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reluctantly. The Palestinians refused and started the war.”
    “I guess they were determined to keep their homeland.”
    A flash of contempt glinted in Aviva’s eyes. “Too bad they couldn’t compromise just a little. They could have had half of Jerusalem. Lucky for us though.”
    I looked at Aviva for a moment and thought about the boy and his goats. “Yep, lucky for us.” I got up to shower.

FOUR
    I decided to skip halacha class the next afternoon. I didn’t feel like going to the Old City or the craft center, so I wandered down Ben Yehuda again. I bought a stack of postcards and sat on a shady patio sipping coffee and trying to write to Sheila. Dear Mom , Israel is really hot. Dear Mom, School is everything I thought it would be. I decided on Dear Mom, Israel is a very interesting and spiritual place.
    I became religious because I’d decided I needed more spirituality in my life. The day last winter when I lay in the snow during the ice storm and looked up at the trees, I’d had a sense of how awesome the world was. I felt myself soar up with those trees, and I knew I wanted more moments like that. I just didn’t know how to get them. I had trekked back to the park a few days after the storm, but the ice had melted and cracked the branches into odd, truncated shapes. The winter felt old and shabby. It made me dizzy to stare up at the sky.
    My life back then felt very gray. With Don, Flip and the band gone, depression settled on me like a weight on my chest. Everything I did felt pointless. My school friends were excited about going to university or traveling after grad, but I had no idea what I wanted to do or be. I’d always thought I’d be a musician, but now I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to be like Don, always away on tour, always wandering.
    One day I was in my favorite café when a small poster with a picture of a menorah on it caught my eye.
    Spiritually Exhausted?
Come renew your Jewish soul through song.
Celebrate Shabbat in our community.
    It was sponsored by a group called Jewish Outreach. I read the poster again. I liked to sing, and I felt spiritually exhausted, empty even. I knew a little bit about Judaism from my Bubbie Bess. We used to have Friday-night dinners at her house when I was younger. Bess always lit Shabbat candles and said a prayer over the wine. I stood in the café staring up at the bulletin board and thought about those dinners at Bess’s house, how peaceful they had felt. I wrote down the Jewish Outreach number and stuck it in my pocket.
    I spent the week hemming and hawing about calling. Finally I dared myself to call. I figured I didn’t have to go if it sounded too weird. When I called, I spoke to a Mr. Zev Teitelbaum.
    “Hi, I saw your poster about Shabbat, and I was thinking I might like to try it.”
    “Of course you can come for Shabbos. Every week if you like.”
    “Oh, well, maybe just once would be okay. I’m not really all that Jewish. I mean, my mom is, but I don’t really know anything and—”
    “So, you’ll come and learn. This Friday, okay?”
    “Well, okay.”
    “You should go to the Blumes’ house. They live at— do you have a pen?”
    “Um, sure. This is at someone’s house?”
    “Yes. You should have Shabbos in the community.”
    “Oh. Should I bring something?”
    “No, just come.”
    He gave me the address and told me to wear a long skirt—nothing skimpy—which made me feel both embarrassed and nervous.
    I almost didn’t go. I stood in front of the mirror at home trying to decide between a knee-length velvet circle skirt and a longer tube skirt. The circle skirt showed off my long legs and the tube skirt was fitted across the butt. Neither were appropriate. In the end I wore the circle skirt with my favorite pair of cowboy boots and an almost modest cardigan with beading across the chest. The directions were to a neighborhood where a lot of Orthodox Jews lived. When I rang the bell, a huge bearded guy in a kippah answered the door