Rosh Hashanah has always been most meaningful to me on the years when I’m somewhere with no synagogue. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in a place where there are no synagogues, let alone other Jews. It forces me to derive meaning from the holiday – to personalize it and make it my own. Being home, with family and in synagogue is so wonderful – and so easy.
Here, there are two choices: do nothing or invest yourself. The Jewish New Year is a time to celebrate the sweetness of life, but also a time of reflection. It’s more somber than festive. We are supposed to think about our lives, what we have, what we should appreciate, who we are, where we’re going and how we can be better. That last part is the setup for Yom Kippur – the Day of Atonement – which comes in another ten days.
Emily and I have thought long and hard about what to do for Rosh Hashanah. Originally, we thought we might go to Rhodes – until we discovered that the synagogue is actually just a museum now. We could have easily gone from Patmos to Rhodes for the holiday. Instead, it was a shame for many reasons.
Then when we saw Etz Hayyim, the struggling little synagogue in Crete, we thought long and hard about trying to make it back for High Holidays. But it’s just too far. And that’s a shame because I would have been proud to be counted in the minyan of a synagogue fighting against its own extinction.
So here we are in little Patmos, the only Jews on the island. We bring our own meaning because sometimes, that’s how life works.
Luckily, that meaning included our adaptation of the traditional apples and honey – an apple and baklava. We dipped our apple slices in the honey residue of the baklava container, ate the apple slices and then the baklava. Sure, it’s not my mom’s honeycake….but it got the job done nicely. And I’d happily do it again.
Yesterday, Emily and I were sitting at a cafe in the town square working. I was trying to finish my article so we could go get dinner. A boy of about six years came up to us with a plastic bag on his arm and three packets of travel Kleenex in his hand. His clothes were a little dirty and had a few stains. I looked up and saw the man I presume to be his father walk past us.
It was the same man who last week walked through town playing an accordion, while the boy played a little guitar and walked up to people at restaurants and begged for money. The father was exploiting this boy in the worst way possible. From the looks of both father and son, it didn’t seem like anyone was having any real hardship. But you never know…. The point is that this kid was being exploited.
This time, the kid approached us, I think to try to sell us the Kleenex packs. But he quickly forget his begging duties as he stared first at my iPad, then at Emily’s laptop. He looked at one, then ran around the table to stare at the other. He saw how I touched the screen of my iPad. He wanted to try it too.
With a little guidance and a few demonstrations, the boy was scrolling through my photo gallery enlarging and shrinking photos with his fingers. He loved to use his two fingers to shrink down the photos and have them pop back into the gallery. Turning the iPad and having the orientation change from vertical to horizontal amazed him – and he even learned how to gently place it back on the keyboard docking station.
The idea of being able to touch my iPad seemed amazing to him – and then, as he used it and it actually bent to his touch, he was enthralled.
The kid forgot his begging for ten minutes as he learned to use a piece of equipment most Greek adults have never seen. He was a natural – as kids are with computers. It’s phenomenal how my mother would have been more hesitant and confused with it than this kid.
When I finally said I had to go, he was very sad and asked – motioning with his fingers since he knew no English – if he could play with it a little longer. So, he did for another minute until I finally had to cut it off and go. The kid could have kept going for hours. He was a little sad, but went off to find his father and most likely resume his Kleenex sales.
You never know what a moment’s effect is after it’s over. Moments lead to moments which lead to infinite other things. But that boy and I had a moment. I hope that whatever goes on in his life and wherever he goes in the world that he gets an iPad of his own – and that he’s happy. He’s a sweet, smart kid and deserves better than what he has.
One of the darker aspects of travel is seeing things you feel are wrong and don’t know if you can really do anything. Most of the time, Emily and I walk along in our fairytale happiness that goes with this wonderful adventure. But there are moments on every journey where you see things that bother you – and you’re morally torn.
Two days ago, Emily sat working in yet a different cafe where they let her sit as long as she wants with her laptop plugged in to their outlet so long as she buys a spinach pie for lunch. A Greek woman whacked her child. Emily said it was far more than a disciplinary slap – but a good hard beating. More than once.
Emily wanted to leave. She wanted to get help. She called the Child Protective Services of her heart. But no one in the cafe, or on the street gave it a second thought. We’re not sure if hitting your child is normal here – and that’s why no one cared, or if it was just a situation where no one wanted to get involved. At home, things wouldn’t have been so ambiguous.
In the end, we’re guests here. As much as Greeks may be European, caucasian and live in a seemingly similar framework – they have different cultural outlooks and norms. We don’t have the context to know what that meant and if in fact, it is as reprehensible and wrong here as it is to us. And it’s a yucky feeling. With India and Nepal ahead, it will only get yuckier and the questions and the choices more difficult.
There’s also the girl who cleans our studio hotel. Her name is Anna, she’s from Poland and this is her second summer working for Nicholas. We’re not sure, but we guess Anna is about 25 years old. She speaks a fair amount of English and she certainly understands it well. She arrives to work at 8am and leaves at about 7pm. Anna may well be the hardest working person on this island. She actually does stuff all day.
Anna also makes our room perfect everyday – like she goes in and waves a magic wand while we’re gone. Dishes washed, crisp ironed top sheets left neatly folded on the bed, floors mopped, balcony tidied – our place is spotless. She is our hero.
She’s also really nice and we chat with her as we leave if she’s ironing sheets in the lobby or if we see her out front. We’ve chatted enough to know she loves Greece, takes Greek lessons, she works then travels then works then travels then works then travels…. she rides a bike around town and has no days off all summer long.
Still, Anna is always friendly and nice. She is supposed to leave Patmos and head home to Poland at the end of the month when the tourism slows, but she’s thinking about staying because she loves Patmos even more when everyone leaves and it’s so quiet it’s “dreamy”.
Somehow, I feel horrible every day knowing that nice Anna who we chat with and who we can relate to so well has to go into our room and deal with our messes.
In Turkey, when some small Turkish woman in a uniform with a rag on her head, who we couldn’t chat with to save our lives went into our room and dealt with the bathroom floor Emily so loved to flood with her apparently chaotic showers…. I didn’t give it a second thought. That’s what comes with a hotel, right?
Am I – to my own shock and horror – more ethnocentric than I thought? I can’t recall ever having a hotel maid I can converse with – let alone one who wants to converse. We see Anna around town in the evenings sometimes – as we do with everyone we ever meet in Patmos because that’s how it is here. Anna isn’t just a woman in a uniform with a cart – she’s a person who I can see fully as a person. She’s a person who I can understand, relate to and like.
Now, like Adam and Eve after the first bite of the forbidden fruit, I want to cover up….my mess. I don’t want to see Anna enter or exit our room. I want to pretend that the Anna we see in the lobby and around town is different from the person who cleans our toilet.
In these moments, I see where I have work to do this year. This is what Rosh Hashanah is all about. Shana Tova to everyone – with our love and gratitude.
Sent from my iPad
