In a tradition dating back to the opening of the doors of the first seminary way back when in the fifties, the second week of Elul is host to an ingathering of exiles, so to speak. I refer to the yearly migration of that nasty, vile creature colloquially known as the Sem Girl. Otherwise known as our holy seminary sisters. Yes, every year around this time they invade Geulah. They take Malchei Yisroel and transform it from the once sleepy Yerushlayamer shopping and food center it was into a yearlong virtual sleepover.

Somehow, the Ribono Shel Olam has seen fit to force us, Yeshiva Guys, and them to co-exist in the same space. And like many other things in life, this is something I don’t understand; yet I accept it. But I do have some things I want to get off of my chest…

Every year, us Yeshiva Guys moan and groan about these issues. We go on the same diatribes, vent recurrently to ourselves, and wish things were different. Well, this year I’m determined to change all that. So below find some of the many things that you do to tick us off- kindly take note, and refrain from doing so.

Don’t:

-Talk loudly on your pelephones about nothing. If you must do so, at least make sure to slowly and clearly, enunciating every syllable, list off your fathers’ bank accounts so I, too, can enjoy unlimited cakes from Moishy’s Bakery.

-Wear Crocs in public. This is NOT cool, and does not fit in with the Bas Melech image your teachers will be attempting to brainwash into you over the next year.

-Daven mincha on the street because shkiah “just…happened” and you have no place to daven. Either watch your watch, like we do, or don’t daven. As much as it may pain you to learn this, females ARE NOT BOUND BY TIME-RELATED COMMANDMENTS!

-Loudly barter with the shopkeeper as if he were deaf in your Americanized Harry-ess Ivrit that you think you’re proficient in. You’re not. Either learn and speak the language with the local accent, or stick with the English you don’t know. Trust me, the locals understand your English better than your Ivrit.

-Feel the need to litter the entire Yerushalayim with the yellow/purple/clear plastic/paper cups that you just got from Fro-Yo or Sams or Mitzei Uri. It’s nice that you enjoy them, and it’s wonderful that you’re supporting local merchants and all, but really, what about recycling?

-Rave about Rabbi Orlofsky’s shiur last night that is definitely, positively, OMG OMG gonna change your life. We all know it won’t. And if really was such a life changer, you wouldn’t still be sipping that Mitz Pri as you stroll down Yechezkel. Only dogs eat/drink in the street. Not people. Or even sem girls.

-Feel like you have to go to the Machlis’, the Blind Couple, and every other chavayah during your stay here. You can still be Jewish without going to those people. I know, because I still am. I think.

-Use the default ringer on your Disposa-phone that came with your seminary’s suggested student plan. Hashem gave you kids all that creativity and individuality to be able to create all those plays and singa-thons and dances and whatever. Express it. If I hear that la-di-dah-di-dah one more time I may just…

-Feel obligated to take over Sams Bagels between 1-4 every afternoon. How about just ordering your food and taking it back to your dorm, huh? I’ll arrange for the teenaged Israeli shibob with the knockoff UnderArmour spray shirt to give you an oversized bag so everyone will know you went…M’kay?

-Be scared to take Arab taxis. Your seminary Giveret is bluffing you. The story about the girls who took one once and…yeah. It never happened. Sorry, I know Israel is much more exciting that way, but…

-Buy leather-bound Tehillims/Siddurim for all of your cousins/aunts/uncles. That creativity thing? Again, demonstrate.

-And finally,under NO circumstances are you to enter Pitzuchei Moshiach. PM is a male-only establishment. Aside from the narrow aisle issue, PM is just…well…sacred. Don’t defile it. Go to any one of the other fine nut houses.

So welcome to our town. Geulah is our turf. You can have Har Nof, Sortozkin, MInchas Yitzchak, Ramat Eshkol, and the other shchunos. But Geulah is our turf. We own it.

And the truth is, you aren’t welcome. So adios, and seeya back in America.

Not until Shidduchim, though…hopefully.

Boom. “Fire”, someone screams! Bang. Its one o’clock in the morning, and we’re shpatziring down a street in Zichron Moshe area. When we hear the shout, we whip around. Someone on the street shouts again, “Fire”! I look up to see a conflagration erupt out of an abandoned building’s second story yawning mouths. Flames are leaping and licking out of them, and perched on a makeshift porch is a half man halfway dressed. He looks like he walked right out of a Hollywood set, dressed to play the part of a homeless, clotheless man begging on Second Avenue for pennies. He does have a white, now gray, undershirt on, but otherwise…People on the street begin screaming at him to come down; “Tayrid, adoni”. Nothin’ doin’. This guy’s home is going up, and he’s determined to go down with it. No one is sure of what to do. People running about, and I’m just standing there, taking it all in. Meanwhile, explosions of an unknown nature are taking place within the building.

(You can spot the scarring in the form of the black residue left on the wall of the building in the above picture. The porch referred to above is also the pictured one).

A fight erupts amongst the bochurim and crowd. Soon, an impromptu Halachic debate is taking place. The big question is whether or not to call the Fire Dep’t. You see, in Israel the fire squad that answers the call will most likely be composed of Yidden, thereby involving chillul Shabbos issues, aside from the call itself. Since the fire shows no signs of abating, and has the potential to spread and cause potential sakanas nefoshos, the decision is made to call the fire department.

By now, some quick thinking bochur has arranged a pair of pajama pants for the homeless fellow; after donning them in full view of the assemblage, he finally descends from his perch. Muttering all the while about the terrible forces that bombed his home.

And now the p’shat:

This building, located for the most part on Rechov Chofetz Chayim with a back door on Rechov Pri Chadash, has been abandoned ever since I came, and ever since the guys I know came. Inquiry among the old-timers of Pri Chadash yields the fascinating fact that in fact, this building was never occupied at all, due to the fact the municipalities’ original building permit on it lapsed in middle of construction. Leaving the building empty, as well as available for emergency garbage disposal and other such worthwhile purposes. The local Yerushalmi kids use it as their version of the “Haunted House”. Which is actually quite wonderful, since I can’t imagine where else they’d burn off their excess energy.

One day, this enterprising homeless Jew decides that he needs to find an apartment. He shows up at this building, passes the entrance exam, and successfully wins the nomination to become chairman of the Building Committee. And he’s been there ever since. Until his home goes up in flames. So what happened?

Well, according to the best information available, this guy is a connoisseur of not merely your standard Marloboro fare, but indeed Marloboros Plus. V’hameivin yavin. Anyway, he is most likely familiar with the commandment to rest and enjoy Shabbos, so he attempts to fulfill it in the manner he knows best. And promptly passes out on his mattress, or what passes for it. Soon, the still lit joint starts burning a hole in the mattress, and the fire catches to the other assorted refuse in the shack. And the rest is history.

The fire department arrives, and soon after the Mishtara. Faint cries of “Shabbos” are heard in the background, but no one seriously challenges Jerusalem’s Finest. The firemen put out the fire in a matter of minutes, and before you can daven a Yerushlayamir mincha all that remains are copious amounts of smoke pouring out of the cavernous second story openings. The policeman talks the nutjob, takes some notes on his dupe pad, talks to some of the crowd, and quickly disappears.

Now, all that is left are the black stains on the walls, a slightly hyper crowd, and our local nut job. He not-so-graciously thanks the two bochurim who saved his life (and donated a pair of pajama pants to him), and ambles off to parts unknown.

Postscript: I later overhear that he strolled into a random bochurim’s dira at 5AM, requesting a place to sleep. They bounced him out. I assume they had little desire for a no cost heating solution.

And that’s an average Friday in Geulah folks. Plenty of entertainment all around, a bit of Torah, some police action, and most importantly, a fire.