A guest post l’kovod Purim by The (Yeshivishe) Shadow. This post originally appeared on his blog, “Fleeting Thoughts of the Shadow”.

The scent of Purim is in the air!

Then again, so is the scent of dead fish, raw meat, fruits, vegetables, and about forty thousand different flavors of halvah. That is because I’m traipsing through Machane Yehuda, searching for components for my Purim costume.

It is a time-honored tradition among yeshiva bochurim learning in Eretz Yisroel to invade Machane Yehuda around Purim time. Unless you plan on buying a bear suit for 500 shekels, the standard bochur’s costume consists of shopping at cheap clothing stores in Machane Yehuda, buying whatever weird clothing you can get your hands on, and mix-’n-matching them in the oddest possible way.

This proves not to be too difficult in terms of finding the stuff – since virtually all the clothing sold there is fair game, in terms of outlandishness – but it can be quite challenging to get the stuff you want before anyone else beats you to it. The simple, cost-effective solution is to fire several warning shots into the air with a .22 caliber pistol, then move in and collect the bounty. Should you find yourself arrested, however, it could potentially ruin your Purim plans, so use the aforementioned idea with caution.

While in Machane Yehuda, it pays to check out some of the other stalls there – particularly the ones selling halvah, since they give out free samples. For the uninitiated, halvah is a sesame seed concoction with the density of cement, only less tasty in some cases, and containing more calories per cubic inch than you would have thought physically possible. To compensate for the ridiculous amount of calories, the shopkeepers add chocolate, coffee, cinnamon, mud, roofing cement, etc. – okay, it doesn’t compensate much calorie-wise, but it does make it taste somewhat better.

To lure people into buying halvah, they offer free samples – tiny cubes of one flavor or another, each with enough fat content to clog a major artery faster than traffic in the Battery Tunnel during rush hour. The idea is that after surviving one piece, one will surely be compelled to buy a larger chunk that will take care of one’s caloric needs for a month. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Personally, I just take a few free samples, then lay down and roll home.

If Machane Yehuda isn’t your speed, you can check out the “drinks district” – a series of beverage boutiques on Shmuel Hanavi between Bar Ilan and Givat Moshe. My personal favorite among these is A. A. Pyup, a store that sells everything from (relatively) tame sodas, to alcoholic beverages with enough kick to stun an elephant. Here, throughout the Purim season, you can find many a wine connoisseur (which is French for “unbearable snob”) shopping for fine wines. I, personally, come here for a nice bottle of wine for my Rebbe, and something cheap for myself.

I haven’t actually spent much time in Geula yet, though that’s bound to be a fun place as well, as long as you avoid getting bleached. For instance, I understand that there are all sorts of unique, Purim-only meshugoyim in Geula, as opposed to the year round meshugoyim that tend to inhabit the neighborhood.

I have, in case you’re wondering, been to the Armenian Shuk in the Old City, which is a great place if you like to negotiate (read: yell at the top of your lungs at the Arab shopkeeper that the item is too expensive, then storm out in a huff). Bargaining is not my forte, though, so I brought along a friend to help me out, and we came away with a white robe and whiter pants for a mere 120 shekels. Not too shabby.

As Purim creeps closer, the music gets louder, the streets livelier, and the scenes ever more chaotic. It’s a great time to be around – the matzav is incomparable to anything in the US. The only real drawback is that this time of year is particularly mesugal for gaining weight. And those halvah samples aren’t helping any…

Raw meat. Next time, I’m gonna take a sample of raw meat instead.

“It’s too hard”, he complains plaintively. “He, G-d, will understand. My son, he is a Rabbi. In Brooklyn. He is Lubavitch. (Here, he serenades me with the first few bars of Yechi to prove it. Great. A chiloni taxi cab driver Meshichist. Just what my night needed). For him, it is easy. For me, not so easy”. “Ah”, I nod my head, wisely. Like I know the score. Except I don’t. As long as he thinks I do, I guess. I am, however, interested in understanding this cabbie a little better. So I continue the conversation.

I rip into him. “So explain to me again why you think He will understand your chillul Shabbos, your blatant violation of His laws, and worse, your denial of Him. You do realize that this- I indicate his bare head- isn’t what He wants.” A bit harsh? Perhaps… I’ve had enough of being gentle with politically hawkish but religiously dovish cab drivers who think they’re good people. Maybe they are. But to claim they are doing His will at the same time… It gets my goat, it does.

“Well, I am good, I do what he wants. I give tzedakah. Also, I learn Torah, sometimes. Look.” He holds up a laminated pamphlet version of some Chabad sefer that he supposedly studies in his off time. More likely he glances at it every now and then and uses it for show and tell purposes in order to extract a larger tip from his Chareidi clientele.

I tell him that’s wonderful. And ask him again, for the third time, why he believes the G-d he believes in is going to give him a free pass. Nothing is free. The cab ride certainly isn’t free- in fact, it took three minutes of hostage-rescue-style negotiation to secure a rate that would have matched the meter, had we used that. (Why didn’t we use the meter in the first place? Because it’s “broken”. Much like this fellow’s logic abilities, and my grammar.) But I digress. He, like so many others in this broken world we inhabit, has mastered Orwellian doublethought. Somehow, he believes in Torah, in it’s validity, it’s legitimacy. In its, in our, heritage. But not all of it. Only the easy parts. Doublethought.

Finally, he answers my question, or attempts to. “I simply can’t keep the Torah. It’s too difficult. Shabbos, Kashrut, all that. And I think that if I’m a good person, He’ll understand. He knows how hard it (Torah) is, how impossible. I just can’t do it. So why should I? For you, for people like my son, it’s easy”.

Right. Like I don’t have my own nisyonos, my own failings. I’m all too cognizant of the many nisyonos I fail, and the too few that I pass. Like I don’t rise and fall, every day, like the sun. Like I don’t sometimes feel that it’s only a matter of time until the yetzer hora gets me on a biggie, and then it will be too late. Oh, I know it’s hard. I need him to tell me this? And just to be clear, he initiated the conversation. He started the schmuess. Not I. I was just stuck next to him in the passenger seat. A hostage.

I truly don’t know what to tell him. How do you explain to someone the fallacy of such an obviously inherent contradiction in logic, in belief, in weltanschauung? What is the therapy for a patient experiencing hallucinations? The brain can instantly workaround any logical argument with a fresh creation by the brain.

“Oh, so you’re seeing purple dragons on the table in front of you? Try putting your hand through the dragon!” An effective strategy, right? Wrong. The brain will explain that this dragon is a substance-less dragon. Either that, or the brain fools the sense of touch much the same way it fools the sense of sight. Maybe not. I’m no psychiatrist, that’s for sure. I don’t know the precise mechanics of how people fool themselves. I just know that it works, and works well. Whatever you want to believe, as long as you aren’t constricted by absolute intellectual honesty, go ahead and believe it. Don’t worry about the logic issues. Your brain will create the necessary constructs to let you sleep at night. Be sure of that, if not the lie.

So I leave him with a pithy, cliched answer. Sadly, cliched is the best I can muster in my depressed state. (These types of people occasionally get me down, depressed.) I tell him that the Creator knows the catch-22 he’s created for himself, and that he’s already supplied an exit strategy. That the truth is there if he’s looking for it. That truth seekers will always find what they’re seeking. Perhaps if I’d been in a more comfortable state of mind…oh well. Spilt milk.

Stepping out of the cab, I tip five shekels more than necessary (I know, a sucker is born every minute, but still, that doesn’t mean we throw manners out the window).

I thoroughly enjoy the rest of my evening. Exiting the venue, however, my phone manages to sneak out of my pocket and worms it’s way onto the counter, unbeknown to me. The attendant, a kindly Russian chiloni fellow with a terrific mustache, spots it just before I leave. Calling me over, he presses it into my hand and bids me a good evening. But not before delivering a show stopper of a line, neatly packaged into two words. “Yetzer Hora“, he tells me, in his brutal Russian accent. Numbed, I stop and stare. I hadn’t even been sure that he was Jewish. “What is it?”, he asks silently with a lift of his eyebrows. He has no clue what his innocuous comment meant to me.

“Nothing”, I answer, turning and leaving.

He’s pointed out something I knew already, but preferred not to think about. Or thought about, but created enough constructs that it became a non-issue.

I, too, am a hostage to doublethought.

Maybe we all are.

Diras are great places. Similar to the precursor, dorm rooms, the dira is our home away from home. Really, though, they are so much more than a mere dorm room. Or even than home. Don’t get me wrong- most guys adore those non-dira intervals they refer to as Bein Hazmanim when we abandon our diras and head home. We go home, and we enjoy it. Aside from the familial aspect, there are numerous strictly physical benefits. Among them are instantly hot showers, the lack of the endless jockeying for them, visible floors, a wonderful deficiency of the adorable four legged creatures they call “juks” in the local vernacular, mattresses with each coil intact, light bulbs in the sockets, and many more.  I’m not even going to discuss the food ma’alos; trust me, there ain’t nothing like sitting down to a homemade meal after a long flight and much longer stretch of sub-standard greasy schwarmas and falafels.

Disclaimer out of the way, and mandatory hat tip to Mommy’s cooking aside, diras really are wonderful places. Ask any yungerman- whether he was or wasn’t the masmid type in Israel, he’ll surely fondly recollect those good ‘ole times the oilam refers to as Dira Days. Oftentimes, out of earshot of the wife, of course, he’ll even wax nostalgically about those times gone by.

So what’s so great about the dira? I can hear all the mothers and wives in the crowd clamoring even now. The answer, however, is perhaps even beyond my descriptive and hasbarah skills. To properly convey the sense of camraderie, the closeness that develops from living in such close quarters for so long, the matzav of adventure, is not within the bounds imposed upon this author by his humble keyboard or wit. L’maaseh, though, es shtayt “…Hishtadel lihyos ish“, so I will make my hishtadlus. Here goes nutthin’.

Try to imagine coming home after a long day of work. Tired, exhausted, you just want to plop into bed. At home, that’s likely what will happen. In the dira, however, there is likely a k’nocking discussion taking place about the latest hafganah, patchkeville, or other current raid. Don’t care to join in? That’s OK…two chevra in the kitchen are cooking up what appears to be a toxic looking batch of cholent…or is it pasta? Which is it? We’ll never know. Don’t ask the chefs- little chance they have any clue. Instead, just down it; it’s surprisingly tasty. As they say, ignorance is bliss. If you aren’t hungry (unlikely- we generally exist in a state of perpetual hunger) then there are a few boyz in one of the bedrooms whispering. What’s going on? Well, if you’re one of the crowd, they’ll let you in on the secret. It turns out that one of the chevra is getting engaged tomorrow night. Silly him, he still believes no one knows. Again, ignorance is bliss. And if all else fails, there are always those odd diras that have live entertainment in the form of donkeys… Finally hitting the sack, you can completely ignore the three springs poking into your back, since you’re too tired to notice.

At home, of course, you’d be worried about who is going to wake you up for zman…never fear, however, in the dira. Even if you are capable of sleeping through the onslaught of dinging and zinging aarm clocks, the “pega rah“- dira speak for the vekker- will be sure to wake you exactly three minutes before zman. This way, you get to spring out of bed, fulfilling every nuance of the first siman in Shulchan Aruch. No, not b’davka. None of that blessed post-shluf dreamy state for you. The good news, of course, is that the kitchen, and associated caffeine, isn’t hours away by foot. Or down a flight of steps. It’s just a few short seconds away. Then, too, there is the ma’aleh of being able to stroll directly into the kitchen no matter the state of your dress, or lack thereof. Boxers, shorts, just sweats, anything goes. We’re all guys, remember?

Krias shema and a cuppa later, you’re ready to begin your day at the local shteeble. Not directly related to dira life, but a close cousin, is the local shteeble. Be it Zichron Moshe, Meah Shearim, Bais Yisroel, or Har Tzvi, every shchuna in Yerushalayim has one. These little batei knesiyos house ongoing minyanim, almost round the clock. To catch an empty house (no minyanim going) in these shuls would really require one to come at a time “shelo yom v’shelo laylah“. Almost. Part of the beauty of these houses of worship is the informal way they pray. The paths to G-d are as infinite as Him Himself, and no one is makir this more so than the Yerushalayimer Yidden. Interested in doing an express Pesukei D’Zimrah? No problem, feel free. Have access to the patented “shniyah shemonah esrei“? Go for it. Want to spend hours on your devotions, repeating every milah of K”S? No one’ll look twice. Like the streets of Manhattan, as long as you don’t murder anyone you’re good to go. Any and all meshugoyim are cordially invited and encouraged to attend services. You know those signs outside of those Temples with prayer times? Well, the shtiblach use a different method of disseminating their zmanim. Here, we use live hawkers. Typically wizened gabayim with flawless European Yiddish, anyone at all is welcome to take them over, be it a soldier in his uniform, or a regular yeshiva guy not in uniform.

After davening you walk back to the dira. Depending on the length of your shacharis, by now you’ve no doubt been accosted by no less than five schnorrers, so you have totally exhausted what little pocket change you had jingling around from last night’s burger joint sortie. Too bad…a bagel from AviChayil or Nechama or Sova Semochos would’ve been nice. Next time. The good news, again, is that someone in the dira is sure to have some form of sustenance, be it a bowl of cereal or a spare rugelah. Schnorring some, you quickly wolf it down, and you’re off to seder. Now, really, how could you get away with that at home? Meals at home, including breakfast, are a major chalos: they require washing, bentching, thanking the hostess (Mommy), and cleaning up. None of which is mandatory or even suggested in the dira. Especially the cleaning up part.

These are some of the reasons that bochurim love the dira life. It’s a mix of hakuna matata, the shlilus of “marbeh nechosim, etc.” and a couple of other things. Wives and mothers take note;  the next time you see your brother, son, or nephew giving a krechtz during Bein Hazmanim, or husband during the zman, hold your tongue. You’ll know what he’s sighing about.

He misses the Dira Days.

His eyes focus unsteadily, slowly, on me. Brighten. He greets me with a slurred, slow “A Guten“. He’s a nice guy, this yungerman. A little on the slow side, but nice. Typical yeshivish kuk for a forty year old; his black eyebrows are a bit whitened from the flecks of dandruff that spot it, and his ruddy complexion has been reddened prematurely by one too many l’chaims. I schmooze with him for a few minutes. We don’t have too much to talk about; after all, twenty plus years, in addition to somewhat different upbringings, separate us. Not someone I’d term as being particularly intellectual either, the schmooze mainly revolves around my Bein Hazmanim plans. He wants to know when I’m going back, what I’m doing, chasunas, trips, etc. I tell him, not making any effort to embellish or even dramatize the details. There isn’t all that much to tell in the first place, to be honest. His listless expression tells me all I need to know- he has the same level of interest in being mamshich (continuing) the schmooze as I do. I finish off a little abruptly with a cursory “Hatzlacha“, and turn away.

Walking back to my seat and chavrusa, I pause, then resume walking, slightly slower. I’m trying to figure out exactly why it is I continue this little friendship/schmoozing partnership with a fellow I don’t have anything in common with, and truthfully, don’t particularly like. Well, don’t like might be harsh. But it’s apparent to me that he doesn’t enjoy what he does. He takes no pride in what should be and is the most amazing, joyous job in the world. True, “Al tachazik atzmecha, etc.”, but that shouldn’t suck all the joie de vivre out of his visage, right? He seems as if he’s laboring to fulfill a task that he isn’t required to perform. He’s done his fair share, certainly… “Lo alecha hamlacha ligmor“, and all that. Is it out of some perverted sense of noblesse oblige? (Yeah, I know, this one is heavy on the Avos and the French ma’amorim. Tough noogies, I’m in the mood).
I don’t know. Whatever it is, though, he’s gotta do something about it…I’m starting to get tired of his mournful face. But getting back to our question…

Do I speak with him out of pity? I think not. It’s more than I don’t consider myself to be such a major ba’al chessed; I know that I don’t suffer people that I don’t relate to at all very well. So what is it?

I reach my seat and chavrusa, and slide onto the hard oak seat. Leaning back, I leaf to the relevant section where the acharon is discussing the sugya we’ve been learning. And then, just as I’m about to dive back into the yam shel Torah, I figure it out.

It isn’t that I pity him. Halevai I should be so magnamious to spend time schmoozing with uninteresting people. Nope…the pshat is pashut.

I pity me.

I’m worried that I’ll wind up one day like this guy; an uninteresting fellow in a dead-end yeshiva who’s lost the chiyus he used to have for life and learning. Who knows no other way than the mehalech hachayim he’s used to and is too lazy or helpless to find another. I pity the me that might become him. So I spend time speaking with him now, as a sort of subconsious insurance policy against being that guy.

Amatuer psychoanalyzation over, I return to the yellow pages in front of me. At least for now, for me, I can find chiyus in them. Baruch Hashem. And Baruch Hashem I can take pride in that, and in the work I do, the most important work in the world. At least for now.

We settle into the leather backed chairs, sighing with the unique contentment that comes only from transitioning from the damp, dank, rainy night into the warmer quarters of the establishment we’re eating tonight. The hostess, a nice enough lady who’s looking atypically ragged this evening, apologetically explains that we’ll be slightly rushed due to our lack of reservations.
I understand- it was kind enough of her to seat us at all, and she had to perform some table juggling to make it happen too. If I could, I’d tip her in addition to thoe wait staff.

A few minutes of desultory conversation later, we’re devouring our set of steaks. For a bochur- or anyone else for that matter-
there’s nothing like a juicy rib to put an end to the gnawing hunger pangs.
OK, I exaggerate, a little. The point, though, is that a steak provides a gevisseh geshmak that other gastronomic entities fail to shtell.

Halfway through my rib, an excellent cut, served medium well as per the chef’s recommendation, I glance up to see my buddyd staring at me. His numb face looks like a frame out of a seventies horror movie.  I can’t help but peer intently at him as a giant globule of shitaake mushroom sauce slowly starts its descent down towards his plate from the left corner of his mouth. Slowly, slowly…splat! He doesn’t even notice it. “What’s wrong”, I ask. “Huh? Oh. It’s just that I was making a cheshbon of my monetary matzav…and I chapped I didn’t have enough for this seudah. In fact, it seems I’m in the red…a lot.” Well, well. “So either you’re doing dishes tonight-(something bochurim are NOT good at)- or I’ll front you the money…what’s the problem”? I’m a little unclear as to the precise nature of his sudden dilemma.  “No. You don’t understand. I owe like a thousand dollars”. Huh? Well, he’s got that right. I don’t understand. Explain to me why you’d go out to eat at an expensive restaraunt when you the debtors are banging down your door. What’s the pshat?

The problem here is not limited to this particular bochur, unfortunately. I know tons of bochurim, whom, lacking the requisite funds, will impose on other chevra for loans, or worse, impose on American Express- all just to go out to eat, or on a trip. With sof zman coming up, this situation will only prove to exacerbate itself. And the problem doesn’t magically go away come next zman. Slowly, the dollars tend to mount up, until the matzav becomes such that the bochur is completely out of his depth.

The olam needs to learn how to not go out, how to stay local, and how to go on cheap trips. This problem isn’t going away. Too many guys end up forced into having to play credit card shtick- for no good reason. The olam feels meshubad to live a standard of life that is above and beyond their means…this was never the way we lived, thoroughout the doros. Rabosai- it’s time to wake up, wake up to the matzav our parents and the rest of the world is in. Pay heed to this call, or you’ll be taking the call of an annoyed debt collector in just a few months.

Oh, and the unpleasant interruption notwithstanding, we made it out of there in a record forty-five minutes. Fastest meal I ever had in a decent place. The hostess was most appreciative, but putting basic mentschlichkeit aside, I consider this an investment, next time I go back-with a different guy, of course- she’ll hopefully remember me and my quick meal.