Woe Is Me, Woebegone!

           As a preamble to the following story, I must first address you, dear readers, with a message from the depths and perhaps even the bowels of my heart. Times are tough here, not in terms of emotional or physical strength, but rather, in terms of opportune times during which my mind and fingers can conceive blog entries. Though it is true that my free time is bountiful, perhaps reaching a level of such excess that I wallow in a state of subconscious stupor more frequently than when I am fully aware, forcing myself to create these linear and logical words is no simple task. Therefore, I beg of you, I implore you, faithful followers, to keep reading, keep commenting and keep rocking, for that is what gives me the motivation to carry on, to post when such an idea is but a dream. I realize that three months is both an eternity and a flash, that time cannot be contained in such tangible terminology. Irregardless of such excuses and debauchery, I hope I will be able to regain my readers. Thank you for your patience and understanding.

Now, as previously promised, I present to you a story, one that is at times chilling and heart-wrenching, at times joyful and humorous, and at times downright bizarre. But stay along for the ride and I presume that you will not be disappointed.

The winds were howling as the rains beat down on the formerly peaceful streets of Bat Yam. Puddles had turned into streams and streams to rivers. Fixed structures on the beach had quickly crumbled into loose pieces of wood and glass swept away in the thrashing abyss of sea.

 My roommate Jonah and I were sitting close together on our living room couch—typical behavior at HaRav Maimon 30— as the clock struck 2 in the morning, the terrifying elements remaining strong in their conviction to scare the bejesus out of us. We were engaged in typical apartment discourse, debating whatever kids debate these days—baseball, sex or perhaps it was the imminent Iranian threat on Israel. Suddenly, an enormous boom! An explosion of sharp white light! An alarm blaring! A woman screaming!

            Jonah and I screamed as well, for in this country, fear of attack is inevitably stored in the back of our minds. The electricity went out, leaving us only with darkness and heavy breath. What could this horrible fiasco be? We looked at the window to see that an electric tower across the street had collapsed and fallen onto a parked car. It was a scene out of the truly horrible but horribly relevant film,  “The Day after Tomorrow.”

Minutes later, another bone-rattling, mind-numbing, heart-wrenching explosion and flash of white light. Was this the end? Had Armageddon, originally scheduled for 2012, come early? I was on the precipice of tears, realizing the Mayans had once again misguided me.

Lo and behold, I was still alive and well physically, though my psychological wellbeing had certainly taken a heavy blow. Jonah and I held each other closely for several seconds and then went to look out the window. Emergency teams were already on the scene, as they would continue to do for the next two days. We would be without electricity for the next 36 hours, but at that time, in that place, Jonah and I were not concerned with tangible items. We had our lives, goof v’nashema in tact, and our futures remained bastions of liberty and justice.

What happened that night is still shocking, and sometimes at night I wake up in a pool of sweat, for terror still rages through my veins. But I know now that if I can live through flashes of light and loud noises, that if in times of tremendous adversity I can remain strong in the arms of a friend, I can do anything. So, we must remember that, as former President John F. Kennedy said in his 1961 inaugural address, “In the past, those who foolishly sought power by riding the back of the tiger ended up inside.”

             

J-E-T-S

JETS! JETS! JETS! First game of the season tonight against the Ravens...We'll be watching it starting at 1 AM Jerusalem time on Ben Yehuda....Determination and Domination baby!

Saving the World, One Push at a Time

Ahh, the small things in life. The following is a story, a parable really, of something so insignificant, yet so powerful. Well, at the very least it was a fun way to start off the day. Enjoy with open hearts and open minds:

They stumbled out of bed this morning. On this day, the proud men of Derech Chevron Shalosh were expecting nothing out of the ordinary. But when they walked out of their apartment to embark upon the five-minute stroll to the Beit Ar-El campus, an opportunity to partake in Tikkun Olam awaited the self-proclaimed burly boys.

Jovial and over-tired, as is the norm during morning walks to first period class, the boys were suddenly summoned by the driver of a burnt-umber original Mini Cooper, something straight out of an oddball British comedy flick. 

“Push me!” the driver yelled in Hebrew at the boys, who exchanged puzzled glances. The driver repeated his message, this time in English. 

So, without a second thought, the boys jumped into the morning traffic of Jerusalem and began pushing the car up a hill. With a collective huff followed by the inevitable collective puff, the boys pushed with al their strength and up the hill the car slowly rolled! But alas, the boys ran into an obstacle. They had reached the top of the hill, and it was time for the Mini to take a right onto a main road. The boys stopped, unsure how to proceed, yet painfully aware of the fact that the precious seconds they had to get to class on time were ticking away. 

Should they abandon the project, a hero’s job left unfinished? Or, should they make the ultimate sacrifice of showing up a few minutes late, and wait until the light turned green so that we could push the Mini to safety? They decided on the latter, and with one final thrust, the car reached an oasis of flatlands, and the boys were able to continue on their merry way, with the warm feeling of helping others overwhelming their bodies.

The boys feel they are now ready to take on the world, to help both physically and emotionally, as the beacon of ultimate righteousness shines bright. 

Weddding Crashers, Yeshiva Style

Invitations in Israel mean something different than in America. In America, when you say, “Hey close friend with whom I enjoy hypothesizing on unrealistic activities, care to go to a wedding we heard about from a man we met ten minutes ago?” presumably the question is met with a chuckle. But in Israel, such a suggestion quickly becomes a reality.

Lo and behold, on our third day of existence here in the Holy Land, after a brief first class with our Kabbalah teacher, we were informed that he was attending a wedding of a Yeshiva Bachur, and that if we were interested, we could show up for the wedding just outside the Old City later that evening. Some in the class did as Americans too frequently do, laughing off the suggestion as they planned another night of drunken jubilation on Ben Yehudah. However, several friends and myself opted for an “Inebriation Celebration,” as Sam coined the evening. Indeed, with our open minds and the wedding’s open bar, we were in for a wild night.

We got to the wedding in the middle of the Sheva Brachos, as a sea of black hats surrounded the bride and groom. After a few minutes, the couple-to-be spent some time in Yichud, which enabled the bevy of Yeshiva bros to daven Maariv. As we waited for the couple to return and the party to begin, the band began to pump the crowd up, pumping out a few nifty tunes. The numerous sodas and other excitable beverages were consumed faster and faster, and then finally, with everyone itching to let their boogy loose, the groom returned, and a banging party ensued. I, along with three other Year Course males, quickly were pulled into the thick of the dancing, where we screamed and sang and sweated along with a hundred other Jewish men of varying ages and dancing abilities. Things got even wilder still, as someone whipped out a yellow sheet. Befuddled, I took a step back before I realized what the sheet was for. A bunch of men grabbed the edges as the groom was thrown onto the middle of the sheet. I had seen my fair share of chair lifts at Bar-Mitzvahs, but these Yeshiva types know how to party. They threw the groom up as his face lit up with joy. I gasped as he came down safely onto the sheet, but then whoosh! Back up he went.

Suddenly, it was time for line dancing, and as the Year Coursers formed a line in what would soon turn into a type of dance-off, we realized we would be taking on the groom and his most beloved friends and family. We began to dance and I chest bumped the groom before receding to my intial location. But then we did it again and again, until I was running full speed into the man whose name I still not know but whose wedding I will remember forever.

I had thought the chest bump was pretty cool, like something straight out of Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn’s classic flick, Wedding Crashers. But when we met up with the Year Course girls who came, we found out the dancing on the girls side yielder even more dramatic, perhaps hilarious results. One of our friends had been summoned to perform in some type of ceremony to enteratin the bride, and in doing so was quickly added to the ranks of closest friend to the bride. Our friend from Year Course has gone down in the annals of that family’s history, as she posed in pictures with the bride’s maids and even got a few right next to the newly married woman.

A wild, wonderful, wondrous night, that we hope will be the first of many.

That Ain't Right...

My previous post discussed the grandeur of Omri Casspi’s return to Israel. Well, as it turns out, he returned just in time, as some idiot in Sacremento—the town where Casspi plays professionally, drew a swastika over a mural of Casspi. Check out the article here.

Drama and Entrances, Disappointment and Exhaustion

They ferociously slammed on drums. They waved giant flags. They screamed until their lungs had nothing left to emit. The crowd at Ben Gurion Airport was greeting us, hundreds of eager and earnest Year Coursers, as we entered the Holy Land. At least, we thought they were cheering for us.

I thought the whole experience was a bit over the top, but heck, everyone says it is supposed to be the best year of your life, so perhaps the dramatic and grand entrance was just part of the Year Course shtick. Oh mercy me, how I improperly flattered myself. As it turns out, the joy on children's faces, the anticipatory, beautiful, young Israeli women could not distinguish between me and the Russian tour group I incidentally followed through the airport. The cheers, the jubilation, the overwhelming welcome was, in fact, for Omri Casspi, the first Israeli ever to play in the NBA. He strolled in just moments after us, and all of the sudden, I was a member of the crowd, star-struck like a confused teen at a Lady Gaga concert. 

Alas, after the hubbub died down, I eventually found my way to the Year Course bus, waiting outside in the scorching Tel Aviv heat. Exhausted from a lengthy plane ride which required us to wait two hours inside the beautiful walls of Boeing 747 on the ground of JFK Airport before taking off, I quickly passed out when I took a seat on the bus, as did my partner-in-crime for the year, pitching sensation and ultimate American boy Sam Forman.

After an hour ride from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, we arrived at our apartment on Derech Chevron, a main street in Jerusalem. We live off campus, about a five minute walk from the main campus, where nearly 70 of the 103 kids on our section of Year Course reside. We were given our keys to our apartment, and dragged our heavy duffles up a few steps and into our new apartment, our new home, our new future.