A Taste of Gan Eden

My daughter Malka and son-in-law Nate, who are thriving in Israel, were expecting a baby and asked my wife and me to come and help. So Basha bought two round-trip tickets, and I started packing living out of my suitcase six weeks before our departure. [I’m weird that way.]

The flight to Israel is no picnic, I mean, I gotta move around. I asked a perspiring flight attendant struggling with a cart if we could switch places, “You sit here and relax; I’ll serve the coffee!”

There’s gotta be ways to make this flight pleasurable. C’mon, El Al, use your imagination! Why can’t the cabin crew lead us in “Charades” or “Simon Says?” Or, run a net down the aisle, hand out rackets, and we’ll play badminton, Seriously!

Finally, after twelve hours of battling for space with my baggage, we landed. The captain called a flight mechanic, who pried my knees apart, and I could walk again. Yes!

One of the first things that struck me about Israel is that everything is tiny: the land, the stores, and the parking spaces are microscopic. When we reached my daughter's building, I was shocked to discover the elevator was as tiny as a toll booth. The inside sign read: Maximum number of passengers: eight. Eight people or eight hobbits? 

But the produce in the Holy Land, unlike everything else, is enormous. I saw a Zucchini as long as my arm, and it weighed more than my carry-on!

Once inside the apartment, Malka handed me a tray of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and announced, “I hope you’re ready to work, Dad: shop, clean, and change diapers. If you do a good job, I may give you a half-day off to visit Jerusalem.”

I worked diligently for three days.

Then, on Friday, I showed Malka my visa: “NOT PERMITTED TO WORK,” and darted out the door with Nate. With his friends, Gabe and Eli, we drove to a Mayon, a cold spring in the remote hilltop village of Bat Ayin, to immerse in its icy, spiritually purifying waters, a ritual for the Ultra-Orthodox in preparation for Shabbat.

We rode in Gabe's beat-up, rattling old Land Rover “90.” Its elevated chassis and 4-wheel drive are essential for traversing the washed-out, rocky road to our divine destination. As the Land Rover bumped and rambled over the rutted route, gears grinding loudly, I bounced up and down in my seat, transfixed by the dreaming gold and green Judean hills rolling toward the sea.

“Hey, Sholom, the Mediterranean is on the other side of that furthest mountain,” Eli informed me, pointing to a distant butte,  “and when the sun and cloud cover is just right, you can see boats on the Sea reflected in the clouds.”

As he said this, the Rover, bumping along this steep mountain, was suddenly riding on only

two wheels before dropping back onto the rocky surface. Phew!  We drove over huge rocks jutting eighteen inches out of the rubble. I thought we’d lose a muffler, but Gabe rode on as peaceably as if he were on I-5.

“You see that vegetation?” continued Eli, pointing down to a lush green area in the valley. Those are cherries, the sweetest in all of Israel, perhaps the world.”

Then Gabe told us how he had just returned from the Kineret, where he had camped the previous night. “I’m driving on three and a half hours of sleep right now. I feel like I’m in a fog.” This was said on a clear, sunny day. “A scorpion crawled into our camping area. I tried to sweep it away, but it kept returning, so I cut off its stinger. After that, I let him join us.”

“Why didn’t you just kill it?” I asked.

“If it were in my house, I would’ve killed it, but we were in his territory, so I just lopped off the stinger.”

As Gabe said this, he drove past several vehicles parked willy-nilly along the bald road, their drivers unable to proceed.  Dauntless, Gabe skirted by a dusty black Mercedes as his wheels bounced a foot in the air; he missed knocking off a side view mirror by a quarter inch. My heart was in my throat, but Gabe didn’t break a sweat. 

We finally reached the Mayon, a spot nestled between two low hills shaded by Acacia trees. A dozen or more men and boys of all ages were milling around in bathing suits or underwear, either seated at the water's edge or jumping from the trees into the murky but spiritually purifying waters.

I kicked off my sneakers, walked to the edge of a square carved into the earth, and peered into the icy water. “Don’t think about it,” advised Nate, who was already immersed, “Looking at it won’t make it warmer.”

I jumped.

It was c-c-cold!

I climbed out to join Nate, Gabe, Eli, and a couple of Russian guys assembled at a weather-beaten picnic table. One Russki produced a container of fish he had smoked while Gabe pulled out an ice-cold bottle of Arak, a distilled spirit, its translucent frozen crystals glittering like jewels in the bright sunlight. We had a seuda worthy of King David.

Once we’d made a couple of L’Chaims and eaten the fish and a pack of crackers, Gabe took out a book the size of a pack of cigarettes and handed it to me, “Pick out a chapter, and I’ll translate it.”

It was a work by Rabbi Nachman. I opened the book to a random page and returned it to Gabe.

“The beginning of all knowledge is first to understand that you will never understand…and when you feel like you are being singled out and squeezed, don’t focus on yourself, but only on His Glory, lest you lose faith….”

The lesson concluded. I looked around in awe of this wondrous paradise and experienced what can only be described as a cool, composed fellowship with the Infinite. A Rapture. Eli looked at me knowingly and smiled, “So,” he asked, “is this your first time in the Garden of Eden?”

Is this my first time in the Garden of Eden?

You mean the Garden where boats sail in the clouds.

Is this my first time in the Garden of Eden?

You mean the Garden where the sun swirls and glitters in bottles of liquor, and vegetables grow as large as my luggage.

Is this my first time in the Garden of Eden?

You mean the Garden where all you need to know is that you’ll never know.

Is this my first time in the Garden of Eden?

“Yes! It’s my first time.” I laughed. “And hopefully, it won’t be my last.”