Why I Hate Betsy Ross

Last minute, Birthright has an open space.  Somehow, I have to get to Philadelphia in four days.  I buy my ticket and Philadelphia is the scariest pace I've ever been.  After my 5AM plane arrival, I shuttle to downtown.  The air's thick and curdled.  There's no wind- nothing; it's still and flat and hot as hell.  I manage to be there for, maybe, half a day, and, in that time, I sleep on a bench, get the stink eye from Betsy Ross (that "patriotic" cow), and become a charity case for a Chasidic family, living in the outskirts of this terrible city.  Shlomo picks me up in his silver minivan and he drives me to his air-conditioned home.  They offer me cold pasta and orange juice and water and bed and shower and I'm ever so grateful.  And thank you.  Thank you.  And their five children and mother and father and in-law and so on and so on.  It's bazaar, but this is Philadelphia.  They drop me off at the train-stop, and I shuttle to the station.  And on that train, I sit next to this Jordanian Jew with frazzled ringlets springing down his back, who happens to be on Birthright also (and for the next ten days, we end up being seat-partners on the bus).

So, that's all I have to say about Philadelphia.  It's a hell-hole, but I appreciate Shlomo and his family.  And yes, I understand the historical relevance of this god-forsaken city.  Yeah, Betsy Ross, I'm including you.  You did a beautiful job with the American flag.  You're stellar.  Good for you.  And although you gave me the coldest, dead-on glare, I'll give you credit for being able to operate a sewing machine.  Or was it hand-stitched?  Regardless, there's needle and thread.  Good going Betsy. 

Anyways, it's from Philadelphia, that I embark to Israel.  It's ten days with forty coming-of-age strangers (and two Rabbis)... and after that, it's three months of something else.  But, it's the beginning that explains everything.  From the beginning, comes the middle, and then the end.  So, this is my beginning.  This is my account of what happened after I encountered that hand-stitching Betsy and Benjamin too, who happens to be a pretty nice guy.  It's my three months abroad, with my squeaking New Balance nine-nine-threes (and why do they always squeak, like I was just walking through the rain...it must be the inserts) and my buckled gray backpack. 

And it begins in Philadelphia.  But, in Israel, it gets a little better.