What does it mean to be a Jew? Have you ever posed that question to yourself? Has anyone casually asked you what that means? Chances are you haven’t.

Our very first night in Santiago Chile we piled together and watched footage of a Jewish man casually asking people, Jews and non Jews, what is means to be a Jew. It seems like a simple enough question, however it left many people perplexed and tongue tied.

There were a few funny moments where he would go up to bondage wearing Londoners who seemed a bit out of it and said quirky comments. Many non Jews said Jews are people who don’t eat pork or wear certain attire. No one could seem to embrace the core of the meaning.

At the end of the video the interviewer finds a spry little old woman, and asks her the question. She thinks for a minute, and says, “You know, I’ve never really thought about.” She goes on and tries to string together what it really means but isn’t able to truly formulate a cohesive answer.

This was the Aha! moment. This one seemingly insignificant part of this film was the main focus of the discussion that followed.

After the film aired Rabbi Markowitz explained to us why it was such a poignant part of the movie. Here is this old woman, in her 80s at least. Who doesn’t seem to have the first clue of what it means to be a Jew. A simple question; something we as a nation should all be able to proudly assert when asked.

As a group we were asked to brainstorm about what we think connects us as Jews and thus shapes us a religion, a nation, as one. We started shouting out answers as quick as the Rabbi could write them down. At the end of a few minutes we had over 60 items. We were then asked to condense the list done to ten items.

Next, we assemble into groups and were told to think about what the top 3 connective factors are that define us as Jews. Although our lists varied, one thing remained on top and that was the Torah. Without it, we wouldn’t exist and everything else would have melted away. It is our system of rules, our unifier, and our word. Whether you are a strict follower or a lax one you follow some aspect of the Torah on a daily basis. The next time someone poses this question to anyone of the 42 of us, we will be readily prepared with what to say and won’t end up like the little old lady.

While my group was discovering the wilds of Chile and learning about our heritage, a powerful earthquake struck the capital of Port-au-Prince, Haiti and released its destruction onto thousands upon thousands of innocent victims.

The news of the quake trickled into our group via calling home, the net and watching the BBC in Spanish. The magnitude of the quake did not hit me until I arrived in the U.S. and was able to read about the ghastly devastation.

Several times throughout our trip, Rabbi Shalom Yona stated that we, the Jews, are responsible for the earthquake and the loss of life. We are the purveyors of the land, the Kings and Queens; the Chosen People. G-d selected us to help right the wrongs of the world and act as an example whenever possible.

Upon hearing this, I thought the Rabbi might have hit his head too hard while we went white water rafting. Yet, after coming home and hearing the news his statements truly resonated with me.

I met my Israeli mother for lunch right after we landed. She asked about the trip but abruptly changed the topic to the earthquake. She began to tell me about how the Israeli’s are the driving force in the relief effort. They were able to mobilize 200 doctors, nurses, soldiers and volunteers in a matter of hours and set up a hospital amongst the rubble. As she spoke she had tears in her eyes and pride in her voice.

After our lunch date I began to research just how much the Israeli’s have been helping the destructed nation. I found that as soon as news hit about the earthquake, they mobilized troops, organized supplies and filled 2 jumbo jets with a vast amount of medical and rescue equipment.

Mati Goldstein, head of the ZAKA rescue delegation stated, “We built a hospital, are treating 300 to 400 people a day and rescued 19 people from the rubble, more than any other delegation.”

CNN even aired coverage that revealed how much better the Israeli hospital was than the U.S. field hospital. The results were shocking.

There are plenty of naysayers who freely voice their opinion that the Israeli efforts should merely be looked at as a public relations tactic and nothing more; it is a way for the world to forget about the nightmare surrounding the Gaza strip. However, Israel has always helped countries in need. In 1999, Turkey suffered a powerful earthquake. Israel was one of the first nations on the scene to search for victims and save lives. When a bomb struck the U.S. embassy building in Kenya in 2006, they assisted in aid and rescue.

This type of anti-Semitic sentiment was also touched upon during one of our lectures by Rabbi Feldheim. He advised us that anti-Semitism has followed the Jews throughout history and will continue to follow us. He stated that we have to consistently prove to the world that we will not be threatened by annihilation; we will prevail.

Earlier this year, the Organization of American States (OAS) concluded that Haiti had no building codes. If proper codes were set in place, the country would have been saved. The same severity of quake hit San Francisco in 1989. 63 people died and 12,000 people were homeless as a result. Fast forward 20 years, 200,000 people are presumed dead and 1.5 million are homeless.

Rabbi Yona was right. As Jews, we have a responsibility to take care of those in need. Jew or non Jew, poor or rich. We have to realize that it is up to us to right the wrongs and fight injustice. If we let the world continue to starve and live in poverty, we aren’t acting as examples. We are ignoring the problems.

* I urge everyone to contribute whatever they can to the Haitian relief effort. *

Click Here to make a donation

January 15, 2010

The day has turned into evening on the Shabbos. The globe of the sun slowly descends beyond one of the brown porched buildings of Santiago; pink is smeared across the sky like frosting on a homemade birthday cake.

In front of me are palm trees wrapped in lights, and a wooden house that resembles a rustic castle.

It is day five of the trip, and after a magnificent trip to Pucon, we have returned to Santiago, where we began. We are staying at a beautiful hotel that more closely resembles a tropical jungle than a place to sleep, thanks to Ronnie and Melody.

I am alone in the corner of the lawn waiting for the candle lighting to commence, sitting on a striped white and green lawn chair. It’s cushy.

I watch my fellow travelers interact with one another across the lawn, lounging on white couches that remind me of summer in South Hampton. My new friends are showered and fresh, dressed for the Shabbos in straight suits and fluttering skirts. They are laughing and touching. I watch them curiously, as if I am peering through a glass wall lilted by frost in the bitter heart of winter.

I am truly surprised by the warmth with which they interact. Five days ago, these people looked at each other with open suspicion and even hostility. Somehow (maybe it is the ridiculously long bus rides) those attitudes have changed to the comfortable familiarity only evident in friends.

This is the point in the trip where everyone starts to think about its end, although it is only half over- and one of the all-consuming thoughts is: Who are these people to me? Are they here in my life just to be a part of this experience, or will I see them again? Will we stay in touch? Will I see that person who slept in a bed next to me for eight nights, who shared stories, laughter, and dreams with me?

We are differentiating between people; there are those whom we will look upon with fond memories (or not so fond), yet never see again, and there are those who will continue on with us in our lives, accompanying us far beyond ten crazy days in Chile. But how do we figure out who is who?

There are a variety of factors that can predispose you towards staying in touch with certain people, while other people melt into the wind like sugar into water.

It is important that you recognize the multiplicity of things that are essential to creating a good, long-lasting relationship, not just an acquaintance that will last as long as a cardio workout.

For example, Stan and I were talking about soulmates yesterday at the beach in Pucon, a soulmate being the classic example of someone who could last your whole life…or just one night…

Stan is eighteen years old and confused, just like all of us are at eighteen, wondering where our lives are going when we don’t even know where we want them to end up. He exists in a shirtless state and has a proclivity for the color red. At the beginning of the trip, Stan’s shirtless demeanor came off as an effort to look tough, but many of us soon discovered that he is actually an insightful, spiritual guy.

We were trying to infuse our pasty skins with color on our last day in Pucon, as the sun had just appeared after two days of fizzy rain. As we felt the sun sink into our Vitamin D starved bodies, a sparkling blue cove littered with white boats and Pucon’s hallmark snow covered volcano stood around us.

I hadn’t even really talked to Stan up to this point.

But the day was bright and sunny, we had both claimed Rebecca’s blanket as the best place to tan, and I was open to getting to know him.

Within minutes, it was clear that Stan and I, despite our age and education gaps, were on very similar levels. He opened up to me about his thoughts that had emerged on this trip, rooted in the Rabbis’ lectures on male-female relationships.

“How do we know who or where our soulmate is?” Stan asked. “I just can’t help feeling like what if the woman I am meant to be with is waiting for me on a farm in Thailand, or a coffee shop in China? What if? How will I find her?”

I found it hard to believe that Stan’s wife would be a small Thai woman growing rice in the Thai countryside, but I nevertheless acknowledged the possibility. Energies match regardless of tangible differences, as was exhibited by my and Stan’s connection. But what Stan didn’t realize is that he was only pinpointing one piece of the puzzle in his Thai hypothesis, which is that of chemistry. There is much more involved with relating to someone and possibly thinking about making a life with them than chemistry alone.

“Sam!” Jill is calling me. My glass wall shatters. “Sam!!!” she hollers again, gesturing to me with one hand. She won’t leave until I get up from my lawn chair to come, being well aware of my tendency to get caught up in my writing, or sleeping, or whatever it is that I’m doing, and the difficult time that I have lifting myself up out of the latter.

Jill and I met almost ten years ago on a teen tour across the western United States.

We instantly connected, energies tumbling into each other’s like two groups of drunk NYU students at Pianos on Ludlow Street frolickly listening to a band. But beyond just matching energies, or having chemistry, Jill and I discovered a lot more fuel to keep our friendship alive. We had similar personalities and outlooks on life, both being both bright, fun-loving Jewish girls with a lot of love to give and and boy-crazy mentalities. We were also both non-judgmental when it came to the other, open to listening and responding to each other’s qualms devoid of criticism and bursting with insight. Jill was also dependable, which meant that she was always there when I called and proactive in making plans.

But most of all, we always had, and have, fun together; we feeling good in the company of the other.

My mom (a noted psychologist) says that people have relationships for the precise purpose of feeling good- the rabbis would call it the purpose of pleasure.

And Jill and I make each other feel good. So, keeping our relationship alive was always a no-brainer.

“Sam!” Jill is walking towards me across the grass. Although she would wait, the Shabbos won’t. The sun is about to dip into its slumber, throwing black night and stars up in its wake.

I put my glasses back into my pink Kate Spade case and lift myself up out of my beach chair, brushing the wrinkles out of my black skirt.

Once you have one good relationship in your life, it is up to you to figure out what makes it good and then use that to help you look for others.

I bring my hand up to the back of my braid. The pink flower, fresh and bright as a sunny day, is still in my hair from when Jill wove it into my pony twenty minutes ago. Jill has a flower in her dark waves also, but hers is white.

It’s time to go light the candles.

Shabbat Shalom.

Many thanks to my mom, Dr. Helene Karlin, for her contribution to this blog. Mommy, you know what I’m talking about.

We just returned from horseback riding on the beach. It was easily the most incredible experience I’ve ever had in my life. So as to avoid clichés, I will describe it.

Horses surrounded us upon our arrival, and our positions in the ring determined our mates.

I mounted a whitish blonde horse with light blue eyes who had eyed me like a cute boy on the lunch line. She looked like a cross between a horse and a unicorn (and an albhino, according to one member of our group).

And so we rode, first through the forest and then onto the sand dunes, the horses unified in pace, but the riders not yet in tune with their new counterparts.

Josh’s horse truly must have had a distaste for him, as mid-sand dune the horse sat down and went into what must be an animal’s horse’s version of fetal pose. Josh tumbled off, Audrey Hepburn glasses skewing to the side and tan shorts meshing with the color of the sand as he made contact. We died laughing.

After he remounted, we rode onwards, starting to feel the horses’ energies. There was a swamp, and we had to lift our feet and place them on top of the horses as they fearlessly plunged into the waters, magnificently carrying their riders through the water.

Horses are determined creatures; neither sand nor swamp present obstacles. They yearn to hurtle as we yearn to fly.

But the sand dunes were deep, and while riding up one of the cliffs of sand, poor Lisa’s horse sunk. “We lost Lisa!” the rabbi yelled crazily from aboard his hyper horse.

The horse is like its owner, they say.

Someone managed to retrieve Lisa from the pseudo quicksand, and we rode onwards. The reins became the messengers between person and horse, connecting our spirits, each guiding the other from its pull on the blue-and-white ropes.

It astonished me how quickly those of my compatriots who had never ridden before bonded with their animals, whipping through the sand whooping as if they were the cowboys on which Westerns were based.

Then we hit the line that separates the heavens from the earth.

The bloated sun, mustard gold and yellow, sat above the miles of brushed dunes. I could only assume that onward lay the ocean.

I started to sing “Maria” from West Side Story, only realizing halfway into the song what it was that I was singing. My horse turned its head towards me curiously, translucent blue eyes brightening and white ears perking up. It was listening to me sing. It amazed me how singing transcended human boundaries and affected all life forms. I guess we all have souls.

My friends and I sprinted past one another, sand spinning into the air like a wheel of fortune wheel. We hit the next row of dunes.

And then there it was: the ocean. An expanse of blue laid out like fields upon fields of ripe blackberries, bursting with the gloriousness of G-d’s essence.

I couldn’t decide who couldn’t wait to get to the beach first, us or the horses.

“Onward!” The rabbi yelled.

“Arriba!” I added victoriously.

Arthur also screamed something at his horse, but it was in Russian so I didn’t quite get it. But it didn’t matter because the horse did.

We all fled towards the ocean, aching to sniff salt and embrace the waters as if we were about to devour the blackberries in several bites, aching to feel the tart juice bursting in our mouths.

As we crossed the last dune that separated us from the flat beach, the sun was setting. Streaks of dark and hot pink flew out of the sun like candied soda out of an old silver fountain.

The horses became energized by the setting, as did we. Isabella (a variant of my Spanish name) pulled on the reins and kicked the sand with her feet. She wanted to run.

So I dug my feet tight into the sides of the horse, took my fear and bit down into it like it was a hot dog from a Hebrew national stand in Central Park, and bellowed “A delante, arriba!”

She didn’t even need it, her feet instantly starting like a wind up doll wound to its tightest setting  suddenly being let go.

We hurtled along the beach in concert with the other fearless riders of the group. Isabella didn’t like being behind, and the faster the other horses ran, the faster she sped, head down and feet beating the sand like a churn whipping butter.

To the right the sun sank lower and lower, as if it too was being pulled by reins, but hers attached to the ocean instead of a horse.

As Isabella went faster and faster, my flip flops flew off, one, and then several seconds later, the other. But I didn’t care. My stirrups flew off, and there wasn’t a prayer of getting them back on so I just dug my feet harder, held on tighter to the reins, and let my giddiness spill out from my head and feet like rockets. I let myself trust the horse and trust my own capabilities to ride in tune with her motions. I flew through the salty air. Any type of feeling had ceased; I was one with the horse and the land and the sky and the sea, just another piece of G-d’s puzzle.

“Parete! Parete!” a little voice yelled. I pulled on Isabella’s reins, hard. She whinnied, not wanting to stop. I looked for the sound of the voice. It was the little girl guiding our group with her father. She was blonde, (a rarity in this country, and couldn’t have been any older than six).

Yet she rode her chestnut colored horse with fearless abandon, smacking its back with a cherry whip like a ringmaster.

Isabella finally agreed to turn around and we trotted back down the beach towards the other horses. We all guided our horses to the right, where we weaved away from the ocean and through colored tents and Chilean people camping on the beach. Little boys and girls with doughey eyes peered at us from among fires and wood stacks as we walked by with heads tall, a proud army leaving a battle victorious. We walked the horses single file across a railroad bridge as the sun finally immersed into the sea. I couldn’t even comprehend the view, the sky the most exquisitely fantastic watercolor I had ever seen.

I walked Isabella off of the railroad into the dunes again, and looked back towards the rest of my group walking across the bridge. Since the sun had gone, the people had disappeared. All that was there were the silhouettes of the horses, black and elegant against the quickly darkening pink sky.

We returned back to the compound twenty minutes later. As I rode into the ring where we had begun, one of the guides said to me, “Pierdes tus zapatos!” I laughed. “Si, senor,” I said. “Pierdi mis zapatos, pero tengo my vida (I lost my shoes, but I have my life)!”

And being alive was really all that mattered.

Crippling back onto the bus, Leah was in awe. “It was the most spiritual experience I have ever had,” she said, breathless. “It was as if Hashem was calling out to me.”

I agreed.

“That is nature,” I said. “It’s God’s creation. I think because we live in New York we sometimes forget that it exists and how amazing it is.”

Murmurs of “amazing experience,” “painful love,” and “there are no words” tossed around the aisles of our big white, blue and green 80’s bus.

I think regardless of how religious or not we considered ourselves, in that short ride we had all seen a little bit of G-d.

January 13, 2010

This morning in Pucon, I went for a run in the chilly gray air to clear my head. I ran down Calle O’Higgins from our cabanas to the lake. Pucon is a fairytale- a mix between Lake Tahoe, Vermont ski towns, and an oasis on a cratered moon. The Andes tower around colorful homes and wooden cabins, small dogs saunter around the streets like they are the Indian chiefs of their small villages, and then at the outskirts of the town sits a periwinkle blue lake capped by black beaches made from volcanic ash. There is actually an active volcano protruding from the Andes- signs on the street explain how to detect seismic activity, and where to go should the lady’s soul light on fire.

We had arrived in Pucon bleary-eyed from a night of sleeping on the bus. Emerging out of it like a family crawling out of the basement after a tornado hits, we were told that only half of the rooms were ready, which wasn’t exciting considering the miserable weather. My roommates, (Jill- my best friend from a teen tour when we were fifteen, Ashley- her adorable friend from UMASS who is now my friend tooJ, and Lior- Ashley’s hilarious friend from Columbia’s social work school) and I, fought our way to an available room. We dragged our enormous suitcases- we call Ashley’s forest green suitcase “The Hulk”- over a gravel path to our little cabin, labeled ‘N.’ As soon as I walked in, I was taken back to an outbound weekend in Maine I went on in college with my IR program. There were two single beds in one room and one queen sized in the other, all made up with lacy white blankets and pillows. There was a little kitchen, a water heater, and vintage ski posters on the wall above a bare wooden table and woven chairs. It was all sort of Quakerish.

Outside the cabin was a small pool, a body of translucent baby blue bordered by a simple line of white pavement. Five white lawn chairs sat alone on the grass, all leaned back as if five munchkins were laying on them, soaking up the rain like it was the sun.

Restless from the long bus ride, four of us decided to embark on a run- Lior, Danny, Ilya and me. Two collies joined us on the way, like attaches onto Forrest Gump. We named them Buddy and Tank, only to be devastated when they meandered off later, destroying our dreams of sneaking them through US customs. We mistakenly ran up a road which turned out to be the driveway of a monastery, and we raced each other past Candyland-like cabins towards the lake, many of which proclaimed on the window “Se Vende (for sale).” We talked about technology, about how our sisters and brothers don’t play like we used to, about our majors and life goals and about the things we saw around us.

The craggy mountains were black in the distance, whisps of white licking their peaks, aching to bite them off like heads off of gingerbread men. The thick air- it had just rained- spoke of firewood and nutmeg.

I kept remembering what one of my travel compatriots had said to me the day before; it surfaced persistently like a small duck bobbing in a rocky pond as my feet repeatedly struck the pavement. “Just look at where we are right now,” Sam had said. At that point we were in another spectacular environment; albeit as different from the current one as women are to men. Then, we had been walking through a vineyard sculpted by violet and magenta flowers. Long grassy roads meandered between the flora and the rows upon rows of verdant vines bubbling with teeny green grapes.

After frolicking down the road like kids outside at recess, I spotted our target: A black English carriage circa 1800. We climbed up into it and sat down in the driver’s seats, giggling with the freedom of the day.

I had felt like Scarlett O’Hara sitting on my Georgia plantation while listening to the daily going ons of a suitor, looking out beyond rows of carefully tended corn to a watery coral pale and pink sunset.

I was at peace, fully and truly. And I couldn’t have found peace had I not truly looked, truly seen what was around me.

There is a fleeting desire when one is in beautiful surroundings to say “I wish I could stay here forever,” or “I wish I was always surrounded by this.” But, as we know, that’s not a realistic expectation; it’s a fantasy. What is important however, specifically because of the transitory nature of these experiences, is that when they are there you let them in. And you not only let them in but you embrace them, soaking up every detail of those surroundings and your emotions in the moment like water into rice.

This will do two things: kick your butt into perspective from wherever it has been, and it will also create a memory in your mind that is vivid and complete, filling your life in its completeness like teaspoons of sugar into cake batter. Our lives up to this point are only composed of our pasts and our present; and the pieces of our past that influence us, whether they be our decisions now, our emotions, or anything else, are our memories (whether conscious or unconscious). The richer they are, the richer your present will be and your future and the more information and knowledge you will have in order to make good life decisions.

The fact is that we are not always where we want to be or surrounded by ideal companions; however remembering what it feels like to be at peace and to be awestruck by the world around you is important to retain with us whether we are in a conference room, on a stage, on the subway, or in a little lakeside town on the coast of South America. Recognizing our place in the world- which is important but miniscule, and recognizing what it is like to be at peace so that you know how to get there when your environment isn’t so inspiring or relaxing (meditation, etc.) will help you through bad situations, through relationships, discomforts, and everyday interactions.

And memories can evolve and change with new knowledge; let them. Let them evolve like a Jew on an Aish trip to Chile.

Beinvenidos a Pucon

“It’s just kind of amazing,” Victoria said. She was a sweet, pretty girl with a decided love for her mom and peace in the world, as we had found out in one of our icebreakers. We were walking out of the Jewish firehouse into the sun, having just gotten a “VIP” tour from one of the firemen. “What?” I asked her. I glanced to my right, amazed at the mountains that just seemed to appear out of nowhere, as if the city had come first and the mountains second.
“That Jews always do this,” Victoria responded. “Do what?” I asked. I was still giddy from sliding down the fireman’s pole. “That they are such a small community but somehow always manage to come together and do something good,” she continued. “Like, look at this,” she said, gesturing back to the firehouse. “A bunch of Jews in the middle of Chile get together and start a firehouse for the Santiagan community. That’s what Jews are about.”
I looked back at the two rescue trucks behind us, emblazoned with blue Jewish stars and the words “Cavod vhazalah (honor and rescue).”
What she was referring to was our first activity on our trip to Chile.
Jetlagged and exhausted, we had walked into what was described on our itinerary as simply “Jewish firehouse.” I didn’t even know that a firehouse could be Jewish. It seemed sort of idiosyncratic: Jews aren’t exactly known as being the most physical of races, which is what firefighting, to me, entails.
But this was no ordinary firehouse. And these were no ordinary firemen.
It was founded in 1954 by a group of Jews in Chile to express gratitude and appreciation towards the country and its people for taking in the Jews pre, during, and post-Holocaust. The firehouse is run completely on a volunteer basis, and even requires a small monthly donation from its volunteers (which is more symbolic than anything else, they said). The fireman all adopt the task of saving lives and stomping out fires secondarily to their normal lives- they are all in university or working professionally- but when that SOS call comes in on their cell phones, they literally stop, drop, and roll to get their way to that fire, and fast. The amount of time between when a call comes in and when the firemen arrive is approximately seven minutes.
Impressed by the hefty responsibility they had taken on, I assumed that the Chileans’ deed to the Jews also must have been huge: Had they taken in more Jews than other South American countries?
“No,” one of the firemen answered. He looked about twenty-five and a cacophony of dark curls sprawled on his head. His name was Alex, and he was quite a lovely guy. “Argentina took many more Jews,” he continued, “There are not so many Jews in Chile.”
But although Chile’s deed had not really been extraordinary, the Jews had felt a need to give back by building the firehouse for their new home and its inhabitants.
Jews always feel this need to help others.
And so the conversation trailed to this very topic, as we sat in the basement of our little yellow boutique hotel in Santiago. To what it means to be a Jew.
We discovered that there are many different things that we define as “being Jewish”: the belief in one God, a shared culture, history and traditions, even circumcision (ok, well, that one’s only for the men). But from all of these things a common thread emerged: values-one of which is the imperative to perform mitzvot.
As Jews we are taught these values; mitzvot, hard work, honor and integrity, loyalty, those among a myriad of others, from the time we are born. Whether the latter have their roots in the teachings of the Torah, in our constant struggle against persecution, or in our belief in God, are unclear. But what we do know is that we all seem to have them, somehow.
People often comment that “the Jews always manage to find each other.” Outsiders also say that they are amazed by how much the Jews support one another, defend one another, and help each other in day-to- day life. We are a sort of like a therapy group, constantly looking for ways to improve ourselves and one another.
But beyond helping ourselves, the fireman portrayed how avid the Jews are about going out of their way for others.
They commented that Chileans are often surprised when a fire truck bearing hallmarks of Judaism and Israel arrives to a rescue. Because the Jews typically reside in the bigger and nicer areas of the city, they said, the Chileans who don’t have trouble understanding why the Jews are there to help them.
Let’s just call it our values.
And so little, bright Victoria had hit on something: no matter where we are in the world, we do manage to come together and do “something good”, whether it be for ourselves, for our fellow Jews, or for others who have barely a relation to us whatsoever.
Inscribed on the firehouse wall above the number five was the word, “Superacion,” meaning “Exceeding expectations.”
Perhaps that is the key to our immortality.
Bienvenidos a Chile.

-Samantha

It was New Years Eve and I was not going to be spending it in Times Square.  We drove through the
area on the way to lunch and the area was already packed with people!

We spend much of the afternoon on the bus where we got to see a movie and TV inspired tour of the city.  We saw famous places from “Friends,” “Spiderman,” and “Big Daddy.”

After the tour, we split into groups to participate in an awesome NYC Scavenger Hunt.  Thankfully, my group opted out of fighting those crazy crowds in the freezing weather to get manicures and go on a quest for New York’s best cheescake.  It was Kosher too!  I was also able to get a skirt for Shabbos at Loehmann’s.  After dinner at the Aish center on the Upper West Side, I went back with
many of my friends to Passaic for a New Years party at the Aish house. We all got ready together and brought in 2010 with a bang!  It even snowed!  It was so special to celebrate with my new friends.

Congrats to those who stuck it out and celebrated in Times Square. You guys truly are rock stars!

-JB

I was so excited to go to trapeze school.  All I could think of in my mind was the tv episode of Sex and the City where Carrie went to trapeze school. It is a lot harder than it looks!

After signing my life away to participate in trapeze school, we were taught the basics of the craft on the ground.  I was one of the last people in our group to try it so I had watched people do it well, and people do it not-so-well.  No amount of time could have prepared me.  I ultimately did not complete the skill I was supposed to do, however the experience was absolutely amazing.

The boys who completed the skill were able to try to complete a catch with a staff member.  They all completed the task and it was great to watch them!  Good job guys, you made me proud!

After flying through they air, I was ready to go and get my shop on.  Many of us went to SoHo, Chinatown, and Canal Street to spend our free time.  We visited the Magnolia Bakery, Bloomingdales and just about every other store in the area!  Also, I was able to take a quick field trip to the Columbia campus to take some photos and visit Barnard where seven Jewish women founded my sorority, AEPhi, over 100 years ago!

Up Next,  New Years in Passaic

-JB

Today we went to Chelsea Piers to have a go at rock climbing and bowling.  After having lunch and watching kids do tricks on gymnastics equipment (very cool) we traveled down the pier to go bowling.  After a couple games, the girls left to have our turn on the wall.  Most of us made it to the top of the wall, the rock climbing wall staff was so supportive and helped us navigate our way to the top.  After posing for a group picture, the boys came which was our cue to leave.

Since we got to climb first, we got more free time in the city.  This day was absolutely the coldest day of the entire trip.  Some of the girls wanted to go to Kleinfelds from TLC’s “Say Yes to the Dress” so we walked to the store and took pictures outside.  We wanted to see if we could get in, and we did!  Not only did they let us take pictures by the front desk, but we got to meet and take pictures with their consultants and take a tour of their boutique, see their dresses, and go into a fitting room.  Thank you Kleinfelds!

Next we went to Bryant Park where we checked out some of the shops that had been set up for the holiday season.  Did you know that Bryant Park is home to New York City’s only free skating rink?

After dinner we were treated to an improv comedy show.  I had never been to anything like this in my life!  We were able to create and input a whole show based on our audience participation.  Shout-outs to Joey and Michelle for helping create one of the best improv musical numbers in Aish history!

Up Next: Trapeze School!

-JB

After morning classes we loaded the bus again to Manhattan where we traded in our shoes (Ugg boots for many of us) for rented ice skates!  The girls from Canada taught us some figure skating tricks so we could impress our friends when we go back home.

After skating the trip divided up to see various spots of New York.  Some opted for Canal Street or Times Square.  I went with a group to Columbus Circle.  For many of my peers on the trip it was fun to see them on their first ride on a New York City subway.  After getting off the train and a quick coffee stop, we walked to the Plaza Hotel for a couple of quick pictures before reaching our destination… FAO Schwarz where we waited in line just to get inside.

We took pictures with the doorman, the large stuffed animals, custom-made Muppets and finally went upstairs to play on the Big piano.  After waiting in line for the group of eight-year-olds to finish up their turn on the famous toy, it was finally our turn!  We spent most of it taking pictures rather than actually trying to make music.

The adventure down Fifth Avenue continued.  We walked together in a trail of yellow coats, sequined hats, and Rivkie screaming her head off trying to make sure we didn’t leave a man behind.  We saw a decked-out Rockefeller Center, the New York Public Library, dancing snowflakes at Saks and managed to stop for another picture at Tiffany & Co.

After dinner at Kosher Delight we made our way to Times Square where we enjoyed an hour of unlimited game play at the ESPN Zone followed by a visit to the limited-time-only Charmin Bathrooms.  We arrived as they were closing, but after Rabbi Gluckin and Rivkie pleaded our case, we got to wait in line to go to the bathroom.  It was amazing!

At this point it was almost time to go back to Passaic and I was looking forward to my beauty rest.  If I learned anything today, it was that Times Square is a hot mess around New Years but some of my peers still planned on seeing the ball drop anyway. Oy!

Up Next: Bowling, Rock Climbing and Kleinfeld Bridal… oh my!

Keep reading to find out what happens when we visit the famous Kleinfeld Bridal Shop from TLC’s “Say Yes to the Dress.”  - JB