Strolling around the pretty Spanish plaza at the heart of Old La Mesilla, Texas, watching children play and families chat in the public square, I thought: Why aren’t there more places like this in the U.S.?
The last time I saw the sun, it was setting over Tucson, Ariz.
Oggi and I started our cross-country drive in sunny Los Angeles. But somewhere in western Texas, we awoke to a cold drizzle, which turned into a week of rainstorms and unrelenting gray skies that we managed to follow, thanks to the jet stream, all the way to Boston. Where, as I write this a day after our arrival, the rain has just turned to — you guessed it — snow.
Few of us welcome snow in New York, where it perhaps looks picturesque for a half-hour in the park — but then mostly just snarls up commutes, collects in dirty piles on the corner and fouls up sidewalks with slush.
Tucked into the Gothic arches and dank, mossy halls of Trinity College Dublin is the Weingreen Biblical Antiquities Museum. It’s a small collection of artifacts from around the eastern Mediterranean, spanning the ninth millennium B.C.E. to the late Middle Ages, and it was renamed in the 1970s to honor one Professor Weingreen, a Hebrew scholar who taught at Trinity for 40 years.
What does it mean for Jewish travel if everyone makes aliyah?
I ask this question rhetorically, of course. No matter how charged the rhetoric or how tense the security situation, some Jews will always feel a stronger pull to their native or adopted territory — to the brilliance of South African sunshine or, yes, the warm, crisp baguettes and tidy green parks of the Paris Marais. And the solidity of our American Jewish community is reassuring.