A stranger in a strange land

I feel like a chameleon in that I can slip back to New York or Tel Aviv with such ease. There's no shock to the body. Not a wink of jetlag. I automatically feel at home in either place, street corners evoking memories of a younger me.

Visiting kiosks, restaurants, shops, I am greeted by familiar faces, some who remember me instantly. To some I leave a carbon footprint subtly etched in their memory, perhaps left to think I look familiar but can't recall from where. It's comforting, this feeling that nothing really changes and every visit is a homecoming.

Then there's the contrast riding the way to the Central Bus Station, which has always seemed so foreign to me. I feel like an outsider, not quite understanding what goes on in this place. The way the shopkeepers seem so different with a way of thinking that is so unlike anywhere else.

Or Jerusalem. The one city which never seems to speak to me. Maybe it's because I've never quite opened my arms and my heart to her. Maybe because I've always felt like the odd Jew out. A stranger in a strange land, not being able to wrap my mind around all the different hats and clothes and what they mean. Never feeling comfortable in my own skin, never wanting to offend the people of Oh Jerusalem, never wanting to offend the shekhinah that resides in her walls, watching over us, over me.

And no matter how many times I whisper requests for spiritual epiphanies, nothing seems to come no matter how long I wait. Jerusalem of my mind, if only we could reach that point of coming together. If I wear the right clothes maybe you'll show me the light.