There is nothing like waking up to the siren song of the shofar to remind me that I’m not in Chicago any more.
Which is another way of saying, if I had forgotten that I had up and moved to Jerusalem, suddenly, I remembered.
It could have something to do with the fact that my bedroom is so close to a synagogue that when they blew the shofar during morning minyan every day this month of Elul, I felt like my bed had catapulted out the window and flown straight into the middle of the sanctuary, hovering mid-air near the bima.
‘Did you know that people in Israel are out protesting because only a few families control the entire country?” asked someone who shall remain nameless.
Let’s just say, she’s related to me.
“Oh, she just read the Ethan Bronner article in The New York Times, so suddenly she’s discovered the protests in Israel,” said my girlfriend knowingly. Her relatives back home in America pull similar stunts.
If you want to know the truth, I’ve spent most of my life lost, and I’m not being profound.
Which explains why I got completely turned around somewhere in Afula.
Of course, I blamed the map. Where was that sneaky little Route 71 that the map had so magnanimously promised? And why, instead, was I stuck at a fork in the road with two other choices that eluded me?
Naturally, I turned to the gentleman in the car next to me for help.