Asian flavor, kosher chicken thigh (The Bangkok Shabbat experience)

May 24

Hand me the destination and I'll track you down that kosher chicken thigh.

I'd been recommend by my D.C. rabbi and a family friend to contact Rabbi Kantor, Bangkok's Chabad (orthodox) rabbi who, coincidentally, is also my family friend’s rabbi and my home rabbi’s first cousin.

No surprise, really, that Jewish geography applies worldwide. 

Friday night rolled in, and Caitlan and I headed to Chabad—she had joined me for Shabbat dinner during her visit in Paris and, while not Jewish, she’s familiar with the Chabad environment.

We stepped into a cab, my iPhone in hand with the synagogue's address typed in. I love the taxi rides, staring out the window as the stream of the city blurs—views of the different neighborhoods, of the downtown and side streets, the shrines scattered among homes and markets. 

Our driver slowed after 45 minutes, turning to face us as he shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head apologetically. 

“I don’t know direction.”

Which was great, because neither did we.

We paid and wandered into the Holiday Inn across the street-- the hotel concierge drawing a similar blank. He stepped outside, asking a motorcyclist who talked to a cab driver who motioned us into his car, driving up to a street local who pointed him in the direction of the synagogue ahead.

The temple was barred off—an embossed menorah the only sign of any Jewish context. The security guard—a tall, bald Israeli man—asked for our ID, wanting to know if we had made reservations for dinner.

No, we hadn’t.

He let down his stern gaze, allowing us into the synagogue’s courtyard. Caitlan and I made our way up to the sanctuary, joining Shabbat services. The room had no windows—we could be anywhere in the world, tunes of a service that’s all too familiar and surrounded by a community no different than mine from home.

Chabad in Bangkok. The gate barring the synagogue from view.

Shabbat dinner followed—kosher chicken thigh, thankfully, on the menu. A South African, young man sat behind us, pulling over his chair to introduce himself—he had moved from Capetown to London to Bangkok, a lawyer by trade, a Thai boxer in his spare time. He introduced his Israeli friend, an IT professional who missed home in Israel—full plan to move back, he assured us.

The three, Israeli men opposite us hadn’t seen each other in 20 years—now in their 50s, the men reminisced over memories from their past and stories of their adult years. Only one of them lived in Bangkok after having spent time in Germany-- the other lived in Israel and the one directly opposite me had moved to Montreal and now in Aventura, Florida—the city I grew up in before 8th grade.

Small world.

To their left sat an Asian woman and Israeli man, I initially assuming she was Thai, joining perhaps her husband for evening services and dinner.

As we got to talking, I gathered she was an American-born Korean, having owned a store in D.C.’s Union Station and living in Georgetown before moving to Bangkok on a whim. She had met the Israeli man three months back, while on a business in Singapore.

She feels more Asian than American-- though Thais notice she’s different, albeit her Asian appearance, she said.

I've spent such time toying with the notion of identity, coming to terms that identity changes as life progresses. We adapt to context—adjusting the manner we define while maintaining a core sense of values and ideals to structure our lives upon.

The rabbi that evening spoke of the individual purposes and collective mission we each hold. We're to accept our faults while acknowledging our success- for in that way we can embrace humility, "the absence of arrogance in yourself," he explained. Our biggest problems, he said, is our self esteem. And in overcoming the areas we fall short, we’re able to achieve our mission, understand our purpose and perhaps, I believe, come to terms with our identity.

Developing connections is my purpose that guides my mission—one that remains constant among an identity always in flux. The connections within my life help frame the manner I define identity. I am Jewish above all—in part because it’s a community I can connect to no matter where I am in the world.

And here, at Shabbat at Chabad in Bangkok, I met those with connections to parts of the life I come from—the man who lives in Aventura, the rabbi who is my D.C. rabbi’s first cousin; And the people with stories of the life paths they followed, never knowing where it would bring them.

Somehow we all end up where we're supposed to be. It's our mission— the greater plan, if that's what you believe.

Follow your gut, the Korean-American lady told us before turning out that evening. "I never imagined I'd work in Bangkok," she said, turning to smile at the Israeli man seated to her right. "I never knew my life path would bring me here."

A baguette at the table for Shabbat in Paris

I returned to Paris late this morning, although by the time I had returned to my apartment, the time had struck past midday. Yes, I returned home a few days early—a story on its own, one that I will save for the spring break blog post.

My best friend from camp put me in contact with a former exchange student, a Jewish, Parisian woman who, as a teenager, spent a year living with my friend’s family in Greensboro. Now a wife and mother of four, Laetitia lives just outside of Paris. And it was last night, while preparing my items for bed in my Milan hostel, that I received her email invite for Shabbat dinner for the follow evening.

With no hesitation, I responded an immediate yes.

Shabbat ran as shabbat runs everywhere; The grand dinner, albeit the baguette at the table, the raucousness of the family (eight of them in total), the beauty of shabbat. How warmly they treated me, welcoming in their demeanor. For the evening, I felt a part of their family. And after the last seven days of solo travel, it really did feel nice.

I spoke in French, much to their delight given I think they presumed I would speak English. Its been two weeks without daily French conversation and a full evening of mostly French proved perfect in throwing me back into the language. They appreciated when I asked what a word meant and they helped when I stuttered on my verb conjugations. My house mother typically just stares at me, waiting for me to muster up the right word. Or not come up with the word at all. Because really, Madame couldn’t care less. I like it when others correct me. It’s how I learn.

Different family members took turns explaining to me the meaning behind some of their jokes and French culture references. Laetitia, referencing her own experience in learning English during her year stay in North Carolina, sympathized over the difficulty of understanding humor in a language other than the mother tongue. I laughed, responding that I don’t really understand jokes anyway, English ones included.

Laetitia drove me home this evening. Drove me towards Gaite, the metro stop in which I live by—down the street with a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower. The time struck midnight as she drove and the five minute shimmer light show illuminated the iron lady in her finest glory.

Shabbat shalom, from Paris. After two weeks in Italy, it’s really nice to be home.

Explorations of the past few days

Thursday

Somehow, made it back to Sacre Coeur, again.

I’ve gone through my planner and written in each art gallery I intend to visit for each afternoon I have free. And so I write the name of the art gallery and the metro stop, all without directions. The goose hunt for the intended spot of visit is all a part of the fun (much to the  frustration of the friends I often drag along. Who, you know, would be more comfortable if I had a general sense of where I was going. But hey, I’ve yet to not find what I’m looking for. And really, there’s nothing like the ol’ scenic walk.)

So yes, back to Sacre Coeur as it turned out Halles St. Pierre, a contemporary art gallery, is at the base of the basilica’s hill. But like, had no way of knowing that prior because the name of the museum and the metro stop was all I had written.

The exhibits at the museum were all, as art typical is, comments on society. I like that about art, art that makes you think.

Calamity (2011)

Ray Caesar’s Calamity (2011) was hung outside of the main exhibit. (For those interested, here is a link to his work on display.) It’s an interesting piece, one that reminds me of Fragonard’s The Swing. The Swing, shocking in its day, features a girl on a swing, her leg elevated allowing the male voyeur below a prime view of all above her skirt. In Caesar’s Calamity, the girl falls off the swing. Her legs are still spread, albeit mid- fall. But none is covered, a comment, I believe, on the evolution to the tarnished sense of values that infiltrates our society today. The slipper falls off the girl in this image. Slippers by the bed are typically symbolic of fidelity; in contrast, the missing glass slipper is a theme of fantasy love. And so I see the falling slipper as the loss of fidelity within the world of love.  

In comparison, Fragonard's The Swing

I wasn’t able to take pictures within the main exhibit, but I was taken to a piece featuring a figure of three girls. The girls’ heads and feet were painted in, but their bodies were transparent. A transparent soul, in a way. How much of who we are is a product of ourselves and how much of we are is a product of our environment?

The theme resonates with me. I’m here in Paris, in a country that, had I not moved away from at age 4, I would have grown up in. How much of who I am today would still be me had I grown up in France? It's a thought I think often. People can tell I am American by the way I act. Yet, I’m only American because I grew up in America. Had I stayed in France, I would blend in seamlessly. My French would have been beautiful, my English horrendous. Had I stayed in London, my English would have been gorgeous. And who knows? I may not have even known how to speak French.

Is who we are actually who we are?

_________________

I grabbed an afternoon crepe after the museum, sitting on an outdoor seat of the café. The seat faced the road in front (um, invitation to people watch) and Sacre Coeur ahead. Location: beyond ideal.

Friday

St. Chapelle

I’ve gathered from my three weeks in Paris that the weather here thoroughly enjoys playing games. Sunny one day, sub- below zero freezing temperatures (by Florida standards) the next. Throw in some rain to the mix too.

But Friday, the cards were in our favor and high winter temperatures and sun were in the day’s plan.

Following Phonetics (which, I should mention, is right next to Notre Dame), I  set off for St. Chapelle. St. Chapelle is an incredible work of high- gothic architecture—stained glass in lieu of walls: a gothic architect’s dream come true.

I strolled through the city, passing through a market, crossing the Pont (bridge) Notre Dame, attempted but failed to take motion pictures on my SLR and eventually ended up meeting a friend opposite l’Hotel de Ville. We sat for a while, soaking in our gift of sun (three weeks without its strong presence makes you far more appreciative).

The scribbled agenda plans for Friday included a visit to Paris’s Chinatown. And so I dragged my friends along, set to find the Chinatown arch I was so sure existed. As it turns out, however, Chinatown arch does not, in fact, exist here. And the vibrancy of Chinatowns in all other parts of the world, also, has not replicated itself in Paris. Not a success, but on a positive note, I am glad we tried.

_________________

Chabad of Camps Elysees is the only venue in the city that provides a weekly, organized shabbat meal. So of course, that’s where I went, bringing my two non- Jewish friends along with me.

It was a typical Chabad service, most of the prayers sped through, many done so as personal prayers. But the tunes and order were familiar, a factor I quite liked.

Dinner was lovely, a welcoming and inviting community of individuals from all across the world. (Rabbi: from Rio. Those at dinner: some from Baltimore, others from Israel, many from Morrocco. Not as many from Paris.) The meal was free for given our student status. Free, as in three, free massive courses. Kosher turkey and all. It’s a shame to go boxes haven’t caught on here.  

We conversed in frenglish as our table was largely bilingual. It's a fair way to have a conversation, seeing as their English is as good as our French.

Dinner finished at 10:30. My friends and I walked along the Champs Elysées, leaving a friend to go home and then continuing on to the Eiffel Tower. And that’s where my friend and I stood out front, watching the white bulbs sparkle (but actually, the Eiffel Tower just looks like its been electrocuted) as the time struck 10 minutes before the hour. We stood there and talked, forever. About life and religion, our future, the unknown. 

I wear a necklace my best friends from home sent me for my 19th birthday. Pendants hang from the chain; Among the mini camera and the airplane and the globe hangs a mini Eiffel Tower. A small copy of the real, massive structure towering in front of me.

I've been blessed with all that's gotten me to where I am today. This is all real. This is my life, however temporarily. Yet, I thought as I stood gazing at the Eiffel Tower ahead, this life is only temporary if I choose it to be. Who really knows where life will end up taking me in the future.

Saturday

So I told a friend I’d meet her at a flea market at 11 am. But given 11 am was when I woke up, 1 pm was when I actually met up with her. Which, of course, is also the time the flea market was closing. We walked around for a little, eventually grabbing her a lunch at a boulangerie. (My house mother has been out of town so I’ve been trading in my toast breakfast for toast lunch.) There were no seats inside of the boulangerie so we stand outside under the bus stop. And when a bus came, I suggested we hop on board and just see where it takes us.

Food to go, French style.

We arrived at Chatelet 30 minutes later, a busy metro station as about a thousand lines run through it. I had wanted to go to Musée Marmottan Monet, an impressionist museum largely featuring Monet’s work. We located the proper route, which thankfully was not too far from Chatelet.

Marmottan Monet is a smaller, impressionist museum, held within what used to be a duke’s hunting lodge. The interior is decorated as if it were a home; the walls are a gorgeous tiffany blue with white cram molding decorations. There was a dining room table and stunning chandelier in what could have been the dining room, pots and vases placed on top of the cabinets, chairs (on display, not for sitting) spread across the space. We have art in my home, yet I never take time to walk around each room, gazing and analyzing each piece. But because the museum has the word museum attached to it, because I paid a set fee to get in, it automatically guides us to interact with the art differently. I don’t pay notice to the furniture in my home, or the colors of my walls. Yet, in a museum, it all plays a part in the way I appreciate art. The manner in which we interact with art is such a social contsruction. We’re lap dogs to society and for the most part, we’re trained to sit pretty well.

Sunday

My Paris and Civilization class (all six of us), in addition to two other friends from the program (so pretty much, almost all of my program), were set to take a day trip to Versailles. My teacher instructed us to meet at the St. Michel metro at 11 am. Of course, I, being the one who lives closest to the metro, was late.

We didn’t go inside the palace as all the original furniture had been moved out during the French Revolution and so it’s present day state is a complete reproduction. The gardens, however, are still intact, almost exact to the way Louis XIV left them.  

The gardens are massive—gorgeous, yet a complete fabrication intended to portray the great power of the king. We visited Marie Antoinette’s home (a separate mansion on the outskirts of the grounds), in addition to her “play village”—a not quite life- size small village in which she had her “bedroom,” her “ruin” (a dilapidated home… all fairy tales have to have something ruined) and her “animals.” During her free time, Marie would dress up in a milkmaid costume and play house in the village.

Really explains a thing or two.

The gardens of Versailles

Marie Antoinette's "play village"

_________________

I returned home late Sunday evening to an empty apartment as Madame is presently out of town. Not complaining as it gives me the freedom to use the kitchen. And as a home stay student, the kitchen has become the most wanted yet most inaccessible part of living in someone else’s home.

And so a new week begins.

The weeks: I swear they go by fast here. 

The Jewish, Parisian husband hunt: Jew camp Shabbat, meet Paris.

Tucked within the traditional cafes and boulangeries of the city streets, lies the Jewish life of the city. It's a community whose muted exterior often reflects little of the vibrancy of culture it holds within-- one that is largely hidden as a means of protection, yet as alive, as rich, as beautiful as Jewish communities spread across the globe.

And so it’s here, in an environment tied by commonality of religion in face of barrier of language, that the search for the Jewish, Parisian husband begins.

The Marais, the Jewish quarter of the city, had been the first discovery. But the strip of falafel restaurants laden with men in tzizit and kippot led nowhere in the search for the not-too-ortho kinda-more-on-the- conservative- level Jewish prince charming.

Kabbalat Shabbat at the Sephardic synagogue (a synagogue that I almost missed given its entrance is a plain, gray door in the back corner of an apartment building) could have potentially been a success seeing as AU standards were reversed and I was the sole woman among a room full of men. But the mechitza (physical barrier that separates men and women in hopes of ensuring greater focus on prayer) barring whatever view I would have otherwise had of the men ahead, posed a significant challenge. And so that plan, too, was abandoned.

Which is why a friend and I ventured to Centre Fleg, a Hillel/ Jewish federation- like organization geared to the younger Jewish crowd. The center was hosting a shabbaton for the weekend; 20 euros guaranteed us a spot for a kosher, Shabbat meal.

We arrived at 5.50 the following evening, in time to light candles. Services followed. I made the mistake of sitting in the men's section, oblivious to the mechitza disguised as a bookcase situated in the very back of the room. 

Services were different, an odd blend of prayers, some raced through, others recited together, a few of which were sung to familiar tunes. 

The evening was lovely, the food worth the exuberant 20 euro fee. I melted when chicken on the bone was served for the main course. And then drooled when I was given two pieces.

Five other men, most of whom were religious, sat at my table. I was pleased I was able to carry on conversation completely in French for a good 45 minutes. As for what we talked about? Absolutely no idea, given it's been a week, but I do recall throwing in my two- week stint as a seminary student in Israel after the man opposite me mentioned his two- years of study at a yeshiva in Israel. 

The traditional songs were sung after dinner—the men on the other side of the room, inspired by their newfound confidence so graciously provided by the abundant overflow of wine, led the crowd in the Shabbat tish songs-- tunes that I know from my years at camp. And like at camp, it’s these songs that, for me, transform the room into an atmosphere of spirit, pride and love in the name of Shabbat. 

It’s this feeling I first experienced at sleepaway camp, one that I have since transferred to other areas of life given camp no longer remains a physical part of my summers. But it’s this connection that Judaism fosters that never ceases to amaze me: the love shared in the name of our culture, the common thread that ties Jews together in all parts of the world—it’s powerful. The songs after dinner were the ones I know from camp, the prayers before the meal are the ones I’ve grown up singing with my family and continue within my Jewish community in college. And while my memories are personal to me, it’s these experiences that bind my connection to this identity I treasure, regardless of where I am in the world.   

I left Shabbat from Centre Fleg on a high note—a high note from having spent my Friday evening in a setting so familiar while in a country so foreign. And as I stepped out from the black gates barring Centre Fleg from public view, I once more became a part of the Parisian evening, an evening that, by initial glance, appears void of Jewish presence. I left satisfied, carrying with me the Jewish life, my personal connection, I'm beginning to develop here in Paris. 

And as for the Jewish, Parisian husband? Well, the search surely takes you to the most interesting of places. 

Bar Mitzvah kiddush means free lunch

26 June 2011
I felt something missing my first week in Sydney. And for some reason, I knew it was something Jewish.  Perhaps it's because I associate my summers with Judaism… five years of sleepaway camp will do that to you. Perhaps it's because there's only one other Jewish participant on my trip. Regardless, I felt the gaping hole. And I can't say it pleased me, at all.

My parents have friends in Sydney… an absolutely lovely, Jewish family. The husband, Mark, had met my parents during his three year stay in London back in their 20s. Mark, in fact, had fancied my mother, a factor I find quite entertaining. 21 years later and Mark and his wife are still in contact with my parents. I was graciously invited to their Friday night, Shabbat dinner. For the first time during my stay, I felt at home.

Over the past two years. I've found myself turning more towards Judaism. Having come from a traditional home, I've always identified culturally with my religion. My years at Jewish sleepaway camp, formed and defined my connection to Israel and my love for Judaism. It’s because of camp I have developed an appreciation for the religious and spiritual side of the religion, evident through my love for Kabbalat Shabbat services. It’s funny… as a young girl, I despised the restrictions our family Friday night, Shabbat dinners entailed. Friday night, of course, was the night my whole entire middle school would get together at the movies. I, naturally, was not permitted to go. Staying in on Friday nights was the rule, not an option. I’m not that 8^th grade girl anymore... I find myself wanting to celebrate Shabbat, whether it be going to services or skipping a night out for a Shabbat dinner in.

Judaism plays such a role in how I identify myself. Which, I believe, is why I feel a difference and slight void the moment I am removed from my Jewish setting.

My trip to Sydney is the first trip that has no Jewish connection to. (Which is completely fine!) But as a girl who is used to always being around Jews during my summer holidays, it's a slight step out of the comfort zone.

So let me clarify- it’s not a “if you’re not Jewish, I feel uncomfortable, we’re not friends” kind of mentality. Or an “I think Jews are better than you” mindset. Not at all.

What I mean is that being Jewish automatically means you share a common culture and tradition. One of my camp counselors once told us of a March of the Living group that sang Adon Olam, a closing prayed recited during services, as a way of communicating with each other; The group was from all different areas and although didn't share a common tongue, did share the common language and understanding of Judaism. That’s what being Jewish means to me. It’s about a connection and a commonality among all. And that is why it’s my comfort zone being surrounded by Jews… I know I’ll share something in common with the individuals. And as a result, I usually know what to expect out of both the people I meet and experience I partake on. 

I didn’t know anyone going on my trip. Which truly is incredible… I’ve been given the opportunity to learn and interact with individuals from all corners of life. It’s taken me out of my summer bubble and opened my eyes and perspective to those around me. (I'm going to church with two of my friends next week!) But I do miss having that large Jewish factor present in my every day life.

Which is why I spent my Friday evening at a family for shabbat. And then walked to the Central Synagogue Saturday morning for services.

There was a bar mitzvah in shul Saturday morning. Which means there was a fantastic kiddush following services (aka free lunch. Jews and food. Oy!).

Saturday marked Gilad Shalit’s fifth year in captivity. It was special to be in services for it as it reminded me once again of how strong our ties our within our community. How the Jewish community as a whole, Australia to the states, Europe to Israel, binds in support for this one Israeli solider, held in captivity by a terrorist organization for the past five years. It's this sense of community that makes me feel at home.

Regardless of observancy levels, regardless of beliefs, we as Jews are connected.

I’ve got Friday night plans for the remaining Shabbats during my stay.

Comfort has now seeped into that void, a void that no longer exists.