Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Rosh Hashanah, Part 2..... FINALLY

So there we were, in the lobby of the Hotel Continental, Asher doing his broken body routine and Elia screaming her head off. The lovely, older couples sitting across from us get up and move off (heavens knows why?!). A man comes in, spies Elia's kippah, takes two steps toward us and starts spouting Hebrew. Which none of us speaks. I stand, trying to unpeel Elia from behind my back and start giving him directions in English to where the room is (and now that I have been to services on Kol Nidre, I know that this man is the Cantor and, therefore, most probably, was not needing me to direct him toward the room).

He says, rather brusquely, "Oh. You don't speak Hebrew." Then turns on his heel and moves off. I'm thinking we can still make it out the door when a youngish woman and her husband, obviously Orthodox come in the door with their children. She is smartly dressed in a white dress (barely below the knee) and the highest black heels I have seen since the 1980's. She is sporting a mane of big, fluffy, long black hair. She is DRESSED. She rattles off some Hebrew in my direction. I'm still trying to unpeel Elia so that I might be ale to stand straight and I must be looking at her with a combination of great relief - here is another woman showing some leg, AND she has two young boys with her, and a look of extreme consternation.

"Oh", (rather brusquely), "You don't speak Hebrew" she states sadly.

"No", I say. "I'm sorry."

"You're from America?"

"Yes."

"It's ok", smiling wistfully, "You Americans. None of you speak Hebrew."

I smile and nod, my instinct to be offended, but really, how can I be? I have no one to offer to prove otherwise. We talk a little more and ascertain that they have met Andrew.

The whole while we are exchanging pleasantries, the husband, all in black, round Orthodox hat, white tallit peeking out from beneath his jacket, is standing six steps back. I can tell he is listening and his body movement is engaged in a forward manner, but his feet are anchored. Their two young sons, dressed in exact miniature of their father, are running excitedly around the room. I am trying to introduce Asher and Elia and myself as a Vietnamese nanny comes in the door, pushing a stroller. The woman turns and says, "This is our youngest."

And this is when it hits me. THIS is the Rabbi and his wife. There will be no sneaking out.

And so it goes. I successfully anchor my arm to my side, going against all natural instincts to reach out to the Rabbi for a handshake. Too late, I have already done so with the Rabbi's wife. We follow them into the room, where it is now us, the Rabbi and his wife, and the Cantor. Elia tries to engage the little boys in play, but they are laughing at the fact that she is wearing a kippah. I try not to clutch the Vietnamese nanny's arm too hard and have a little internal, ironic laughter about the fact that I am more sure of a warm reception from her than from the current population of Jews in the room. Asher sits down and promptly devours the apples, honey and small plate of "appetizers" - later to be ritually blessed by everyone else in the room as directed by the Rabbi.

At candle lighting time, Asher insists on lighting a candle and then promptly unintentionally throws the matchstick across the table as he is trying to shake out the flame. Neither I nor Elia cover our heads when we light candles.

More people come in and suddenly the room is full and the evening begins. Just as the Rabbi is about to open with the blessings on the meal, there is a loud WHOOSH and smoke and flames erupt in the back room from whence the food has been coming. The Rabbi runs back, things calm, there is a little relieved laughter from all of us and off we go once more. Except for the individually sized, round challah, there is nothing that anyone in my family will eat. We do meet two young women who are here for a couple of months as part of a college program and have some interesting conversation with them. After the blessings ("whoops", says Asher, I think a little proudly), even more people join us.

Note to self: Ah-ha. The non-religious Jews show up after. And no one seems to mind.

The After group includes an older Vietnamese woman who sits across from us with two of her relatives. She seamlessly speaks to them in rapid Vietnamese, switches to English to address us and the college girls, and, to all of our astonishment, turns and addresses the Rabbi in fluent Hebrew. After talking with her more, she is here to check on her businesses (real estate). She met her husband, an Israeli, in Vietnam, converted to Judaism, and they have been living in Israel for the past 8 years.

These stories should not surprise me anymore, but they do. The range of people who are here and where they come from and the languages they acquire along the way boggle my mind. I have a new friend who is originally from Honduras. She has lived in Honduras, Europe, America, and now Vietnam. Her English is better than my Spanish and now she is taking Vietnamese. There is a 3-year old at school (Father is from Cuba, Mother from Vietnam), she speaks Spanish, Vietnamese, and now is learning English, quite well, I might add, at school. We have no excuses! Family language lessons are in our very near future. I am thinking Vietnamese and Hebrew.....

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