Journal From Spain #6 - Jewish Travel in Madrid

Split up for your (and my) reading pleasure.



I. Little Things

What ingredients compose the Jewish life? The Big Things quickly jump to mind - holidays, prayer, the consistent habit of kashrut - but let us not underestimate the constant contribution of the little thang, those mannerisms of life only the Chosen know. I'm talking about the sweetness of a good kipa-catch (five extra points if the yarmulke is plummeting towards a death by urinal) or the wayward tickle of pulling out misplaced tzitzit strings from under one's pants (and, of course, the high-pitched chuckle it inspires). How about our use of the word "by" for all actions involving a host?: while Goyim pass their days in a series of withs and ats, only the Jew sleeps by the Salzmans, stays by the Cohens, or eats by the Lukshen-Kugels. And let us not forget those mini yellow soup nuts which, combining the work ethic of the pioneers of Zion and the conspiring secrecy of the Elders of Zion, Jews have managed to invent, manufacture, market, and sell solely amongst themselves. Not formal parts of capital-letter Judaism, but as beloved and bizarre as the Arba Minim.

Few activities gather together so many unique nuggets quite like Jewish Travel. Consider the oft-cherished airport nod, whereby two complete strangers, heading in opposite directions across a wide terminal, realize that there's another yid in Dallas-Fort Worth and, in a fleeting moment of smile and eye contact, communicate two thousand years of sacred fraternity. "Hey," we silently cheer, "me too." With sufficient time abroad, one begins to discern new and distinct forms of Jew meeting. Hopping off the Metro, one might encounter the "shalom" of the unaffiliated, spoken like a hope and with a hint of self-doubt, as if I - significantly more expressive of my ethnicity - would not believe they are actually Jewish. Less surprise accompanies a rendezvous with the religious, for like all Orthodox Jews, I operate a sort of frum radar, honing in on every passing skirt, all forms of long sleeve, and every attempted camouflage by Yankees cap and tucked-in polo shirt. Once, in the first weeks of my travels, I met a gaggle of sem girls on a short tour across Europe. It had been a wistful, even religiously alone day, imbuing our round of Jewish Geography with a surprisingly cathartic character and lending their kosher advice (as it related to Haagen Daaz in Spain) an angelic, redemptive glow. In my memory they shall forever remain a set of floating 3/4 length t-shirts, with wings sprouting from the back, and ice cream dripping off the sleeve.

But to the extent that these garments unite they also divide, making the Jewish Traveler something of a spectacle. Even the most distracted of Orthodox Jews has disproportional insight into the staring habits of his host country. Staring, after all, is no simple matter: the world is full of curious people - in both senses of the word - and interaction between the two groups can leave both parties feeling something less than human. As such, society must decide upon a polite, non-threatening means of ogling the atypical. Americans, for example, have allotted a small window of time – roughly two and half moments– that, when followed by a quick turn of the head and the pretense of an accident, allows the observed to maintain his dignity. (And the observant to struggle with shmiras einayim.)

Let it be known that the Spanish operate under a similar system, just with twice the time and half the pretense, adding undue discomfort to the otherwise pleasant task of appearing in public. In due time, however, I exchanged my distress for understanding, then finally amusement, and I now recall with some smile my many encounters with the eyes of a Spaniard. One, at the hands of a flight attendant, is worth relating in greater detail.

Of the many rituals surrounding kosher airplane food, I particularly cherish that moment, shortly after take-off, when the steward checks me off as the future recipient of a special meal. (The definitive discussion of kosher airplane food - with its frozen fruit medley and cup of water wearing a tin foil hat - has yet to be written.) In the context of an airplane, it’s a fairly personal little visit: rarely do these attendants skirt through coach on a mission for one; rarely (depending on the checklist) might they address a passenger by name. Sometimes, I hear in her voice the major-key sparkle of a third grade teacher and I, in my own special way, have just earned extra credit. Outside of elementary school and SeaWorld, very few correct responses are rewarded with a tasty treat, so I tend to answer “kosher meal here?” and “did you do both of last night’s hand outs!” with the same tone of hearty accomplishment.

Apparently the staff at Iberia Airlines had a more troubled youth, and this time around, I felt more like a child in his principal’s office. As the male attendant (already a bad sign) pushed his cart past my seat, a nod was sent in my general direction and a mutter to his female partner: "kosher, →.” Slowly rolling away, she scanned my yarmulke and face for far longer than 2.5 moments and with a look of begrudging but quizzical suspicion. Feeling a mix of undeserved shame and regret, I instictively turned away, preferring to imagine that she had actually heard the only sentence that justifies such a facial expression: “here, this is the one who won’t stop wetting himself.”

II. Big Things

Having given due deference to the little thing, and managed to twice relate Jewish experience to the restroom, it is time to discuss the more blatant, general details of religious life in Spain’s capital. The Chabad rabbi had presented Madrid as if the year was still 1492, painting an image not unlike that of a woman in mourning. Our conversation included words like “bereft” and “devoid of,” terms which, having fallen out of normal conversational English, can be found milling about the Artscroll translation of Eicha. This differs with Google’s opinion of the place, which chose to highlight the quality of services offered by kosher restaurants and the quantity of services occurring in local shuls. In truth, there was no contradiction between the two reports. On the one hand, the size of the main synagogue and breadth of kosher options are reminiscent of San Diego - hardly a wasteland of yiddishkeit. The beit knesset has come to the recent attention of a wealthy, aesthetically minded donor, who left in a relative's memory (and my own) something of a jewel. One enters a seemingly typical Sefardi synagogue: lines of wooden seats facing on three sides an elevated bima; a narrow sweep of oriental carpet; light flickering forth through a stained glass source - elegant, clean, dimly glowing. Quickly, however, peculiar details emerge - colors too bright, lines skewed towards uneven: the signs of an artist. He or she produced a study in tradition and imagination, a sort of post-Impressionist representation of an classic, traditional shul. The standard details of a typical Sefardi synagogue were studied, abstracted, and finally exaggerated into being. In place of the traditional ner tamid hangs an orb of distorted angles, twisted metal, burnt orange and sky blue - like something discovered in an archeological dig and promptly set on fire. The aforementioned stained glass occupies not a window, but an entire wall, glued together by a substance I can only call rusty concrete. It is a new, modern, beautiful portrayal of something aged, cracked, and speaking history. A bust of the luchot juts out to face the congregation, off-center and somewhat off-setting; surprisingly small, it stands amidst flood lights and casts an ominous shadow above the Aron. Buckling across a partition, decorative woodwork moves like a drunken attempt at symetry, or the ripple of an ageless chain. In capturing an ancient a synagogue, a photograph would only be less effective.

It is also worth mentioning those that consistently occupy the building. The community is fervently Moroccan, immigrants of the last two generations and many give the impression of knowing each other from the home country. It is in the process of aging, but not dying, and one can discern a clique of younger faces. After both tefillot, the shul eschews the standard kiddush for a mini-shabbat meal, complete with eishet hayil, hamotzei, Spanish tortilla, and smoked turkey breast. In a custom I found magnificently quaint, distinguished guests and community elders drink from tall glasses of cold cerveza. I was touched to witness an entire congregation unite in Friday night chatter, passing plates to various neighbors, and jointly wrapping up the plastic table clothes, even if it all took place within a single half hour. Communal meals suggest dependence of an almost desperate sort, a facet of Jewish living that is the basis of far too few shul policies.

Yet something was amiss. Letting my mind wander through hazarat hashatz, I thought back about five centuries, to the last-gap days leading up to Expulsion. How many thousands were torn: to hide my identity and remain, or risk life and limb to leave? How many laid awake at night, weighting the safety of one's children against loyalty to God and People? I imagine the anguished conversations between family and close friends. How many homes chose to split? How many wives learned to never forgive? Those who ultimately elected to remain no doubt expected to enjoy the more comfortable of two paths: stability instead of doubt, a home and an income instead of unmeasured wandering. But was there a morning a few weeks later when the enormity of their loneliness finally arrived, when they found themselves not unlike the sole survivor of a worldwide holocaust, when they learned that every street was another reminder, and that the truly tortured were still living in Spain?

If so, a drop of that feeling remains in Madrid. The post-1492 community would never don a kipa in public; would pray in hidden spots and basement retreats; would greet every guest with distanced suspicion; would practice a Judaism based on reminiscing the past. Five hundred years later the vast majority still leave their kipa at shul (eerily transforming all Madrilenos into potential crypto-Jews); the synagogue, in a back alley cul de sac and with a bullet proof entry point, could illustrate a paper on the architectural ramifications of the pogrom; in almost four weeks I was never invited to a meal and no one so much as asked by name. Tefillot were recited with the respect and precision generally associated with Sefardim, but with a specificity and formality I found almost stifling. Outside a small core, most participants seemed purposely unintrospective, as if their explicit motive in prayer was to mimic the past without recreating it for oneself. There seemed to be little extra-teficular activity on premises, which I don't interpret (or criticize) as a lack of religiosity, but an unfortunate and understimating conception of what Judaism can be. It was “bereft” even “devoid of” buzz, excitement, and ruach in its most vague and know-it-when-you-see-it sense. Once, I asked to borrow a tikkun korim and the gabbai responded that none could be found.

These are harsh words, the opinion of one man buried behind a language barrier. Please don't trust it as a portrayal of the people, but as a chapter in the internal experience that is this adventure. Despite my assessment, I was flooded with seconds at the mini meals, honored with an aliyah (which does not suffice as an example of asking my name), and experienced on their property several episodes of religious inspiration. Nonetheless, the Chabad rabbi had made a fair point.

III. Chabad Things

And his wife made a more than fair chulent. I took my Shabbat meals with the Goldstein family, a kind and idealistic ensemble imported from Crown Heights. They welcomed me as if I had always been invited, as if it had been that way since Sinai - which is the approximate historical period that the Goldsteins arrived in Madrid. It has been a long and no doubt difficult thirty one years (!) and their warm enthusiasm almost succeeded in hiding a deep exhaustion. Three decades in a land never home, fourteen children in a house shared by thousands. There's something considerably disturbing about unending and repetitive labor amidst people (i.e. tourists) exuding so much enthusiasm and newness; something terribly draining about the moment when even the exotic becomes banal; and something immensely impressive about greeting yet another guest with such pure pleasantness. I harbor great respect and thanks, but also some pity, only taking solace in the quiet delight they find in helping strangers and expecting nothing in return.

Us strangers were an ever-changing bunch. One Shabbat I sat between a nation’s Chief Rabbi and a university’s famed theologian, the next amidst young interns from Cuba and France. The more consistent visitors – including myself and a polylingual British lass – achieved a friendship of sorts, reaching that critical point when “hello” could no longer be followed by “where are you from and why are you here?” As Rabbi Goldstein began his meals after nightfall (a good ninety minutes after tefilla), we grew accustomed to a certain rhythm: a sunset stroll to kill the time, pre-meal small talk with the rebbetzin, courses interspersed with Lubavitch words of Torah. (I can't speak for my English pal, but I always entered the apartment with fingers crossed and daydreams hoped, pausing for the confetti, bright lights, and special prizes befitting Chabad of Madrid's One Billionth Shabbos Guest.) I enjoyed the small town hiemishness that Chabadniks bring to all corners of the world, apparent in the overall atmosphere but reinforced in minor details: freshly ground gefilte fish, home-brewed wine (its taste seemingly changing with the weather), and daughters trained in Yiddish “so they’ll understand the Rebbe in his mother tongue.” My first week of interaction was slightly intimidated and overly polite; my last, relaxed and unguarded. After the initial freshness wore off, I took pleasure in resting from the traveler's labor of constant fascination: I laughed at badly aged jokes, scanned familiar sefarim, and ate until I was past the point of good conversation. Like new roommates sleeping in pajamas, then shorts, and finally the comfort of boxers, I shed protective layers and found in Spain a home.