shabbat for those who come for the afternoon prayers and stay for the evening service as well.  This synagogue was no different from most.  We entered the social hall and I looked for a table to join.  At most tables people had already filled there plates from the buffet and were engaged in conversation with the people seated next to them.  I looked for a table that wasn't crowded and seemed to have friendly folk.  I chose one near the entrance, where two fathers and two sons were situated.  Within moments, it became apparent that I had "accidentally" chosen to sit at the only table occupied by other Israelis.  I guess I subconsciously identified them and was drawn to my kind.  The both of them were in the area temporarily, one had been sent by his work and the other in order for his wife to get a higher degree.  I didn't have much to talk to them about, but it was nice to hear and speak Hebrew to adults.

Coming to America - Days 3-4: Vacation Routine

During the next couple days we started to settle in to a kind of routine, which mostly revolved around feeding and entertaining the children (duh - what did you really expect?).  In parallel to sharing those responsibilities, each one of the adults felt into their familiar roles.  I found time to work, the non-working and grandmother managed the kitchen, and the handyman grandfather found things to fix around the house.

Kitchen consultation

Dedushka (Leo) fixing the screen door

American Jewry*

Part of my regular routine is going to synagogue multiple times a day.  I began making trips to the local synagogue in the morning and at the end of the day, which is about a 15 minute walk from the house.  The synagogue is a run-of-the-mill mainstream Orthodox establishment, not particularly Zionist but not anti-Zionist in any regard.  From my first visit I felt extremely sad, nearly moved to tears, by the superficial way in which they related to their faith.  In our home community, Judaism is not related to as merely a religious practice, a communal framework, or a code of belief.  It is seen as a driving force behind personal, political, and even world change.

There is a well-known statement in the Talmud regarding the state of the Jewish people after the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem: "Since the destruction of the Temple, all the Holy One has left in the world is 4 handbreadths of halacha."  The 4 handbreadths refer to, essential, a person's personal space as conceptualized by the Jewish code of law, and is equivalent to 1.9 meters.  This maxim is usually understood to mean that after the destruction of the Temple, the only part of Judaism that is still relevant, is still feasible for practical purposes, is the code of personal conduct.  Nowadays, there's a saying, "He's a man of the Shulchan Aruch," meaning that a person's focus is on properly observing all the personal halachot, as delineated in the Shulchan Aruch, a definitive 16th century work that became the basis for all further halachic discussions since.  Most people read the statement regarding the place of halacha as an imperative: since this is all we have left, this is a very important thing, and should be the sole focus of your religious devotion.  I recently came up with a very different reading, which makes much more sense to me - it's an outcry: this is all that people do anymore, and it's a travesty!  It's a travesty that the vast and powerful effect the Jewish faith once had on the entirety of personal, communal, municipal, and national circles of influence has been reduced to a mere set of prosaic directives for how to tie your shoes and which side to sleep on.

*This section contains my reflections of American mainstream rabbinical Orthodox Judaism, and its failure to fulfill its purported yearning for spirituality and the redemption of the world.  Since my criticisms are essentially just a decrying of the hypocrisy of this group, non-orthodox Jews who do not necessarily subscribe to a belief system that frames the Land of Israel as the only true home of the Jewish people and the only land in which the complete Jewish life can be attained should not see these particular comments as pertinent to them.  Not that they're without blemish, but at least they aren't a bunch of hypocrites...

Strengthening Bonds

The following days saw a general closeness between cousins develop and blossom.  They slowly turned into a single teeming mass of youthful impulses and energies, sharing equally breakfast, bedrooms, board games, Babushka, and bedtime stories.  The two notable exceptions were a) in upsetting situations the child would still seek consolation from a birth parent, and b) Arik was not in on the whole experience, since he was not home most of the day.  In addition, our children's abilities in spoken English (the main language spoken by their cousins) gradually improved, which greatly facilitated the whole process.

Avigail and Maya starting to hit it off

Dinnertime shenanigans

So Many Ducklings

Dear reader: if you're not familiar with the classic children's book Make Way for Ducklings by Robert McCloskey, please go find a copy and read it before continuing on.

On the fourth day of our trip, I decided the take all the children in the house (6 of ours + Maya and Layla - Arik was at opera camp, and Binyamin hadn't arrived yet) to reenact the story of Mr. and Mrs. Mallard and their ducklings who come to Boston and make their home in the Boston Public Garden.  All the children were familiar with the story and very excited to go and see it first hand.  So first we take the tram down Beacon Street, retracing their waddling footsteps, then entered the Public Garden, observed the ducks and geese present their, took pictures with the swan boats, and then went to visit the bronze monument to the ducklings.  We were very surprised to learn that everything depicted in the book, written over 77 years ago, is just the same as it was then, except for one small detail - you no longer may ride bicycles in the park.

Dreamy Elisheva on the tram

Rereading the story, in the very place it happened

We really went out on a limb for this picture

The swan boats

The ducklings 

Layla, Amiel and Chanania hitch a ride on Mrs. Mallard's back

After we finished our duckling tour, we went to a nice little park along the river.

When it was time to head home, we walked back to the tram, but we discovered that boarding a train was futile.  We were downtown, and trying to travel in the direction of Fenway Stadium, on the day of a Red Sox game, in the middle of rush hour.  We didn't have a chance.  So we rode a different train line that run along with hours for as far as we could - one stop.  Then we started walking.  We walked for about an hour, during which time I was constantly scanning behind me for Noam, who was lagging, and peering ahead to make sure I didn't lose sight of Maya and Avigail, who were leading the pack.  When we all gathered at intersections, waiting for the light to change, people gaped.  On at least four different occasions over the course of the day, stupefied passersby asked me in awe and wonderment if all those children belong to me.  I usually downplayed it, saying no, some of them are my nieces, but later I realized that I should have just said "I have another five back at home."  I felt like I was reliving another page of that book, where Mrs. Mallard walks with her ducklings from the river to the park, and people on the street stop in wonderment.  Here I was, marching down the street with eight ducklings!  Eventually we passed Fenway Stadium and made it to a tram station where the cars were no longer crowded. 

Coming to America - Day 2: Diversity or Culture Clash?

Crossing the Atlantic obviously brings with it numerous cultural implications, beyond any possible linguistic barriers.  I've lived half my life in Israel, and although I don't feel like a total foreigner in the US, there is no way for me to prevent myself from constantly noticing the differences and contemplating their meaning.  Much more so for my children.  On our first day, those cultural differences played out in many different ways.

Rise & Shine

After getting up in the morning, we began to get our bearings.  We are being graciously hosted by my sister- and brother-in-law, Sonya and Adam.  They moved near Boston, MA exactly one year ago from central Pennsylvania.  The neighborhood they live in is situated around along the slopes of an enormous hill.  The live on a terrace (that is, the official street name is such-and-such Terrace), which, is its name implies, wraps around the side of the hill.  This was actually the first time I was fully aware of the significance of this specific street classification (lane, boulevard, etc. all denote different geographical/municipal phenomena).  The most poignant ramification of living on the side of a hill is that one side of the house is always going to have a very different relationship to the ground than the other side.  In their case, the front of the house is at street level, and the back is on stilts.  They have a multi-tiered deck that conforms roughly to the slope of the hill, and then there is a nearly useless patch of land between the end of the deck and the next house downhill.  Nearly useless due to the steep incline, of course.  It is, oddly enough, put to use by wild turkeys who come to roost in the evening in the branches of the trees that grow in that otherwise unutilized stretch.

Staying in the house with us are Michal and Sonya's parents, Anna and Leo.  They live outside of Philadelphia, and drove in to Boston to enjoy a rare few days of having all their progeny under one roof.  The dynamics between the various generations began to unfold over the course of the morning.  Anna, being a veteran Jewish mother, feels the full responsibility of feeding everyone in the house, even though they all have their own Jewish mothers to take care of them (or at least Jewish wives).  We are on vacation, but Sonya and Adam are not.  They are university professors, and have responsibilities even over the summer.  Our children are on vacation, as well.  Sonya and Adam's children - Maya (12), Arik (9), and Layla (7) are likewise on summer vacation, but Arik has a drama day camp that occupies him most of the day.

The grandparents speak Russian to everyone in the house, with the exclusion of myself.  I took a year of Russian at the University of Chicago, and then have lived in a house where Russian is spoken around me for the past 15.5 years (since Binyamin was born), but my skills are still quite limited.  Adam, who grew up in Montreal, has been very studious and tenuous in his pursuit of Russian fluency, and it has certainly paid off.  The Boston kids speak to each other alternately in Russian or English; their English seems to be the stronger tongue.  Our kids will understand either Russian or English, but only the older ones are proficient in answering in any language other than Hebrew.  And so on our first morning the regular routines of getting up and eating breakfast were governed in a mostly separate fashion, each nuclear family doing its own thing within the common confines of the house.

Lost & Found

In the late morning, our kids were getting bored and antsy, having been shown around the house and deck by their cousins and quickly exhausted the obvious means of entertainment offered to them.  So I volunteered to take them to the neighborhood park.  I set off to climb to the top of the hill with Elisheva, Noam, Amiel, and Chanania.  After walking up a steep incline for about ten minutes, we crested the hill, and there we found a park split over both sides of the road, with lots of sloping grassy areas and not very much in the way of a playground.

Tree climbing on the top of the hill

Noam and Elisheva trying out a cozy cabin

A man-made stone structure in the park

After exploring the park, we decided to go down the hill to the street on the slope opposite us.  Amiel did cartwheels all the way down to the bottom (after which he was unable to walk straight), while Noam and Chanania just ran.  Elisheva and I took our time, and went over to investigate a couple of lone trees near the edge of the grass.  There we found large flat rock with two bracelets of green polished stones laying on it.  Elisheva immediately requested to adorn them, one on each wrist (she is very much enamored of wearing jewelry).  The boys came over to see what we were doing.  After hearing that the bracelets had just been lying there, Amiel shouted out, "Let's do the mitzva of Hashavat Aveida!".  Hashavat Aveida is the mitzva of returning lost objects (or livestock) you happen upon.  Nowadays the most common approach to finding the owner of the lost object is simply by putting up a note in the place the object was found.  The note must not stipulate too much information about the object, in order to fraudulent claims.  The finder must leave out identifying traits from the note, and only return it to a claimant who correctly supplies them.  Local electronic bulletin boards (like a neighborhood Google Group, or the like) are also a good place to advertise notices of found items.  We did not come to the park with paper and pen, and I have no knowledge of local virtual community boards, so I just smiled at Amiel's good intentions.  Maybe we'll put up a note next time we go to the park.

Elisheva modeling one of the bracelets

On the way home, I decided to go a different way, not the way we'd come.  My phone had no reception since I hadn't yet purchased an American SIM card, and I had no prior knowledge of the neighborhood.  And so, I knowingly let myself and four of my children get completely lost in suburban Boston.  We were supposed to be home in about half an hour from the time we left the park, but I didn't let that bother me.  As we wandered the streets, I pointed out the children how different states put out different-looking license plates, we pondered together the different kinds of houses, and noted how the school buses, mail trucks, and other mundane features of urban life look very different here than in Israel.  We found mushrooms under a tree and harvested them to bring back to Babushka (Russian for grandmother).  We found a wild turkey feather on the parkway.  Eventually, we had only ten minutes to be home, and the children were starting to seriously drag their feet and even whine a little that they were tired and thirsty.  I had to do something.  I've always prided myself on a solid sense of direction.  The streets we had been walking down were anything but straight, and yet I had a strong feeling that were headed the right way.  Then we chanced upon a set of stairs that connected to the terrace above us.  We ascended, and continued to walk along the higher street.  At this point, I decided that enough was enough, and that I would ask directions from the next person we passed on the street.  Just then, I pointed out to the kids a license plate from Pennsylvania.  I took three more steps, looked up, and stopped.  The house on the opposite side of the street seemed oddly familiar.  Oh yeah, that's the house I see when I walk out the door of Sonya and Adam's house... I called out to the kids: "Ok, we're here, come inside!"  We had walked just past the house without even realizing it.  But we found our way home, on our own, and we were only 5 minutes late.

Later in the day, we attempted to get lost again, but with less success.  It happened to be Anna's birthday, and a surprise talent show was in the works.  Almost all the kids and some of their parents would be performing in her honor.  I was charged with purveying the dessert - either ice cream or a fancy cake.  I set out in search of a kosher supermarket I'd told was "just around the corner" but not told precisely which corner it was around, and the source of the information was unavailable at the time.  I left the house with Moriah (in a stroller), Elisheva, Noam, and Layla, with an hour to return. We headed down the main drag, where I'd seen a kosher restaurant, and continued on for some time.  When it was almost time to turn back, I decided we should go a different way back to the house in order to increase our chances of finding the store.  I started down a side street, and immediately Layla started disclosing the way home from our new route.  I turned onto an even smaller street, and again the same thing.  It was as if I had a living version of Waze walking along beside me, recalculating my route at every turn.  So I engaged her in a conversation about the value of getting lost, and told her the story of how we had succeeded in getting lost and then found earlier in the day.  In the meantime, we found ourselves at a dead end, and cut through an oddly unfenced construction site (no construction was underway at that time of day) in order to get through to the next street.  When we got back to a main avenue, we had only 20 minutes left to get home.  I saw a large complex with 6-pointed stars on it.  We walked past it, to find a Jewish bookstore.  I felt like we were getting warmer.  I was about to give up, when a religious couple walked out of the bookstore.  I asked them as to the whereabouts of a kosher supermarket, and they said, "Follow us.  We're going there - it's just on the next block."  Eureka!  Again we had arrived at our destination by trying to get lost.  Now we just had to get the ice cream, and get home.  With fifteen minutes left on the clock, we entered the store, Elisheva screaming for no known reason.  I figured out that she would calm down if I let her sit in the stroller.  I picked up Moriah and went off to hunt for ice cream.  It took me a few minutes to pick out a bucket of cold dessert, and when I got back to the stroller, I found an unconscious little girl inside.  That certainly explained the screaming earlier.  The line was a bit long, so we were fifteen minutes late getting back, but I felt victorious.  Getting lost had proved itself yet again.

Birthday Revue

When we got back to the house, it was time for the birthday programming.  Babushka Anna was requested to come to the room where the electric organ is kept, and everyone began to sing birthday songs, and then dance around her in a circle.  She was overjoyed at the attention and at having so many of her children and grandchildren present.  Then everyone sat down and the show commenced.  Maya MC'ed, birthday cards were presented, short music pieces were performed on the electric piano and clarinet, and then we all sat down on the deck for a festive family meal.

The audience is ready

Babushka in the middle

Avigail

Maya

Chanania

Amiel

The long table

The other side of the table

Toasts were made, food was consumed, (mosquitos were swatted) and good vibes were shared by all.

The Cousin Connection

[This section was accidentally deleted by some child who banged on the keyboard while I was away.  By the time I realized what had happened, I had typed too many other words to be able to undelete it.  So instead I'll just summarize.]

This was the first time these cousins really met each other, in the flesh.  Noam and Layla hit it off phenomenally, despite a one-way language barrier (Noam has a lot of trouble articulating in any language other than Hebrew).  So much so I was reminded of the beginning of Forrest Gump, where he describes his relationship with Jenny when they were little kids, "like peas and carrots."  No other significant cross-family connections were made between the kids.

It May Be Organic, but is it Kosher?

Michal and I are the only members of our respective birth families that keep kosher in a strict fashion.  Keeping kosher in someone else's non-kosher compliant home is always tricky, and we don't have a set protocol for it, since it happens so infrequently.  It becomes ever the more complicated when the host family have their own particularities around food, and yet again when their is another set of guests with their own culinary preferences.  But Sonya and Adam are open-minded and inclusive folk, so the approach they preferred was a "common denominator" approach, to the greatest extent possible - when we're all eating together, we all eat the same food.  That means the food has to be kosher (for us), organic as much as possible (for the hosts [but not only - we also like to eat organic]), and also adhere to the traditional Russian palate (for the grandparents).

Inclusion is also a good approach, but problems still arise when there is a conflict of values.  Sonya wanted to put spinach leaves in the salad.  Spinach is known to have a high probability of infestation by insects, and all insects (with the exception of 6 varieties of locust) are strictly prohibited in the kosher diet.  The accepted treatment is to soak the leaves in a soapy solution for a few minutes (which dissolves the adhesive that sticks the insects to the leaves), and then thoroughly rinse.  Sonya and Adam's dietary restrictions include avoiding ingesting chemicals in any amount, and naturally Sonya was concerned about trace amounts of soap that might not be fully rinsed away.  Even though I am also a fan of spinach, I was willing to leave it out all together.  Thinking about it at the time, I realized it was just a question of priorities: neither one of us was interested in eating soap, or insects, but I was willing to risk small amounts of soap in order to completely avoid the insects, and she was willing to risk eating a few bugs in order to avoid the soap suds.  In the end, she was more resourceful than I, and proposed checking some of the leaves manually, just enough to fill out the salad.  That was a solution I never would have proposed, since it is tedious work and usually people aren't interested in undertaking it.  At the end of the day, inclusion won out, and the salad was sumptuous.

Coming to America - Day 1: The long shlep

Prologue

We live in Israel.  Our parents and some of our siblings live in the USA.  My parents come visit us on a very regular basis.  Michal's parents less so, but they are still a known presence in our children's lives (the infrequent IRL visits being supplemented by Skype sessions).  We travel to the States very, very infrequently.  The last time I was there was nine years ago, for my brother Ari's wedding.  Since then, Michal visited her mother with Elisheva, who was a baby, four years ago, and last summer we sent Chanania and Avigail for a few weeks to both sets of grandparents.  

A few months ago, an idea began to form to have a large-scale family get-together in Woodstock, where I did most of my growing up and where my parents still live (at least some of the time).  The basis for the family reunion was my mother's impending 70th birthday.  The idea quickly turned into an actionable plan.  Dates were chosen, plane tickets purchased, and we (actually just the kids) began counting the weeks and days until the day of departure.  Like the last trip we made, nine years prior, we planned to split our time stateside between Michal's family and mine roughly one third and two thirds.  Nine years ago, we had only three kids (and one in utero).  This year, we have seven.  This is an entirely different ballgame.

Leaving Home and Country

We carefully chose our flights.  We didn't want a flight that left too early in the morning, so that we could have a calm start to the long day that lay ahead of us.  A night flight was not optimal either, since that meant the kids (and their parents, as well) would have to try to get their entire night's sleep pent up in the airplane seats - that obviously wasn't going to end well.  In the end, we found a flight that left at a quarter to noon.  That way, we only needed to leave the house by 8:30, while on the other end of things it gave us many hours of flight time before the kids started to go into insanely tired mode.

We ordered two taxis to take us to the airport.  We were traveling light - four suitcases and a stroller, plus a slew of carry-ons and smaller items.  Binyamin was not traveling with us, since he functions as a counselor in the Ariel youth movement, and their camp is the week we traveled.  He is scheduled to fly on his own the following Thursday.  And so, the eight of us and all our luggage fit perfectly into two taxis.  We got to the airport and got in line for check-in.  After about an hour of waiting, we finally made it to the desk.  Check-in took an inordinate amount of time, even for a party of eight.  And the first sign of trouble appeared: our kosher meals had not been registered.  We hoped that the regular airplane meals, since they were sourced from an Israeli supplier, would be kosher anyway.

Before security we stopped to eat some sandwiches, and suddenly it was ten minutes before boarding time, and we were on the wrong side of security.  This was the first time we realized that taking six kids on the plane is not just more expensive and a greater load on your parental attention drive, it also takes a lot longer to do everything.  We made it to the gate 15 minutes before takeoff.  There were still a handful of passengers who hadn't boarded yet, so I let a friendly salesman convince me to sign up for a credit card that would give me frequent flyer miles.  I was the last person to board the plane.

On the plane, we had seven seats all in one row (Moriah didn't get a seat, since she's not two years old yet).  The plane had three sections with three seats in each.  We had the entire left and middle sections of our row, and the aisle seat of the right section.  Initially we sat, from left to right: Elisheva, Avigail, Chanania, Noam, Amiel, Michal, and me isolated in the lone aisle seat.  The logic was that Avigail (13) could take care of Elisheva (3), Chanania (11) doesn't need a parental figure next to him, and Michal would be in arm's reach of the two boys next to her.  An aisle seat with no children next to me?  I wasn't going to complain!  Of course, Moriah (1.5) would be on my lap some of the time, but I didn't have sole responsibility for her.

We left the ground almost an hour late, but the captain assured us that the flight had been originally scheduled with a 25 minute buffer (we ended up landing 5 minutes after the original arrival time).  The children were all calm and excited.  We had plenty of things to help them pass the hours: coloring books, card games, novels, what have you.  What we didn't take into account was that the multimedia devices installed in the seat backs would be a much effective and powerful means to that end.  At first, Elisheva was intensely involved with her coloring book while everyone else, myself and Moriah excepted, were absorbed in there screens.  Then Elisheva got hooked, too.

Mass hypnotism

Insomnia at 30,000 feet

I had one primary focus that preempted any interest in watching a film on the flight: sleep.  The prior two nights I had been suffering from a cold that alternately made my nose completely stuffed, or streamed very thin mucus out my nostrils.  Both nights it took my hours to final fall asleep.  The night before the flight I had only succeeded in sleeping about three hours, propped up on the couch so my head was almost upright.  After all were settled and fed, Michal granted me a release from all filial duties in order to try to sleep.  I closed my eyes and did my best to get comfortable.  For the better part of two hours I tried my darndest, but I was unable to lose consciousness.

Food, glorious food

Our misgivings at the check-in counter resolved themselves into deep concern when the stewardesses confirmed we were not on the kosher meal list.  The regular meals, while produced in Israel, were entirely without markings on them.  There was a single extra kosher meal, which they gladly gave to us.  And then, we began foraging.  In the row behind us were two religious young women who didn't seem interested at all in the kosher meals they'd ordered.  They happily passed us their meals, minus the main, hot portion which one girl preferred to keep for herself.  We beseeched the flight staff to pass on to us any unopened kosher meals.  In the end, we had 5.5 meals, instead of the seven we were eligible for.  But since the kids don't have enormous appetites for airplane food, we ended up having one and a half intact meals left over. 

Down to the bitter end

Most of the flight went smoothly - the kids were locked into their screens, the three littles ones fell asleep, and the flight staff was able to supply us with ample amounts of kosher food.  About an hour before landing (already after midnight for us), we had an unpleasant surprise: both Elisheva and Noam (5) had wet themselves while sleeping.  Now I felt like I was in a Mission Impossible movie - the aisles were blocked by carts collecting garbage, only one bathroom was unoccupied, I was in one aisle and the still-sleeping children in the other, and the changes of clothes were in an undisclosed location in one of the carry on bags.  Somehow I made it happen, but we were still in the bathroom (all three of us crammed in together) when the plane started to descend.  

We all got seated again, but since Elisheva seat was a little wet, she sat on my lap during the descent.  About 20 minutes before we landed, she started bawling inconsolably.  She was deep in the overtired-insane state in which she ignores any attempt to get information out of her regarding the source of her anguish.  I assumed it was ears, and I urged her to take a drink of water.  She refused.  After the plane actually landed, I asked her if she wanted to go to Michal.  Within seconds she stopped crying.  Somewhere in all this chaos I vowed to never again do transatlantic travel with kids under the age of 6.

Welcome to Canada, please remove your shoes

We landed in Toronto, with a connection in just under two hours to Boston.  Due to congestion in the airfield, it took us nearly half an hour to reach our gate.  Once off the plane, we began to hustle to our connecting flight.  We were directed to a separate connecting area for flights to the US.  We had known that we going to go through US passport control in Toronto, but we didn't understand the full import of that fact.  Now we hit full-blown all-American paranoid security.  Take off your shoes, belts, etc.  

I am involved in a startup that is developing a platform for winery management and substance monitoring. A week ago my partner and I made a professional visit to a boutique winery in order to collect data.  When we were done there, the owner gifted each of us with a rather pricy bottle of wine.  When preparing for the flight, the Air Canada website stated that alcohol needs to be transported in a carry on bag, and declared at check in.  At check in for our first flight, I mentioned that a had a bottle of wine with me, and the attendant just sort of nodded okay.  Now, in Toronto, the TSA agent gave me two choices: let go of the wine, or check it as luggage.  I looked behind me.  We had already waited twenty minutes in line for security.  Our flight left in an hour and fifteen minutes.  I was going to say "You should really just take it home and drink it yourself", but I caught myself.  The TSA agent was a Muslim woman - she'd probably get insulted if I suggest she ingest alcohol.  So I said, "Really, someone should take it and drink it - it's a really good bottle of wine."  She shrugged and said, "We can't do that", as she dropped it unceremoniously into the trash can behind her.  I wondered if she meant that it's alcohol, so she can't drink it, or that the TSA policy forbids taking any confiscated goods.  I know she meant the latter, but I hope she really meant both.  Either way, the fancy bottle of booze I'd planned to give my mother on her birthday was lost to a flight security catch-22: on the way into Canada, I had to have it in my carry on.  On the way out of Canada, it had to be checked.  In between, there wasn't even time to go the bathroom.

Noam had been complaining that he needs to use the bathroom from just before the time the plane touched down.  Half an hour later, we made it through security and reached the automated visa machines.  Looking back on our travails, I'm remembered of a line from one of the best movies of all time, The Princess Bride.  Westley and Princess Buttercup are braving the perils of the fire swamp in an attempt to escape their pursuers.  Just after escaping from the fire spurts lightning sand, Westley says confidently to his love that they're safe now, seeing as the purported "rodents of unusual size" most likely don't even exist.  And then one jumps on him.

These automated machines take almost as much time as filling out the entire form manually.  They have a glass panel with a scanner underneath.  You put the photo page of the passport face down, and it's supposed to do all the work.  Supposed to.  It works very slowly, sometimes not clear if it's working at all.  It took us many minutes to convince the machine to scan all our passports, and then another drawn out few minutes while it "processed the request" and finally printed out the little papers.  All the while Noam reminded us more and more urgently that he needed to pee.  We walked around to the next stage: the line to the customs agents.  The line moved along at a reasonable pace, but at this point the kids started to really go bonkers.  A woman behind us in line sympathized with us, while Michal remarked that from the time you start security to the time you get through to the terminal takes almost an hour - enough for a person to keel over from dehydration (since you can't bring liquids through).  Finally we made it through, with 25 minutes to takeoff.  

We found our gate (after a pitstop) and saw that they were still boarding.  Then we looked up and saw that the flight was to Los Angeles, not Boston.  I inquired about a flight to Boston, but the woman at the desk had no idea what I wanted.  We skipped over to the giant flight monitor nearby, and saw that our flight had been moved from it's original gate.  We walked another five minutes, and got to the right place, at last.  15 minutes left until takeoff.  I lurked off to a corner of the boarding area to quickly get in the afternoon prayer.  Michal shouted after me something about my boarding pass, but I was too stressed and overtired to really care, or even hear what she was saying.  I finished praying with four people still in line to board.  I walked over, to the desk, saw that the attendant had Moriah's passport and boarding pass.  She knew I was the adult that the infant passenger was responsible for, but she needed by boarding pass.  I said I don't have it, that my wife had boarded already and taken it with.  After some hemming and hawing she printed me out a new boarding pass, and the other attendant was to accompany me onto the plane to see my passport.  Again I was the last person to board the plane.  On the plane, I was told that Chanania had been sent to bring me my passport and boarding pass while I was praying, and he'd put it in the pocket of my backpack.  How was I supposed to know this?  It didn't matter any more.  We were clear.  The plane didn't push off for a while, because apparently one passenger had checked in luggage, but not shown up for the flight.  I was glad that we were not in that situation.  Then, all of a sudden, another passenger boarded the plane, a woman I'd seen at the gate when I boarded.  Was she the no-show?  Then we hadn't she boarded earlier?  I got no answers to these questions in my head.

This second flight was very short and uneventful, until near the end.  Less than half an hour before landing, Elisheva began her inconsolable wailing once more.  She refused to sit or be held - she lowered herself to the floor and refused to budge.  Then, suddenly, she began to vomit.  I scrounged for an air sickness bag, but none were to be found.  She finished vomiting, I ran to the bathroom to get some paper towels to wipe up the floor, and then I found myself in an oddly familiar situation: in the airplane bathroom, getting a child cleaned up, with the plane rapidly descending.

The Show's Not Over Until They're All Asleep

We landed in Boston, at 8:30 local time, and quickly made our way to the baggage claim.  Three of our four suitcases arrived.  Michal and two of the kids went off in search of someone to file a claim with, and I collapsed on a nearby bench with the rest of the kids.  At the same time she was trying to contact her sister, Sonya, who was coming to pick us up.  Another flight's luggage came through our turnstile.  Still nothing.  Eventually, Michal reappeared, having found the right person, and told me that Sonya was outside.  I sent the older kids out to find there aunt, and I began to drag the suitcases one by one.  Sonya was a beam of bright sunshine after our long and wearying journey.  The car was ready, trunk emptied, car seats in place, fresh fruit for all to enjoy.  I was starting to feel like maybe the end was in sight.  Adam, Sonya's husband, was on his way with a second car.  I loaded the suitcases into the car, strapped Moriah, Elisheva, and Amiel into the back seat, and left Michal (who hadn't finished filing the lost luggage claim) with three kids, the stroller, and some backpacks.  As soon as Moriah was buckled in she started screaming.  I assured Sonya (and myself) that she'll calm down and fall asleep as soon as the car starts moving.  I wasn't entirely wrong, but her screaming lasted longer than expected, and only about 10 minutes into the ride she finally quieted down.  We made it to their house, I put Moriah straight into her bed, and immediately started getting the two (who had only drowsed a little in the car) ready as well.  The second carload arrived before I had done much, and everyone else poured into the house.  We had been given the basement suite, two bedrooms and a bathroom.  There were two beds less than the total number of people, so the foldout couch in the living room was utilized as well.  At around 11 o'clock (which was 6 in the morning for us!), we were finally able to hit the hay.  It had been a long day.  Perhaps the longest day in my entire life.

The day that mashiach didn't arrive

Last night, Shabbat ended late.  I cleaned up the kitchen/dining room from the Shabbat meals, filled the dishwasher with dishes, and got down to work.  I spent an hour and a half repairing a Sefer Torah long overdue to be returned to a synagogue around the corner, and then another hour trying to get push notifications to work on an even more overdue project.  I went to bed after 1:30 am, falling asleep holding my wife's hand, after an extended bout of "pillow talk".   Six little angels (the eldest, no longer little but still angelic, sleeps most nights in his yeshiva dorm) slept in the rooms around us.  The world was not perfect, but at peace.  All around me, things were coming together.

In the morning, I woke up much earlier than I expected.  Lately, I've been working from home on Sundays.  That, coupled with the fact that I went to sleep so late, meant that I didn't even bother to set an alarm.  I figured the kids would wake me up sometime around 8 o'clock.  But as soon as I opened my eyes, I knew it was definitely much earlier than that.  The house was still very quiet - not all the kids had even woken up.  Strange sounds filtered in through the open window.  As I came to full consciousness, I immediately recognized what I was hearing.  It was a chorus singing one of Maimonides' 13 principles of faith, the one that has a very popular melody to go along with it, the one about the coming of the mashiach¹:

אני מאמין באמונה שלמה בביאת המשיח. ואף על פי שיתמהמה אחכה לו בכל יום שיבוא

A thousand questions flooded my mind.  What is this?  Who is singing?  What time is it?  Am I really awake?
I squinted in the bright light and turned to the small alarm clock next to the bed.  It read 6:39.  At least I could get an answer to one question.  For a moment, I tried to dismiss it and go back to sleep, but then the singing ended.  Now I heard someone shouting short sentences, possibly through a megaphone, which were answered each time by a cheer from the crowd, but I couldn't make out what they were saying.  Now I was sure I was missing out on something big.  Was this it?  Had mashiach come, with no forewarning, and begun to assemble the masses in the nearby park?  Was he rallying them before the march (or drive) to Jerusalem to rebuild the Temple?  Or was it just some early morning activity at the geriatric center across the alley?  I was very sure that the center didn't open so early, so I ruled that possibly out right away.  That could only mean one thing...

Determined to find out what was going on, at the very least in order to satisfy my curiosity (who had choir rehearsal at such an hour?), and at most to take part in the greatest historical happening in our time, I made up my mind and sat up in bed.  After saying my Modeh Ani² with particular intent and wonderment, I very purposefully starting getting dressed.  Immediately I was requested to close the window shades by my wife, so that she could continue to sleep.  I shook off the impulse to ignore the request (since I was on a possibly very important and urgent mission), since if this really was what I thought it might be, I knew it couldn't come at the price of inconveniencing others.  A moment later Elisheva, aged three, met me in the hallway and requested that I wash her off - she'd been wearing a diaper all night.  I felt like I was being slowed down, but I did as she requested, trying hard not to seem annoyed.  I entered the laundry room in search of a clean undershirt, and tried to peek onto the park.  The south end of our building abuts the park, but our apartment is on the north end of the building.  Out of the laundry room window, which faces east, I could only see a single young man with a talit on.  My curiosity only heightened.

As I made it into the living room, I discovered that nearly all the children were up, but engaged quietly in various occupations, such as reading library books.  I wanted to ask them if they knew what was going on outside, but I no longer heard anything, and from the looks of it they hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary in any case.  Elisheva asked me to make her a peanut butter sandwich.  I tried to refuse, explaining that it's too early to start eating, but she insisted that she was ready for her sandwich.  I glanced at the clock.  It read 6:50.  I was concerned I might miss the crowd and never know what really happened, or worse yet, find out later that I had in fact missed an opportunity to join the mashiach's entourage.  I considered turning on the radio - if this was it, wouldn't the news be picking up on it?  Then I decided that if they were going to leave, it probably wouldn't be before 7 o'clock.  Nobody started a group trip before 7 o'clock.  It was unheard of.  Even for mashiach.

I sat down at the kitchen table, sliced some bread, and smeared some peanut butter between the slices.  I presented the sandwich to Elisheva, who was standing next to me in wait.  She picked it up, then looked and me and started crying.  She said something about the last piece not having peanut butter on it.  The last piece was the end piece, which was considered a delicacy by all children in the house because of the sumptuous crust.  It was usually eaten separately, unadorned by condiments of any kind.  Elisheva, however, is not a typical child.  She wanted her end piece connected to the rest of the sandwich.  So I spread peanut butter on the second to last piece, stuck the end piece to it, and gave it back to her.  She plopped on the floor and renewed wailing.  At this point I was basically clueless as to what she wanted, and almost ready to leave her there on the floor, crying, as I ran to join the masses of the faithful in the redemption march.  I mustered up my last ounce of patience and asked her very calmly and clearly what she wanted.  No intelligible answer.  Then I got an idea.  I asked if she wants me to spread the peanut butter on the end piece itself, not just on the other part of the sandwich.  Her crying seemed to come down a notch.  I applied peanut butter to the end piece, and moved on, since Elisheva seemed to be satisfied with the sandwich now.

I finished getting dressed, grabbed my talit and tefillin, and started to head out of the house.  As I unlocked the door, I remembered that I had been asked to take out the trash in the morning.  I went back into the kitchen, grabbed the garbage, and asked Avigail (age 13), who had just drifted into the kitchen, to put out a new garbage bag.  As I headed down the stairs and towards the municipal garbage cans, the bag of trash in my own hand gave me a sense of reassurance.  I was doing the right thing, not forgetting those around me as I ran off to join a higher cause.  I was reminded of a tale about the Arizal³, who one late Friday afternoon told his students that the time was ripe, they were now going to go to Jerusalem and bring the mashiach.  Since it was so close to Shabbat, one of the students asked if they could wait a moment while he ran to let his wife know he wasn't coming home.  The Arizal sadly announced that because of that student's hesitation, they had missed the chance, and the coming of mashiach would be greatly delayed.  But wait - I thought - that's the opposite of my story!  I pushed it out of my mind.

After disposing of the trash, I hurriedly climbed the alleyway up to the entrance to the park.  Initially, the shrubs prevented me from seeing what was going in the park, but I heard voices, many voices.  My heart started beating faster.  I turned the corner, and then I saw them.  Hundreds of religious teenagers, boys and girls, were standing, sitting, and milling about the grassy area in the park.  Many of them were wearing the Bnei Akiva movement shirt.  From the large backpacks strewn about, I quickly deduced that the park had been designated as a meeting point for some sort of Bnei Akiva camp (some schools started summer vacation last week).  The singing I'd heard earlier?  It was not uncommon to sing that tune after the morning prayers, particular in youth group settings.  So it wasn't exactly what I thought it was.  But maybe it was close.  I looked around - young people of different backgrounds and ethnicities (I was pleased to see a sprinkling of Ethiopian teens in the crowd), all together, chatting and laughing and playing catch.  There was no fighting, no name-calling, nobody sitting by themselves off to the side.  All these teenagers - an age renowned for sleeping in late - had gotten themselves here by 6 o'clock in the morning for the morning prayers before catching the bus to camp.  The world had not changed, but at least here was a living example of how things ought to be.  And I was right about one other thing - it was already 7 o'clock, and they weren't boarding the buses just yet.

Epilogue

I made my way through the park to the yeshiva where I planned to participate in the morning prayers.  It took me more than ten minutes just to put on my tefillin, an act that normally took no more than a minute or two.  My mind was still reeling from everything I'd felt and imagined.  I was reminded of David Ben Yosef's⁴ story about the moment that had turned his life around.  He was in the Yom Kippur War, asleep in an encampment in the Sinai peninsula when an early morning Egyptian attack caught them by surprise.  An Egyptian tank loomed on the hill above him, and he lay down in the sand, expecting to die any moment.  Suddenly he decided to take action.  He ran to a nearby machine gun nest and starting spraying the tank with rounds from the machine gun.  Unexpectedly, the tank turned around and fled, along with the rest of the invading force.  Afterwards he went to the morning prayers, and his scrape with death made the overly familiar words in the siddur speak to him.  From that moment on, he began to actually live.  While I can't say my experience was intense as his, I do feel changed by it.  I mean, what if today is the day - the day that everything else depends on?  You can substitute your paramount event for mine - it could be your last day on Earth, the day you're going to meet someone who you've been waiting to meet your whole life, etc. (and if you don't have a substitute for mashiach, what does that mean?).  Even if there is only a remote chance it's actually going to be today, wouldn't you want to get things right?  What would our days look like if we got up every morning and told ourselves these things?  I think I know - they would look a lot better than they do now...

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¹ I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah, and, though he tarry, I will anticipate daily his coming.

² Benediction said first thing when you wake up in the morning, thanking God that you're still alive

³ Rabbi Yitzchak Luria, the most well-known of the mystics of Tzfat in the 16th century, and teacher of many of the others. In this version of the story I relate, the moral is slightly different, and more in line with my own thinking. The version I relate in the body of the blog is the one I remember. I don't know which version, or any, is more authoritative

⁴ David Ben Yosef was a very fascinating person. An Israeli writer and self-help guru who was a deeply religious man, wrote books that were either essential diaries or actual correspondences he had with others, despised institutionalized medicine, and healed himself of cancer 5 times.  He claimed that cancer was the easiest disease to cure.  He passed away last year at the age of 84.