Instead of springing for fancy bikes and such, Yerushalmi families often opt for the far cheaper toy trucks. The kids have as much fun on them, if not more, than their more affluent American counterparts.

Chabad’s parade down Malchei Yisroel l’kavod Lag B’Omer.

Make sure to check out the super Na-Nach’s toward the end of the video.

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.

Around this time of year, the young boys spend their afternoons after Cheder industriously collecting any and any spare scrap of flammable material. Watching them going about their business, I often think it no accident that the founding fathers of Yerushalayim insisted on building with stone only. It wasn’t for fear of fires; rather, they were worried the kids would tear down the houses come Lag B’Omer time in their quest for more combustible components to add to their campfire.

Witness this one young fellow who has comandeered a shopping cart to aid him in his transportation of a log. Trust me, Paul Bunyan had nothing on these kids.

A friend was telling me about a certain Mashgiach in a larger old-time out-of-town yeshiva. It seems that the bochurim of this particular place would return for Yomim Noraim every year, to bring back some of the kedusha they experienced in their former lives. Anyway, this Mashgiach would spend time on the days leading up to Rosh Hashanah/Yom Kippur, greeting and schmoozing with his old talmidim. When he first saw them, however, back in their old stomping grounds and first getting a feel for the yeshiva, he’d give them a big hug, and greet them with a warm “Welcome Home”. Because of course, as every bochur knows, yeshiva is always home, no matter how baalebatish you become.

And so chevra, fellow bochurim, yungeleit, and other various flora and fellows, Welcome Home.