Introduction

Long ago and far away. That’s the where and when of my childhood, those multiple decades past in a very Jewish neighborhood in the northern part of The Bronx. (That’s right, ‘The Bronx,’ not ‘the Bronx,’ and certainly not ‘De Bronx.’ We were classier than that.) I could compile a list of some size about the special qualities of our neighborhood, but here are two things that I think are interesting. One, you never saw a cop on a beat anywhere near E. 208 St.; there was no compelling reason for any of police officer to be there. Second, there was a notable lack of watering holes in the area, at least where the Jews lived. And that absence of alcohol was true in our home and, I assume, in the homes of my friends. There may have been some ‘schnappes’ here and there in the neighborhood shuls, but who knew about such things?

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The following incident should have happened, although it might not have. It was at the annual convention of comedians held somewhere in the Catskills. A bunch of old-timers and their families would gather round and regale themselves with stories and punchlines that were all too familiar. They each knew the repertoire of their fellow comedians so well that they had assigned a number to each joke that anybody told. All a performer in their midst had to do was grab the mike and rattle off a number to be followed by the appreciative laughter of their colleagues and their guests. It so happened one year that a fledgling performer came on stage and confidently announced, ‘number 27.’ To his chagrin, there was deathly silence – not a peep. (known in the trade as ‘Mount Rushmore.’) Mortified, the novice returned to his seat in the audience, unable to fathom why he had just bombed on stage. An hour later, a more seasoned comedian took the mike. ‘Number 27,’ he began, followed by five minutes of people laughing, guffawing, proverbially ‘rolling in the aisles.’ The young man, totally stunned by this turn of events, turned to his neighbor, a veteran jokester. “I don’t get it; I told the same joke, number 27, an hour ago, and nothing. This guy, they’re laughing so hard, they’re wetting themselves. What is he doing that’s so different?’ The older man turned to him and quietly explained, ‘It’s all in the timing.’

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You want a back story? I’ll give you a back story. This was years ago, and we and The Levines were standing in front of the small supermarket on Emek Refayim (in the Jerusalem neighborhood of the same name). We probably had just come from brunch at the late, sorely missed café, Tal Bagels, across the street. And there in front of the market was a volunteer for the J.S.P.C.A., offering at a modest price the organization’s calendars for the new (Jewish)year. Of course, Barbara and I wanted one, as did The Levines. Every year since then, I have made it a point to obtain a few of these treasures, which I then distribute to those who want.

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Another five or ten minutes and we would have been out the door and on our way to Jerusalem, and then it would have been too late to let us know. But the house phone rang, and it was friend Ezra. Of course we’re still home; otherwise we couldn’t answer the phone. A terrorist attack at Kikar Yahalom? And the bus schedule is all messed up because of police activity? The loop that I am out of, Ezra is definitely in it. He might even be the loop itself! The incident he was telling me about happened outside the local Burgers Bar maybe a half an hour before he called. But Ezra heard about it and, knowing of our plans, called lickety-split to let us know. OK, Barbara, said I, let’s activate plan B. Someone might be thinking out loud, Before you write about plan B, out of idle curiosity, what was the original plan A? Fair enough.

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I’m not suggesting this as a general rule, but there definitely are times when seeing something for yourself is more than ‘a good thing.’ We all (maybe I’m being generous about ‘all’) have some vague notion about ‘the pyramids along the Nile’ and the statues and structures – now in disrepair – in Ancient Greece. But when you get to see the temple at Abu Simbel or the buildings on the Acropolis up close and personal, it leaves an impression, something you don’t forget so easily – as in, this is the real deal, not just an image on Wikipedia. 

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A pointed question from my brother

It wasn’t stated as a challenge or a rebuke, more as an assumption, something similar to, Have you had a chance yet to check out the new sushi joint in the mall? – because it would be only a matter of time before we, with chopsticks aloft, were stuffing sashimi into our mouths.My brother was simply asking me if I had participated in any of the demonstrations here in The Land against the so-called ‘judicial reforms.’ I know you. Sooner or later, Fred, you WILL show up because that’s who you are. You were never one to watch from the sidelines.

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Whether it was because someone had a wry sense of humor, perhaps a feeling for the mysteries of the Infinite that few of us possess, or whether it was only because they were a few minutes bus ride apart, the fact is that on the morning of day three of our tiyul we were off to first visit a mosque in Ramle and then head to the Karaite Center nearby. If it had been up to me – which it certainly wasn’t – I would have stopped first for a few minutes to take a gander at the nearby shuk. We don’t need to stop there; we can always go to Machane Yehuda. That was the prevailing sentiment from our bus mates. Take it from me, they’re not the same. It would be like comparing Madison Square Garden and the playground on Mosholu Parkway in The Bronx. But I digress….

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Who knew? That’s a question that keeps popping up, and, as I was beginning to realize, that expression of unfamiliarity could have been the theme of this article.  For example, every time we’ve gone on one of these AACI study trips, we’ve left from the Inbal Hotel in Jerusalem and, shortly after, made a pit stop at Elvis, the café, gas station, and convenience store off route 1, not too far away, where one can get some coffee and use the facilities. But who knew that, nestled behind the gas station, is the moshav Neve Ilan, and, at the end of the road, a large, fancy-looking hotel, where we would be staying for the next three days while we toured the surrounding area. I’m sure some people knew, maybe lots – judging by the throng of people chowing down breakfast and dinner in their spacious dining hall – but I certainly didn’t have a clue.

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What time is it, Fred? It’s time for me to collect my thoughts about our trip, now that we’ve been back in The Land for five weeks or so. If a bunch of us were sitting around the dinner table on a Friday night, and I was asked to summarize what we saw and what I came away with and to do it concisely before someone interrupted and changed the topic – which is what usually happens when people get together over a meal – what would I have to say? I might commence with a platitude, Glad to be back. But everyone assembled at this fanciful dinner probably assumed that. Nobody actually thought that I would want to spend the rest of my days on the banks of the Nile. Yeah, you can live there like a pharaoh on a pittance, but no thanks. I don’t do Third World. (Third world, couldn’t be prouder/Third world, let’s honk a little louder)

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