Disembarking for a layover is never enjoyable. I find this fact to be more annoyingly true when the layover is only two hours long, and you still need Shacharis, and, (more l’maasehdik), a coffee…

My grumpy mood doesn’t help me navigate the security line- it seems to take forever. Watching the little conveyor belt whisking away people’s wallets and watches into a little black hole isn’t helping entertainment wise, so I chat up the guy in shorts and tee next to me. We talk about nothing until it is his turn to send his life into nothingness.

Clearing security, my first task is to get my system up and running. After hitting the airport’s Starbucks kiosk- and sweet talking the barista into giving me a free cuppa- I study the kiosk’s soy milk carton. No hechsher. Dang. Of course, I completely forgot to stash the creamer they gave out one hour before we landed, so I’m fresh out of luck, and coffee options. To me, black coffee is only drinkable in emergency situations, or by coffee snobs who hate it anyway, but drink it to impress you. Tossing the grande Columbian brew in the trash, I amble over to the room that a fellow bochur had indicated we’d be doing the morning prayers thing in.

I didn’t know it, but my thus far dull day was about to get a little more interesting. Walking through the room’s open doorway, my mind barely registers the monochromatic airport gray plaque hanging there. Multi-Faith Prayer Room, it reads in unmemorable lettering. Setting my tefillin down on my carry-on, I look about the room.

Out of the fifteen or so chevra gathered, twelve are Chassidish bochurim (they’re here to learn- or party- in the Mir, I discover later). Of the remaining five, a harmless enough English fellow (no, that isn’t an oxymoron) in his mid twenties- who seems to be in shanah rishona, judging by the wife who insists on pacing the Snap-n-Go up and down just outside the room- is unhurriedly going about his pre-prayer business. I admire his detached aloofness. Me, I’m going to people watch until the last possible second before Brachos.

Two more chassidim, traveling businessmen both, look like they walked right out of Kiryas Yoel- that is, until I spot the (WS) Journals poking out of their attaché cases. So much for stereotypes.

Another solitary yiddele, large and mildly heavyset, is thumbing through his emails on a late model Blackberry. Another phone adorns his Gucci belt, right hand side. Wisps of brown hair turning white poke out from underneath his leather yarmulke, and it and his blue striped shirt give him away as a Baalebos. But from where, from which city, I muse to myself? Rattling off the various options in my head, I settle on Teaneck. Don’t ask me why- I have a feeling about these things. Just when I’m about to move my gaze on to the last yid left, I spot it. Yes, yes, yes! Innocuous, and totally unassuming, almost invisible underneath the phone in his hand and almost obscured by the winding tefillin straps is a no-longer shiny gold ring on his left hand’s ring finger. Bingo. Teaneck it is. I instantly name him Sol. I know, I’m stereotypical myself that way. Sue me.

With a small nod to myself (I make a practice out of not patting myself on the back in public- looks strange), I shift my gaze on to the last object of interest, as he is. Sitting in a corner, he’s a quiet, balding fellow cross legged on one of the cheap plastic folding chairs provided. He seems to be patiently reading through a fading red Chumash, or something. I’m not quite sure what it is, but something strikes me as a little off about the fellow. Then I chap. His shoes. Or lack thereof. He’s wearing some sort of sandal/slip-on arrangement. No doubt he knows it’s assur to daven with only sandals on… so what’s going on? I casually stroll over and strategically position myself behind him (well, it wasn’t so strategic, but I always wanted to do something strategic, so let it roll). Peering over his shoulder, I gasp. He’s reading a New Testament. Aha.

Shaking my head, I walk back to my tefillin zekel, and begin donning the little black cubes I know and love… when it hits me hard. Almost throwing them off, I run over to the oldest chossid there, and explain to him that we’ve got to leave the room, asap- forget about davening there. He doesn’t understand what I want from his life. Calming myself down, I explain to him that the room we are occupying l’chorah has the din of a church, being kavuah for tefillah of other faiths. A lively debate ensues, with all the bochurim offering their clueless shittos.

“Shtussim- es iz nisht kein kloister“, (Ridiculous, it isn’t a church), one of them opines assertively. “Oh”, I respond politely,- I’m always polite like that- “How do you possess such confidence in this matter- do you know of a Rov/Posek who davens in these rooms? Or are you familiar with the relevant siman in Shulchan Aruch?”, I ask him, in slightly less eloquent Yiddish. I know that I certainly am not familiar with the simanim. The soft-spoken Shanah-Rishona’nik isn’t either, but he’s got a more solid suggestion. He believes we should call someone else and ask. To that end, he attempts to track down the number of a local Posek we can dial. It isn’t even 8AM yet. Good luck with that, I wish him silently.

Meanwhile, Sol, my ringed friend from Teaneck, has inserted himself into the argument. He’s quite upset at this delay, caused by a meddling Yeshiva Bochur (me), no less. “What’s the issue? There’s no tzeilem here!” Well, clearly, he knows what he’s talking about. Again, I inquire as to whether he is familiar with the specific Halacha, and whether or not the room or building must have a tzeilim to qualify as a church. He admits he doesn’t know, but remains dourly disgruntled nonetheless. Oh well. We aim to please, and especially Sols from Teaneck, but you know…

Moving right along, a married Chosid, thirty something years old, with an assured air about him briskly strides in. Quickly apprising himself of the situation, he sides with me. That settles it. We all pack out, leaving a disgruntled Sol to pack up his Talis and Tefillin, and the nice Christian on the chair. He has barely looked up the entire time, although I notice the faintest traces of an amused smile hovering about him lips. Maybe it’s my imagination.

We setup shop just outside the room, and finally begin Shacharis. Just after I finish brochos, I hear Sol challenging the chossid. Still upset, he wants to know exactly why we’ve left the room. The chossid, unperturbed, explains to him, totally calmly and completely rationally, that there is a simple reason he won’t daven in such a room. And this, my dear friends, was easily the highlight of the trip…

The chossid explains; “I could never daven in such a tumah’dik room; way too many klipos“.

Sol explodes.

And so, I got to save the day, and watch Sol explode. Could you imagine a more enjoyable trip?

Update: Finally got around to asking a posek. It may be assur, but not for the reason indicated in this post. Ha.

For so many things. Some of the specific things I have in mind at the moment are:

Starbucks – even the Coffee Bean on Yaffo doesn’t come close to the homey, heimishe mahogany svivah that Starbucks shtells. Not to mention the terrific coffee.

Aviator Rink – a local ice rink. For $8 I can skate out my heart, and feet, in an Olympic size rink. wOOt! In E”Y, btw, it’s closer to $10—per hour!!

Juice Drinks – Naked or Odwalla. These things are not shayich. They k’seder keep me going for an entire skating session. Placebo effect matzav? Perhaps. Still works.

Pomegranate – I’ve been told this is similar to a Whole Foods, minus the organic-only component. Regardless, it’s mamish a mechayah to shop here. Not to mention the cheeses. Oh the cheeses!

Cars – Massive, gargantuan, comfortable vehicles. At last, I can transport myself. In style. As opposed to cramping myself up in a minuscule Skoda.

Clothing – I need a new wardrobe. From socks and shoes to yarmulke and hat. Here, I can get one without A) breaking the bank, and B) emerging from the haberdashery dressed like some metamorphosed caterpillar cocooned in pink silk that threatens to pop off of me with the slightest motion.

English – My native tongue. What can I say, I prefer a country not running on a Zionist’s purposeful changeup of our Holy Language.

Donuts – Even Brooklyn Bakery doesn’t do it, like, say, the Donut Man.

Sushi – Yes, it exists there, but at 1AM? I think not.

Road Trips – Come on, what kind of a trip can you take in a country that only stretches 8 hours from tip to tip. you gotta get lost, man!

Let me live in a house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner’s seat
Nor hurl the cynic’s ban-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

-Sam Walter Foss

Boruch Hashem, I had a very enjoyable Bein Hazmanim. Unfortunately, I can’t discuss too much of the specifics of my BH, due to my desire to retain my anonymity…but there was a little action, some trip-ing (no, no that kind), and a LOT of chilling.
When I say chilling, I mean more than just sleeping. Or sitting around the dira engaged in b**l schmoozing passing the night single-handedly rectifying the problems plaguing the yeshivishe velt- I can do that during the zman. Kidding.

Anyway, chilling, for me, means people. Watching. Observing. Even sometimes interacting. And doing so from a discreet, relaxed position, listening to music or whatever.

And not just any people. Oh no. My people; My Yidden. All of them. “The men who are good, and the men who are bad, as good and as bad as I”. I can watch them for hours. So where do I that, you ask?

And here I let you, my dear reader, in on a wonderful secret- assuming you aren’t a title reader (I know I’m not), and haven’t discovered it already. The coffee houses of Israel house the most eclectic, diverse cross section of the Israeli culture around. Perhaps second only to diversity at the Kosel, all types are there, and all over. Yaffo, King George, Rechavia, Ramat Eshkol, Moshav Germanit, and even out of town. I enjoy few things more than rolling into
a cafe and chilling, writing, listening to tunes, and of course watching the people.

So what did I observe? What did I see on this Bein Hazmanim’s journey through the cafes of the land? What about the people so attracts, nay, demands my attention? Can engage my interest, and hold it (no mean feat) for hours? I’ll do my best to explain, but the truth is you have to try it for yourself to see what I mean…

“The men who are good”.

This one spiffilly dressed accounting student type was having serious connection based issues with his laptop. He initially asked the in-house techie of the cafe, and when the techie couldn’t help him, the guy was stuck. Or so you’d think.
In a matter of minutes, a number of ordinary patrons with no vested interest in getting this guy up and running did just that- got the guy up and running. (BTW, good bit of trivia to know- “ordinary” patrons in cafes often have serious computer skillz).

In a similar vein, on more than one occasion I’ve seen random, unconnected Yiddelach help out others. From small things like watching people’s stuff while they use the W.C., or even rearranging seat locations to provide others with access to power outlets- nothing surprises
anymore here.

And then, there are

“The men who are bad”.

Just the other day, towards the end of the night when the cafe I was in was almost empty, an average American Bais type of bochur around 18/19 years old strolls in.
He needs to use the bathroom. Nothing new. I’ve seen many people walk in to use the facilities. He’s decked out in in a white polo shirt, green khakis, and a leather yarmulke clipped to his head. As he makes his way towards the W.C. door, one of the cafe’s servers
bars his way. “Hizmanta Mashehu“, he asks? “Huh”, he mutters in reply. Clearly no linguist, this bochur. After a minute of exchanging grunts back and forth, the bochur finally chaps what the server wants.
“No, I didn’t buy anything”.
And in stupefied silence, I watch the Israeli cafe staffer deny the hapless bochur entrance to the bathroom. As the guy turned to make his confused and somewhat embarrassed way out, I observed one more thing.

The staffer was chiloni.

So yeah, there are all types in the coffee houses of Jerusalem. And then again, there was the small coffee shop owner who apologized profusely to me when he realized I couldn’t eat anything because of the non-Mehadrin hashgacha. He explained to me why it wasn’t Mehadrin;
and made it clear to me that I could sit there as long as I liked- gratis.

Small shop, big man.

And the diversity! Oh, the diversity. All types. Yeshiva guys. Mizrachi. Chiloni. Dati Leumi types. Families in the middle of the day, just stopping in for a minute to cool off with an iced drink. Tech types with huge laptops, using the cafes as offices away from the office.
Dates. Loads of them. Foreigners; Americans, Euros, and even Arabs. Even some organized meets…like this one.
And random groups of friends bumping into other random groups of friends. The atmosphere is, somehow, very homey. One big happy family. And while it may be that the prevailing energy and vibe in cafes is good only for collective benefit reasons (see this piece for more on that), the bottom line is that the overall attitude is:

“And let me be a friend to man”.

So while Foss likely didn’t mean a coffee “house”, I have little doubt that he’d have been at home in one. Or at least in an Israeli one.

So that’s my Bein Hazmanim piece, and this is Yeshiva Guy, signing off for Elul Zman. I’ll have some pre-scheduled pieces going up, but won’t be online-mostly.
If you need something specific, or just want to drop me a line, I’ll be on Twitter, or you can get me via the Be BKesher form at the top of the page or here.

“You can’t sit on both sides of the fence”. Or, “men ken nisht tantzen by baide chasunas“.

Complete myths, as any member of any Orthodox Jewry enclave will affirm. Many dance at two, three or even four chasunas per night.

But seriously, the fact is that we all do it. Straddle the fence. And us pre-chasuna yeshiva guys more than most, methinks… And I’ll explain:

I believe the first fence straddlers were the original schizoid chevra. I also believe that fence straddling may be the basis for the nature of my current life dilemma.
Fence straddling is what almost every yeshiva guy with some creativity does, or has to do. Some of the lucky ones manage to channel their creativity into chiddushei Torah, or
focusing on their learning. But for the large majority of the rest of us who’ve been exposed to the outside world, what do we do?

We straddle the fence; for some, this might be by going to a Shwekey concert, chilling to Carlebach,or even on the far extreme, goyishe music. For others, a walk in the shuk does it, or sports/excersise will do it for the more active types.
The point is, almost everyone needs an outlet. The real trick, the key, however, is to make sure that the outlet you choose to use won’t bring you too far away from the person you want to be.

And for me, walking down the street near the city and observing PIA (People in Action) usually does the trick.

But sometimes it doesn’t.

And those are the dangerous times. When I can feel, can touch, can hear that thing, that bochur- no, guy- inside me that wants to break free. To break free and see a little of what life has to offer.
To experience firsthand the things I know about from other, goyishe sources. I’m not referring to the BAD things. I mean the other, okay things that guys I know have done, that guys I know and hang out with do.

For example. Yeah, I’ll give you an example.

Its around five years ago, summer Bein Hazmanim. We’re chilling in a hotel room. Motel room, actually. Think it was a Red Roof, but definitely that type. 60 bucks a nite, or less. Strange town (on our way to a specific location, traveling), no one knew us. We were doing the regular bochur Bein Hazmanim shpiel- a little smoking, a little TV, and a lot of sleeping. So the evening creeps up on us, and we start thinking about what to do, if anything.
Now this guy, my friend, is a real chiller. The type who be’etzem i pretty frum, and was raised like that, but will constantly surprise you with the stuff he’s done or will do. Like I said, pretty chilled.
We cycle through the usuals. Bowling. He’s not so into. Wal-Mart. Did already. BBQ. Ate already. We run out of options, and we’re both quiet for a minute or so.

And then, out of the hazy, smoked up hotel room air, he hits me with… “How about a club”?

I’m stunned. I’m quiet. And most of all, I’m scared. Scared that I’m gonna say yes.

Thoughts begin their race through my mind. Feelings start their run through my heart. And nervous energy commences its marathon, starting at my feet and working its way up to my shaking shoulders.

“I’m kinda tired”, I answer, after a thirty second pause, trying desperately for casual.

I don’t want him to hear the nervous tension in my voice. I feel like I’m a vibrating string being picked hard by some psycho, violent guitarist.
And I’m torn that I really wanted to tell him yes, but didn’t, thank G-d, because I was too embarrassed to. Of who? Of what?

Of myself, I think. And then there’s that…

We, us, Yidden, have that “baishanim” middah. It is always there. And when you need it, you can call on it.
As much as you think you eradicate it by being “geshmack” and interacting with others outside your natural, yeshivish comfort barrier, its always there. Boruch Hashem.

But after the moment passes, and I’m post-processing my feelings about the question and my response to it, I chap that I’m upset with myself, my “good boy” answer notwithstanding.
I’m upset because I would’ve said yes had I not been embarrassed. And that scares me. A lot.

What will be the next time, when I’m not with someone I’m embarrassed of, when I’m not with someone I “shter zich” from?

And so we straddle the fence, us yeshiva guys, not knowing what tests tomorrow will bring. And becoming, day by day, more and more schizoid.

(credit to iamJoliePhotography for the pic)

(Post partially inspired by this from Frum Flipped)