With its size and sizzle, New York is a singles paradise. Here, grazing your shoulder on the packed 1 train; there, peering at you from behind a folded Times in line at the Angelika, a soul mate calls. Multiply that close encounter by — what? — a million. A gambler — or a single guy or gal — would take those odds.
‘I’ve got two weeks to find me a boyfriend,” I told my friend as we slurped our soup, hunched over the counter of the kubeh bar in the shuk, all the while keeping our eyes on the sundry stream of characters parading by.
Which is another way of saying, my days as a singles columnist were rapidly coming to an end — not because I found myself the near-sighted, stoop-shouldered, multilingual Jewish genius of my dreams.
‘Going on a whirlwind, round the world tour?” the mover asked me as he packed up my china.
I explained that I lived in Israel. And since the next tenants for my condo in Chicago wanted it unfurnished I had to pack up and store everything.
Because he was my mover he did not ask the kind of probing, Talmudic question that this situation begs, namely: If I am living in Israel for nearly two years already, why don’t I just up and ship everything to Israel or sell it off?
Jonathan was simply looking for a weekend away. Lainee was somewhat reluctant, thinking, “These men—none of them are serious!” Yet both took a chance and went to a 2008 Memorial Day singles weekend at Camp Ramah in the Berkshires.
Neither Lainee nor Jonathan had been married before. Both dated a lot, always looking for the right person. “But we never gave up,” says Lainee.
The thing about Jerusalem is, you’re bound to run into someone you know at some point.
And by “you” I mean, “me.”
Which is another way of saying, while waiting for the bus the other day, the gentleman who walked by and then parked himself right behind me and who looked suspiciously like the gentleman in the States who had once stolen my heart, was no doubt the very same man.