In short, it was a time of reflection for Bebe.
Considering the murky waters of the Staten Island beach.
Considering her first NYC subway ride.
Considering the thousands of names at the 9/11 memorial at Ground Zero.
Considering the shortest flight she’s ever taken.
Considering the very different waters of the marina in West Palm Beach, Florida.
Considering the cold waters of the pool she was petrified to get into.
Coming home. Nothing to consider.
Bulletin: I’m leaving tonight to New York, with both my kids, alone.
That’s one adult to two kids. Or, one adult to an infant and a terrible two.
So if you’re on my flight, sucks for you. Sucks worse for me.
Like I told my mom, who I’m sure is containing all the giddy-with-pleasure as best she can until we’re settled in and over the flight:
It’s going to be hard and I always come off cursing but this is the kind of life I chose so here goes…
I love how you can spend a Passover day in Central Park and leave a matzah trail for all the other ‘Yids’ on vacation:
Like charedis at a nature preserve, matzah bits settled on leaves and rocks is slightly out of place.
Monday, the day I left New York, I met a friend in the city to hang for a bit; he just moved to New York from Tel Aviv so his perspective is still fresh.
The conversation came to the usual point, of how impersonal New York is and how in-your-face Israel is. I forget that every time I get to New York. It’s always a culture shock for me.
The same goes for coming home. I forget the in-your-face that is my culture here.
And that culture never fails to remind me as soon as I land. As soon as I start putting my hand through the border control I.D. scan and some middle age Israeli guy comes from behind me and starts telling me what to do, even as my receipt prints out. And then wishes me well, saying in broken English, “Welcome to eretz.”
When I was back in New York in May, I perchance walked into a Starbucks with some friends and noticed a new drink on their menu: this mint chocolate iced frappuccino thing. I’m all about trying new ice blend chocolate coffee things, so I did.
…And I’ve been dreaming about it ever since. Actually, salivating. I’d been wanting it since I got to New York. Since I knew I was coming to New York. But for the first two weeks of my trip, I was building up the craving… Holding out and waiting to reward myself for something.
I finally broke down today and went to the Starbucks down the block from my New York office, and I wait on line; it’s taking forever before I realized I’m on the wrong line. Then I scan the menu for the name of the drink so I can order it when it is finally my turn, but I don’t see it advertised anywhere and I start freaking out.
So I left in a huff and walked all the way… down the block, to the second Starbucks that bookends my office. For no logical reason, really, since they are all franchises. But it felt right.
I wait impatiently on line, close to breaking down, and get to the girl at the counter. She asks what I want but I cut her off and I’m like, “Do you still have that mint chocolate iced frappuccino thing?”
And I guess I must have looked pretty desperate… I kinda dumped my hopeful order there on the counter next to the register and the fancy granola cookies.
She smiled like a caffeinated angel and said, “Yes, we do! What size?”
And I was like, letting out a sigh of relief. A real physical one. You could see the sigh of relief, like in a cartoon.
It was so gross.
But the drink was damn good and exactly what I was looking for. There’s nothing like pleasing a long distant craving.
Here’s a subtle cultural difference you don’t think about that often as a dual New York-Israel citizen.
In Israel – as in Judaism in general – 13 is a great number. It’s the number when a boy becomes a man, at least mitzvot-wise.
In Anglo culture – or is it Christian culture? European culture? – the number 13 is not a reference to the Bar Mitzvah, but an unlucky number that must be avoided. For my American side, the number 13 conjures up thoughts of black cats and witches; pretty much Halloween.
I have heard of very old-school high-rise buildings in New York that were built to ‘skip’ the 13th level; who would want to live or work on such an unlucky floor?
That includes the office building where I work while I’m here in New York. Here’s the solution: 
A little American ignorance never hurt anyone, eh?
To be fair, Israelis (and Jews) are plenty superstitious. It’s just not concerning the number 13.
When Israeliborns ask where I’m from ‘b’makor’ there are usually a few follow up questions that I get after I answer I’m from New York. Por example:
I wonder if you could analyze that and decide what the undertones mean.
Today was the most bizarre day I’ve experienced in a really long time. The same day consisted of me holding the newborn boy of a girl I consider a cousin as well as punching myself in the face on Coney Island’s Cyclone.
This pseudo cousin gave birth to her first child deep into Saturday night. This afternoon I was on the Southern State to see and hold the closest thing I have to a blood nephew (I say that with all due respect to my nephews-in-law).
This was the first newborn in my adult life that I actually cared about before meeting it. I walked in the room to find my pseudo family wiped out with exhaustion, and my friend handed me the baby boy, a tiny package of 6 pounds and some ounces. He was absolutely beautiful, and if beauty is in the eye of the beholder, well, I had a lot to behold. New(!) mother also looked amazing; as her sister – the closest thing I’ve ever had to a sister – told me about the birth, I couldn’t stop being so utterly proud of this little girl I used to play mattress-stairs with.
This experience just totally winded me; I didn’t know what to expect but felt so comfortable with it each second I was steeped in it. Family; new members of family. I’ve never witnessed it – or been a part of it to that degree – firsthand.
After I tore myself away from the family, I headed towards Coney Island to meet two college friends of mine. We strolled along the boardwalk and then figured, we’re already here, why not take a spin on the Cyclone? The Cyclone is a rickety decades-old roller coaster that is a rite of passage for New Yorkers born and bred. I’ve ridden the Cyclone; my father has ridden the Cyclone, my father’s father… that’s the kind of legend it is. It stands (and dips and dives) for the youth of the Brooklyn-bred.
The experience was everything the baby-beholding was not. Adrenaline pumping as we climbed into the car, profanities flying as we ricketed up the first curve. Somewhere around the second drop, my glasses came off. I realized it and quickly grabbed for them, getting myself stuck in a position of holding the seat bar instead of sitting back. Somewhere in that mess, I managed to punch myself in the nose, smell my own blood, hit my head and severely strain my neck. When the ride ended, I found myself speckled in red with my nose pulling a Pinocchio.
How had I gotten from holding a one-day old baby and being so moved I could barely talk, to icing my nose and not being able to move my head sideways? Or maybe the question should be reversed – when does this youth ride come to an end? When do you realize you’re pathetic for trying?
I feel young, and I know from family history I will feel young for a long time to come. But this is a different kind of young – it’s a youth based on a different kind of curiosity, not the kind pumped by adrenaline and profanities. This youth is not as bold, not as daring, not as stupid, but it is a journey of satisfying many of the questions I’ve held and learning the new questions to be asking. This youthfulness might not be any smarter than the past one, but it’s definitely not stupider.
Or maybe I have it all wrong; maybe I’ve been out of New York for too long and missed the message altogether. Maybe New York was asking me if I really feel up to being here. Maybe she has something to say for those of us who leave her.
Maybe Brooklyn was giving me a beating, showing me what it really means to come back.