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May 19th: I booked an impromptu trip to Israel. 

I had been daydreaming about ancient streets and the palpable holiness of Jerusalem. My plan was to spend the upcoming holiday of Shavuot in Jerusalem, then go to Tzfat for a hiking and mysticism program. I found a Delta itinerary and confirmed flight details. “When are you going to Israel?” I was asked. “Tuesday the 23rd,” I replied confidently. 

May 22nd: I woke up nauseous with travel anxiety. 

The uneasiness I experienced, I imagine, was comparable to the onset of an ayahuasca trip. My sister called me as I laid miserably, “Lex. You forwarded me the flight itinerary. The trip was today.” Clueless about my position in time, new travel arrangements were made in a frenzy with one layover in Atlanta. I sporadically packed flowy clothing and downed an entire sleeve of Saltine crackers.

May 23rd: Nobody said it was easy but I thought it would be.

The first flight was delayed in the air due to a security matter. (Perhaps a bottle of water made it past the TSA.) The person next to me fell asleep and I elbowed him to insure my personal space. As the plane approached landing, I panicked that I would miss my next flight. I rushed through the airplane aisle, sounding “beep beep beep”, saying “on your left!” I sprinted to the gate for my flight to Tel Aviv. There were a few men outside the gate. The plane was still there. Exasperated, I showed unamused agents at the gate my boarding pass. “We bumped you from the flight,” they told me monotonically, “the pilot already has the flight list, you can’t get on the plane.” 

The next flight to Tel Aviv was 24 hours later. My best option was a connecting flight to London. I waited in Atlanta and drank a fountain Diet Coke at a bar blasting the theme song to Friends, where people were drinking beer midday. My flight itinerary was reissued. The plane was idle on the runway for an hour. On the flight to London I watched Chinatown and napped. Next to a middle aged man. It’s unnatural to sleep next to a complete stranger, so I veiled myself under a prison grade blanket provided by the airline.

May 24th: Late in London.

At Heathrow, I ran as fast as I could (more than I ever would voluntarily) only to encounter a long queue at security. “Please, I already missed a flight!” “Don’t worry, you’ll make it,” I was assured. “Go to the Virgin Atlantic desk, they’ll print your ticket for the 8:20am flight.” Then at 7:55am, a British Virgin Atlantic agent was unfazed by my usually effective persuasion. She told me that my ticket was improperly issued and that I would not make the flight. 

“There are flights at 5pm and 10pm, but they’re overbooked and I can’t guarantee you a spot. The only way to ensure you make it before tomorrow night is to book the El Al flight.” I waited for nine hours at the airport. The gate for the El Al flight to Tel Aviv was adjacent to the all-faith prayer room. Muslims took their shoes off, entered the room, and prayed audibly. “Allahu akbar” echoed. A Haredi Ultra Orthodox man held up a sheet of gemara. He talked into his flip phone. “Yes, I’m with you. Rashi,” as he studied commentaries in line. Finally I was on the plane to Israel.

I walked the long iconic stretch at Ben Gurion airport and made my way to the luggage belt. My belongings were nowhere to be found and the lost and found created a report and reference number. “You should get it by tomorrow,” the woman at the desk told me. I was picked up at the airport by a gentleman my friend is dating. He supplied me with face wash, shampoo, conditioner, and moisturizer. I finally arrived where I was staying in Jerusalem and fell asleep at 2am in El Al branded pajamas that were given to me at the airport.

May 25th to May 28th: Alas, Jerusalem. The center of the universe.

Romeo and Juliet by Dire Straits played at Cafe Nadi where I sat for breakfast the eve of Shavuot. My hands were patched in moving shadows, light mediated by a canvas woven umbrella. Breakfast was eggs, toast, and a generous spread of sides like eggplant, cucumber and pepper salad, and olive tapenade. I sipped my coffee and watched passersby when my phone rang. It was the Mountain and Mystics coordinator. The program was supposed to start on Sunday. “The program is canceled, not enough people signed up.” I responded easily. “G-d bless you,” she said. I was on my way to buy underwear and a couple clean outfits for the holiday. The absence of a program would need to be a Sunday problem.

The holiday came in. I was received with warmth and benevolence by friends who make Jerusalem feel like home. We walked to the Old City in Jerusalem. Past Mamilla were huge tables. Whisky, cut up watermelon, popsicles, hot water, and more available to fuel people through the chilly night of learning and prayer. 

On the rooftop of Aish, a recent divorcee who’d lost his father and the mother within the year told us about how his wife left him for a wealthy man in Miami. “It’s been a hard year, no music, I have five kids at home.” The rest of the weekend involved elaborate meals with full tables ranging from 12 to 45 people. I basked in how connected I felt to the people around me, my brothers and sisters; we have known each other for all our lives and lifetimes.

June 31st: “We have your luggage.”

Sat on the bottom step of a train from Jerusalem to the airport, the only woman in an extremely over capacity train car, tzitzit flung in my face. With my head tilted upward, I did not want to stare at men’s lower halves. It turns out that the day prior a famous rabbi died at the age of 100. Thousands of men in black hats and suits flocked to the funeral and I unknowingly traveled to the airport the hour before the funeral.

My gaze met the eyes of the gentleman who pulled me onto the train (I plead).I came to learn that he wrote A Shepherd’s Journey: the story of Israel’s first bedouin diplomat. He showed me videos and photographs in which he herded goats and played with them in the grass. 

At the airport, I consolidated my belongings and proceeded to Tel Aviv. My luggage jammed the pathway of the bus and a bleached sunset haired woman in a band tee looked at me disapprovingly as though taking luggage on a city bus violated an unspoken code only highly irritated people follow.

That night, I watched the neon tangerine sun fall into the horizon of the Mediterranean as the streets buzzed as they do reliably in Tel Aviv. For dinner I ate chicken schnitzel in a pita, my friends and I discussed gender roles and religiosity. 

June 1st:  What’s the rush to get to Tzfat early?

 I walked up the beach tayelet and explored shops. Shuk Ha’Carmel was lively with thick wafts of fried foods and spices. I had a sabich salad. A third of the way through eating it, I felt the pit in my stomach I often do when consuming a plenitude of insoluble fiber.

“Are you ok?” the restaurant owner asked with concern. “Yes,” I walked back to the hotel, retrieved my things, and got on a bus to Bnei Brak, the most densely populated city in the country which is primarily Ultra Orthodox, to connect to another bus to Tzfat. I couldn’t find anyone who spoke English other than a woman who said “no Hebrew? Not good.” 

When I arrived in Tzfat, I lugged my things up the unevenly paved mountain and met the one other guy who would stay in the housing of the canceled program. “Want to be a gentleman and take this luggage from me?” “This is heavy.” Sigh. I left my things and we explored. We heard joyous singing and percussion. We approached and he neared the door then signaled we could enter the party.

I sat with the women as the groom got on the shoulders of his friend. I was served delicious arak and arais, minced meat in a pita, tenderly cooked on a tiny grill. The young woman I sat next to spoke English and Spanish. Locals brought me skewers of chicken hearts and gooey strawberry flavored marshmallows. We spoke about Taylor Swift and a cult of extremist Jews whose women wear the equivalent of a burqa.

June 2nd to June 4th:

In Tzfat, I spent time with my friends’ father who is a fine artist with a studio in the Old City. On being an artist he emphasized, “you must have emunah” and ‘maybe’ is not in my vocabulary.” Afterward, I went to the cemetery where the Arizal and tzadikim are buried. Muted taupe dusty rocky ground reverberated. Relentless wind pushed westward and I heard clanking mental, the echoes of prayer, and a group of Ethiopians in a funeral procession. I felt like I was on a rocking boat, already having spent hours on the cemetery grounds. I attempted and failed to call a cab. When I arrived back in town, I went to a cafe and foolishly ordered veggie lo mein, or as it came to be, noodles in a soup of soy sauce. 

Tzfat felt strange to me, like people there are on eternal trips with no destination. In the days that followed, my buddies and I hiked the terrain and perused art galleries. Shabbat approached. We went to different places for meals. Most enjoyably, my friends’ father’s Shabbat dinner which he hosted in his gallery. Then a lunch that revealed the poverty of the area, a side of Israel I had never seen and could not have fathomed. Then a third meal where a rabbi artist who’d drawn 613 paintings (one for each mitzvah) interpreted the art people chose like some version of kabbalist tarot cards. I thought, what is happening?

That night my buddies and I were headed to a party. When we heard singing, chanting, and live music, we thought we had reached it. Instead we arrived at a melevah malka escorting the bride Shabbat drum circle around a kindled fire with an ancient sound cave nearby. A man walked around with a tub of taffy and distributed the candy. In the cave, people made psychedelic noises and I exited after 10 minutes to the fresh air. I went to bed at 5am with a stomach full of Bamba and taffy. 

June 4th: Rain pellets met the pavement in the morning and woke me. 

It is notably atypical for rain to fall in Israel this time of year. I unexpectedly encountered two old faces from home. One in Tzfat and the other in Tel Aviv. Much like Alice in Wonderland or The Wizard of Oz, I find that when open in life, there are characters we are destined to meet again in our adventures. A little wink that we’re never really alone. I stayed with a friend whom I had met during the dark hours of the pandemic over a virtual yoga class.

June 5th: I woke up early the next morning and got on the wrong train to the airport. A friend who I wanted to see in Israel but did not reach out to ended up being right next to me at the airport and on my flight. 

Now I am home and several people have said “I want to hear all about your trip.” 

“No one has ever been this interested in me before,” I joked. “Nothing went according to plan.” 

“It sounds like you’ve really let go.”

 “I didn’t have a choice.”

Now: As I reflect on the trip, I am reminded of the Yiddish proverb, “we plan, g-d laughs.” 

One thing after another unraveled unexpectedly and I had two choices: react or accept. Historically I have reacted and it has only caused me discomfort and distress. Missed flights, lost luggage, and a canceled trip are consequences of logistical errors made by humans either too inundated with corporate responsibility, or poor planning. In either case, it doesn’t really matter. I feel I came back a different person because as I tell myself, I simply cannot be bothered. 

Trips have a way of amplifying lessons. Everything is unstable and rather than wrap myself in a blanket of existential dread, I may as well encounter each day with curiosity. Life is ridiculous and a travel mishap in civilized countries with plenty of food, water, shelter and good people is hardly a tragedy. The challenges I faced were all products of a globalized world, there weren’t airlines 100 years ago, and Israel wasn’t formally recognized as a state. Modern problems call for ancient solutions. Before there was data, there was to have faith. It has to work out, what’s the other option? Previously, I would spend time conjuring up catastrophic endings to false scenarios. Today I choose to not project or assume any outcome. I prefer to observe my life as though it’s a sketch in the comedy club of the universe. I may as well laugh.

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