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.

Israelis are great. Really. I’m not kidding…they’re great, and it’s great (read: a blast) to be around them. Israelis, in this particular context, is meant to be all inclusive. Let it never be said that I’m not a lover of all Jews. I mean chilonim, dati leumi’im, charedim, and yes, even Arabim. They’re great for many reasons, but the reason I have in mind might, to be honest, place the “great” term in slightly sarcastic overtones. That’s OK; it was meant as such.

Chalk it up to their Mediterranean temperament, the lack of stable weather conditions (this last week we had snow, a high 80’s gorgeous day of sun, and three rain days), or the stable they call the Knesset and the b’heimos inside, but whatever the case, the people of this land can never, and will never agree. On anything. Whoever said that Israelis aren’t contrarians is just being contrary. The fact of the matter is that they’ll argue with you over anything at all, anytime, just l’sheim the argument.

According to the old joke, Israel’s Prime Minister was once visiting with his US counterpart, the President. During the course of their discussion, each was bemoaning the grueling nature of their respective tasks. The President felt that he had a better claim on the more difficult job, since while he admitted that Israel certainly had more than its proportional share of political issues, he had to deal with far more constituents…300 or so million versus the paltry 15 million of Israel. The Prime Minister famously replied that while it was true that the President was in fact the leader of 300 million people, he is Prime Minister of 15 million Presidents.

Like they say, everybody’s got an opinion.

Throughout my stay here, I’ve noticed various manifestations of this attitude of ours. As with so many other things, no one is a better barometer of Israel’s national mentality than her taxi drivers. Here is a case in point…

The other week I was taking a monit (taxi) to back to my dira. Upon arriving at my destination, I indicated it with a wave of my hand and a casual “kahn“, which translates as “here”. The nahag (cab driver) slows down, points, and confirms with a laconic “poh“? Which, for those of you who don’t know, is synonymous with kahn. I nod and reconfirm with “kain” (“Yes”). And didn’t think too much of it. Until the next time I was in a taxi, and the same routine occurred. Kahn. Poh? Kain. Initially I assumed that they preferred the poh to kahn, for whatever reason. But I had my suspicions. Thereafter, I switched it up. I said “poh“, and received, as you’ve guessed, “kahn“?

The prosecution rests.

This little experiment has since been tested, and it is tried and true. It’s guaranteed to work. They just can’t help themselves from displaying this subconscious contrariness. Whichever synonym you use to express yourself, you’ll get the other in response. Try it yourself. Works every time.

Court adjourned.

The Prejudice of Pride

I raise the glass flute to the light. Truthfully, I haven’t got the faintest idea of what it is that I’m supposed to be looking, but the purplish color tinting the chandelier seems right…whatever right is. Setting the glass down again and swirling it at the base, I glance over at my Shabbos host. He’s a little preoccupied at the moment listening raptly to his eldest son’s Dvar Torah. As he has been for the last half hour or so. The only pauses have been for the occasional witty comment he interjects every couple of minutes. The rest of us are spellbound by the eight year old kid, and his unending cheder vertalach. Not.

Leaning my chair back (yes, I know, it’s impolite, but don’t worry, the host is far too absorbed in his kid, and the hostess is in the kitchen preparing the cholent in the kitchen), my eyes glazing over, I think for a moment about what is going on here. It’s a situation I see all too often. Usually, however, I’m only privy to the catastrophic aftereffects of the disaster taking place in front of my unfocused eyes. Rarely do I have the opportunity to witness the future tragedy as it unfolds. Like the spectre of the accident that we didn’t see until after the fact, situations like these often have me wondering what they must have looked like in the making. Often haunt me. Why, I wonder, did no one jump in and save the kid…why didn’t anyone scream to save this precious child? Was he/she just not worth saving? Or is the answer that the effort involved just too much…effort?

The handsome kid in front of me spouting off Divrei Torah like he swallowed the Talilei Oros for breakfast is clearly intelligent. Like his father. And like his father, he isn’t above taking the occasional compliment or two…or more. That’s OK, though. That’s natural. There’s a part of me, too, that revels in compliments, that basks in the warm glow deep inside of me that they create. Lincoln said that “Everybody likes a compliment”. But most of us, like when enjoying the physical warmth of the log cabin’s hearth, know how to leave the log cabin when the day’s labors call. Honest Abe didn’t become President by soaking up the heat of the hearth and staring at spitting embers all day long. We know when to abandon the false sense of security that these comfort blankets proffer. Unfortunately, this parent doesn’t know when to skip complimenting his kid in favor of teaching him a thing or two. What we call chinuch. He’s too busy basking in the glow of all that he believes is his little wunderkind.

Shifting my gaze over to the Totty in question, I debate telling him off- in a polite way, of course. But then again, I think, who am I to say anything? In fact, wouldn’t it be arrogant of me to speak up? After all, I’m just a young bochur, with no practical chinuch experience to speak of. What do I know? I keep my thoughts to myself. An unpleasant taste rises inside my throat as I watch the proud, yet prideful father soaking up his son’s stuff. It’s the taste of my distaste for the haughty, for the prideful.

Slowly, I raise my glass again. Tilt it back against the base of my lower lip. The cool alcohol enters my mouth, and as it does so, I replace the glass next to the vase of flowers and the white china plate it has been keeping company. On its circuit of my inside cheeks and lower mouth, I taste an array of flavors in the wine. Well, maybe not an array. But a few. Some bitter, some sweet, some fruity. Not unlike my thoughts at the moment. Returning to which…

Deciding against saying anything, I grimace at no one in particular. I grimace because I’m scared that I’m taking the coward’s way out. I grimace because I know that one day, I’m scared I’m going to meet an arrogant, haughty young man. And he’s gonna be on me, to a certain extent. And the thought terrifies the flip outta me.

But then another Lincoln saying flits through my mind. “I don’t like that man. I must get to know him better”. And I can’t help but wonder if my initial distaste for the fellow had me prejudiced from the get-go. Had me perceive every action he took, every thought or emotion I read, in a negative, unfair light. Did it? Perhaps. Maybe I’m the prideful, prejudiced one here. Maybe I need to get to know this guy better. Maybe he could teach me a thing or two about life…even about pride. Maybe I was wrong. I hope so. And I hope that kid turns out all right.

But I’m also hoping I won’t bump into that kid down the line. I have a feeling he won’t turn out too well.