My parents announced recently that they would be moving out of our childhood home of over 40 years into a retirement community in a few months. That meant that the time had finally come for me to go through all the papers and junk that’s accumulated in the closet of my old room since I was a pre-teen. My parents made it clear that anything left on moving day would be summarily tossed.

I set aside a dedicated chunk of time at the end of our recent trip to the States to accomplish a difficult but necessary task: to wade through the some 30 boxes of papers and memorabilia I’d collected and save only the most important, sentimental or nostalgic documents while purging the rest.

For a pack rat like me, it was one of the toughest jobs I’ve ever had to do.

It wasn’t just that I had to part with papers and various doodads that I once spent time lovingly collating - from radio station decals to the posters that once covered my bedroom walls. It was that I had to do it so quickly. I would have preferred a more leisurely process, where I could review each page before saying a tearful goodbye. Instead, I leafed through wads at a time, assigning most of it for the trash with nary a significant glance.

In the end, I returned home with a lifetime of memories culled into a meager four boxes. By my calculations, that’s an 86 percent junk rate, and even that amount was probably too much given how much space (or lack thereof) we have in our current apartment.

Now you might say I’m making too big a deal over stuff I haven’t seen or used, in some cases, in over 40 years! Just toss it and move on. Doesn’t it say in the book of Ecclesiastes “vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” But I don’t think I’m being obsessive. Let’s take a look at what I found and you be the judge.

Tell me, if you were in my place, would you have been able to trash my collection of vintage TV Guides, one for every “Fall Preview” issue throughout the entire 1970s, including issues where The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family weren’t yet in perpetual reruns? Yes, you say? I don’t believe it…

And what about the hundreds of record albums I’d collected – from Elvis Costello, Bruce Springsteen and Supertramp to Queen, Pink Floyd, The Tubes, and other progressive rock and punk icons of the mid to late 70s – that I no longer have the equipment to play? Wouldn’t you save at least some of them for posterity?

On the other hand, my collection also included literally thousands of newspaper clippings on subjects I apparently thought might be of interest to someone (a university historian? The Library of Congress?) in the years to come. But does anyone remember, let alone care today, about the 1980 John Anderson Presidential campaign? Whether 60 Minutes’ Mike Wallace was an anti-Semite? How to achieve “the perfect prom?” Or where to rent a VCR in 1982? Except for a few memorable articles, they’re all in the recycling bin now.

What about the books on my shelves? My parents promised to take them to the library, but will that learned establishment really accept a 30-year-old copy of “The Sensuous Man?” Or the riotous “Jonathan Segal Chicken” (a parody on Richard Bach’s 1970 bestseller “Jonathan Livingston Seagull”)? How about “Mysteries of Reincarnation?” or “The Story of Mankind” by the now obscure Hendrik Van Loon? (The latter is now available in its entirety on the web). I tucked a few books into my luggage; the rest were left to the fates.

As I pillaged and purged, I documented some of what was being discarded. The list goes on for pages. I had saved rush week brochures from the various fraternities I once considered, every story or poem I ever wrote in my Creative Writing classes at Oberlin, phone books, calendars, reel to reel tapes from my days as a radio DJ (has anyone even seen a reel to reel player for the last 20 years?), boxes and boxes of high school and college essays, blue book exams and class notes, the original printed copy of master’s degree thesis, Zippy the Pinhead comic books, copies of Mad Magazine and National Lampoon, an old issue of Creem from 1975, the Collected Stories of William Faulkner, a complete videotape collection of David Lynch’s spooky cerebral TV masterpiece Twin Peaks, and much more.

There were maps of Europe and Japan from my trips there (all available now, updated, on the Internet of course), several April Fool’s editions of the local San Francisco Chronicle, an application for an Elks Club college scholarship, a brochure for a door-to-door Bible salesman program I apparently signed up for in 1979, a poster of Richard Nixon sitting on the toilet and another of a granny riding a surfboard reading “Hang Twelve You Mothers,” transcribed lyrics from Tom Lehrer and Monty Python songs (I saved the words to the Lumberjack Song for my 16-year-old Flying Circus-loving son), and of course my extensive collection of bus schedules and route maps (did I mention that I was a freak about public transportation systems growing up?)

But the hardest of all to part with were my letters. I’d saved every letter I ever received, from age 8 up until recently when easier-to-store emails have pretty much replaced paper missives. On the one hand, these letters represent an invaluable record of who my friends were at various stages in my life, not to mention what they thought of me, growing up and beyond. On the other, they filled up no less than three boxes by themselves. In the end, I chose to keep a sample or two from each writer. The rest sadly were sent to that place where old letters must eventually go.

My memories are now relegated to just that, with scant few physical mementos to document them. My parents can comfortably move without encumbrance. But I can’t help feel that something has been lost. That my children – if they ever wanted to – will not be able to learn quite as much about their father as they once could have. This article is all I have left, a public testimony to some 40 years of hording. Is it so wrong to grieve? The trade-off: 26 boxes are not littering our already crowded house.

Three days to purge the accumulated wisdom of several decades may not seem like much. But for me, it was a lifetime.

You know the old saying “time is money?” Well, how much would you say time spent sleeping is worth? As I found out on a recent family vacation: exactly $119 plus tax.

We were driving down the California coast from San Francisco to San Diego, stopping for the night at inexpensive motels. Our first night was in Monterey and I had picked a shabby but inexpensive Days Inn not far from the city’s fabled Fisherman’s Wharf and its lively restaurant and entertainment district. We picked up the key from the dour clerk in the motel’s perfunctory lobby.

In order to keep our costs low, we all cramped into a single room with two queen beds and a rollaway. How do you fit five people into three beds? Boys with boys, girls with girls. That meant that instead of my wife Jody and I sharing a bed, Jody shared with thirteen-year-old Merav while I had a choice between either fifteen-year-old Amir or eight-year-old Aviv.

Given that Amir is over six feet tall, I opted for the much shorter and (I thought) manageable little Aviv.

Unfortunately, as I soon discovered, Aviv is also a night kicker and a squirmer and a won’t-stay-on-his-side-of-the-bed kind of restless sleeper. Not long after I had crawled into bed (several hours after Aviv had already fallen asleep) then – ouch! – Aviv whacked me in the face with his arm as he flailed in deep REM. A few minutes later and – yow! – his leg was in my groin.

He was also, by this point, hogging at least two-thirds of the bed. I tried to move him back to “his side” but he kept squirming his way towards me.

Now, I’m not a good sleeper to start with. I've written previously about my ongoing battle against chronic insomnia. In that post I reported that I was starting to lick my sleeping difficulties with a cocktail of sleeping pills and behavioral techniques. Many meds later, that’s still mostly true, but I’m very finicky about my sleeping conditions. And getting whacked in the face very three minutes simply wasn’t very conducive.

I knew I had to somehow separate myself from Aviv. But how? First I pulled the bedspread and the blanket off of the two of us and wrapped one around Aviv and the other around my own body, creating a sort of double cocoon. No luck:  he quickly kicked that free.

Next, I went into the bathroom and took out all of the towels there in an attempt to create a fence between us. He got through that too.

I briefly considered putting Aviv on the floor on the pillow cushion from the big armchair that sat n the corner. But that seemed too cruel – after all, he wasn’t doing anything on purpose. And he’d probably fall off, wake up and cry and as a result I’d wind up staying awake worrying about when he’d be falling off.

Sleeping in the armchair myself was out of the question: I can’t sleep on planes, why would it be any better in a shabby motel in Monterey?

Mind you, that all of this maneuvering, both mental and physical, was being undertaken under the influence of a very strong sleeping pill, which, while not enough to allow me to sleep between beatings, still put me into an extra irritable haze.

I resolved not to sleep at all. I’d pull an all nighter and finish my book. It was now 2:00 AM. Only four hours until the sun came up and I could go for a run to pump a little much needed adrenaline into my system. But that plan ultimately seemed foolish. We had a busy day planned with a trip to the Monterey Aquarium made famous in the Sharon Stone/Albert Brooks film “The Muse,” followed by a three hour drive down the coast to our next stop near Hearst Castle.

My groggy mind raced through alternatives. Maybe we could cram another rollaway bed into the already tight room. Or maybe I could bed down in a spare room in the motel. Yes, that was the ticket. I pulled on my jeans and a sweatshirt and headed to the lobby.

It was locked. A sign said to call the following number for help. As I imagined waking up the proprietor of this dingy place in the middle of the night, I thought better of this approach.

Earlier in the evening, I had taken a stroll with the kids downtown and we had stopped in at another hotel to ask directions. The desk staff at the Casa Munras was positively chipper and told me that they prided themselves on their excellent customer service.

I got in the car. The light in the lobby of this second hotel was thankfully still on. I explained my plight to the man at the desk and asked as plaintively as I could that, as it was now 2:30 AM, could he possibly sell me a room for just a few hours at a discounted rate? To the desk man’s credit, he took me at my word rather than making the obvious assumption that I was up to some nefarious nighttime activity.

His cheapest room with a single bed ran $119 for the night plus various taxes, leading to a grand total of $139. While he wouldn’t give me a break on the price, he graciously offered to upgrade me to a king at no extra cost. It was an awful lot of money for so little time. I considered sleeping in my car, or maybe heading down to the beach.

In the end I took it. The bed in the new room was downy and delicious. I was ready to crash immediately. But first, I wrote a note out for Jody telling her where I was, drove back to the Days Inn and slipped the note under the door, before returning to the Casa Munras. It was now 3:00 AM. I took another sleeping pill and gratefully climbed into bed....alone.

I awoke at 8:30 AM with no idea where I was but feeling remarkably refreshed. As soon as I remembered the night’s events, I called Jody on the phone. She assumed I’d gone out for an early morning run…a long one but not impossibly so. She hadn’t even seen my note! I ate the continental breakfast at the new hotel – why not it was paid for – then came “home” to pack up for the day’s drive.

I felt calm and rested, my decision seemed validated, a bargain even. Because at the end of the day – or in the middle of the night –  there’s no price on a good night’s sleep.

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This  blog has been cross posted at Insomnia Blogger, a new group blog for people who suffer from sleepless nights. If you have trouble sleeping and would like to join Insomnia Blogger, contact insomniablogger@bloggerce.com.

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The podcast version of this blog can be found here.

Every year, just about this time of the month, I get a flurry of emails from friends and colleagues all with pretty much the same message. It goes something like this:

“Happy Thanksgiving, that is if you celebrate it over there…er, do you?”

So, what do immigrants from the U.S. to Israel do on the fourth Thursday of November? Well, for many years, we kept up the traditions of the old country. Together with a group of friends, we got together for a feast of turkey and stuffing, cranberry sauce (if we could find it in the stores…difficult but not impossible), and pumpkin pie.

As a slight twist, we made it an adult only dinner party, to contrast it from the weekly meal with guests that we already celebrated once a week with the whole family…you know, the one called Shabbat…

But as the years rolled by and we got farther and farther from our old life in the States, the imperative to gorge ourselves and pretend we were interested in sports began to fade. With no Macy’s Day Parade to set the early morning mood, Thanksgiving became just another workday. Still, we kept joining our friends for the obligatory repast.

Until, a few years ago, when my wife Jody and I found ourselves in a very different Thanksgiving locale: India. An opportunity arose for us to take two weeks without the kids touring Delhi, Agra, Jaipur and Varanassi. We had a fantastic time (you can read about it here). But we missed the annual Thanksgiving bash.

That turned out to be OK. Because we replaced it with a new tradition, one that is in many ways much more Israeli. Now on Thanskgiving, we make it a point to eat Indian food.

What’s the connection? Here’s where it gets linguistically improbable. The Hebrew for “to give thanks” is l’hodot. The common Hebrew expression “hodu lashem” means “give thanks to God.” Hodu is also the Hebrew name of the country of India. India…thanks…Thanksgiving.

But there’s one more thing: hodu is also a Hebrew synonym meaning turkey. Turkey day, day of giving thanks, India day. How weird is that? Madonna is probably yanking on the red strings big time right about now.

But it feels right. Despite Israelis’ predilection for all things American, their connection with India is equally special. In addition to the historic parallels (see my article last week), India has become a place of pilgrimage for post-army young people. Tens of thousands travel there to seek enlightenment…or just a space to explore what it means to not have to get up in the morning and don a uniform.

When we were in India, a young man approached us and started speaking in Hebrew. He wasn’t Israeli – he was an Indian salesperson, but had chosen to learn Hebrew as a second language, figuring it would be just as useful – if not more so – than English.

On their return, Israelis who can’t get enough of the India experience groove out at Boogie Nights, a Jerusalem free-form ethno-world dance music party held twice a month, where the focus is on creative expression and not finding a partner to hook up with. Jody and I have gone several times and it’s a great way to get in touch you’re your inner Indian.

Over the years, thousands of Indian Jews have immigrated to Israel (see the wonderful movie Turn Left At the End of The World for some of the story); last week, some 200 members of the Bnei Menashe community who have been living in a remote corner of India near Myanmar and claim to be descended from a lost Jewish tribe, arrived at Ben Gurion airport. Another 7,000 Bnei Menashe remain in India.

For our Anglo-Indian Thanksgiving this year, Jody made a delightful meal of poppyseed chipatis, lentil and apple dahl and mango-date chutney. Then we sat down and watched “Return from India,” a cheesy but picturesque Israeli movie that takes place along the Ganges River.

Despite our new traditions, we still keep at least one thing from our Thanksgivings of yesteryear. We try to give thanks for all the blessings we have in our lives. For me, that’s easy.

I’m thankful for my beautiful wife who I love dearly.

I’m thankful for my adorable and rambunctious children who give me no end of joy (and the occasional tsuris).

I’m thankful that I’ve been able to write this blog every week for the past four and a half years.

I’m thankful I had the pluck to move to Israel some 12 years ago…and the courage to stick it out.

And I’m thankful that I’ve been able to travel to so many places around the world…including India where I picked up some (but not all) of the traditions that make Thanksgiving in Israel special.

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The podcast version of this blog post can be found on the TNL Podcast page here.

There are a few constants in this world: siblings will rival, property taxes will rise, and following a trip to North America, I will wax nostalgic for the “old country.” Our most recent family vacation was no exception.

The trip was book-ended by two gala smachot – festive family events that included the bar mitzvah of our nephew in Toronto and the wedding of my brother-in-law in San Diego.

The two events couldn’t have been more different: on a scale of religious observance, they occupied the far extremes. The bar mitzvah was held in strict ultra-orthodox style while the wedding was uber-secular with a judge and vows in place of a rabbi and chuppah.

The extremes that delineate our family borders are not all that unique; indeed religious and secular extremism has in many ways become emblematic of life in the Jewish Diaspora, especially when compared to a more moderate Israel.

Israel…a place of moderation? That may sound counter-intuitive; after all Israel has long held a well-earned reputation for being a leader in polarization – not only between traditional and secular observance, but between different ethnic groups, and increasingly between rich and poor.

The past few weeks’ debate over whether to hold a Gay Pride parade in Jerusalem was typical: before yesterday's compromise converting the parade to a rally, an estimated 12,000 police would have been required to protect parade participants from a demonstrably violent opposition.

But it’s been my experience, at least amongst our somewhat insular group of North American expatriates here, that the trend towards extremes is more pronounced overseas than it is in the Holy Land. Put another way, except in a few pluralistic pockets of New York and Los Angeles, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to hold the middle ground outside of Israel.

Let me explain.

Staking an active claim to Judaism in the Diaspora naturally puts you at odds with the surrounding society. Even the most watered-down Jewish practice still includes observance of some holidays and traditions that, to the outside world, seem quaint at best, separatist and even elitist at worst.

The more one takes on additional practices, such as keeping kosher or observing the Sabbath, the more out of synch you become with the Friday night movie and club-hopping, cheeseburger-downing culture that represents much of secular North America. The same would be true, I’d imagine, of any religious or social group that doesn’t worship at the altar of conspicuous consumption.

It’s tough to live in a bubble, out of step with those around you. I used to describe our life in Berkeley as akin to living in outer space. We’d set out from our Jewish home in a spacesuit, intended to be impenetrable by outside influences, until we would arrive at the synagogue, JCC or other Jewish institution where we could remove the protective layer and be our Jewish selves again.

Is all that protection really required? Truthfully, yes: it’s a whole lot easier to join the prevailing culture than to fight it – that’s what assimilation is all about and it’s probably the most logical and natural option for the majority of Jews in the Diaspora today. I say this truly without judgment or criticism; it just is.

The alternative is to build fences and boundaries, to sequester yourself and your family from outside “non-kosher” influences. That involves restricting access to the icons secular society takes for granted – mass media (movies, television, and popular music) are all off-limits – as well as separating yourself through different traditions in eating, dressing and other core behaviors. The intent is to remove as many points of friction and places of overlap with unwanted values as possible. In this approach, even the calendars are hopelessly at odds.

Israel, by contrast, is a place where the center can hold…and actually flourish. Certainly there is a secular culture that beckons seductively to the observantly minded. And much of what would be described as religious here has moved progressively rightward.

But even still, the two extremes are more neatly integrated. The holidays are the same. The food in the supermarkets is nearly all kosher, as are many restaurants (even if they are missing an official kashrut certificate). Assimilation is not out of the Jewish world, but into a different flavor of the same national experience.

Rather than spending so much time fighting against negative influences on the one hand, or embracing non-Jewish values over-enthusiastically on the other, in Israel you’re freer to proactively search for the community that offers the most, to reach out to find where you best fit in.

This allows for a more dynamic middle ground, one that combines the best of what modern life has to offer with the joy and beauty of tradition; where you don’t have to dive in too deep in any one direction, but can tread nearer the center. Sure, sometimes you find yourself pulled more to one side of the pool or the other, but it’s easier to maintain your balance.

And while I’m not saying that can’t be done in the Diaspora, for the most part in Israel you don’t have to work as hard at “being” Jewish; you can spend more time just “doing” Jewish.

When we lived in California, our family towed a pretty straight line and we were fairly strict on where and what we ate, and how we observed Shabbat and holidays. We built our own fences and boundaries knowingly as a way of preventing a slippery slide.

Since moving to Israel, we’ve lightened up to a considerable degree. We’re less strict in nearly every area of observance and I’m pleased with the direction our lives have taken in what I see now, in hindsight, was an unexpected and unplanned result of our being here. As a friend of mine commented recently as we discussed his own religious “lightening,” with all the difficulties and frustrations Israel already presents in day to day living, “I figure God ought to cut us a little slack!”

The place that we’ve come to was made all the more poignant during our recent trip to the States when I felt some of our old feelings coming back. As we met with friends who were struggling to raise Jewish kids in the U.S., I was reminded how hard they had to work at maintaining Jewish values and tradition in their families.

And as I found myself asking – more out of my recurring “old country” nostalgia than any serious consideration – “what if we lived here?” I imagined that we’d necessarily return to a more stringent form of observance in many areas, from synagogue attendance to outward religious garb.

While that reaction both concerned and saddened me, I could also take solace in the decision we made some 12 years that has led to our focusing on strengthening the middle ground in the best – perhaps the only – place to do that naturally, organically and integrated with the surrounding society: Israel.

Here are two words you don't normally hear in the same sentence: "Exotic" and "Orlando."

Exotic is more frequently associated with places like Tahiti and Thailand or even Monte Carlo. Orlando, on the other hand, is heavy on such decidedly non-exotic offerings as Early Bird Specials and Premium Outlet Malls.

But for me, on a recent business trip to the U.S., Orlando was as exotic as they come.

You see, it had been nearly three years since I was last in the States. In the twelve years since I immigrated to Israel, I’d never taken such a long gap between visits. During my first nine years in Israel, I traveled across the Atlantic frequently, whether on business or family vacations. It was part of an unwritten contract I made with myself before coming here, that I would never be too long without touching base with "the old country."

It's not like I didn't travel beyond Israel's borders at all these last years. My family and I have had some very enjoyable - and objectively much more exotic - vacations recently: We've been to Prague, Italy, Turkey, even India.

But America…I missed the country of my roots. And absence – combined with a healthy dose of subjugated culture shock – has the power to transform even the most typical slice of suburban America into a wild ride only somewhat less invigorating than a dash through traffic in downtown Delhi.

Truth be told, I was also itching for a break from Israel. My difficulty with Hebrew, the lack of anything one could reasonably describe as "customer service," the insane driving behavior … it all adds up. Despite the fact that Israeli Independence Day was just this week, I didn't feel unpatriotic. I just needed a little distance, that's all.

My introduction to “Exotic Orlando” began even before I left, when Daniella, the ten-year-old daughter of my friends Yuval and Hilorie, caught wind of where I was going.

"Can you get me a prize?" she asked in all earnestness and with great enthusiasm.

"A what?" I asked.

"A prize. They give away prizes at Disney World."

I had offhandedly mentioned that I had decided to take a day off to "play" as part of my trip. My brother arranged to fly out from California to meet me and we had planned an excursion to Disney's MGM Studios theme park.

"You know, I've been to Disney before and I've never gotten a prize," I said.

"You've got to be sad," Daniella went on. "They give away t-shirts and these things that shpritz water and have a little fan."

"But I'm not planning on being sad. I'm planning on being very happy." Disney World doesn't bill itself as "the happiest place on earth" for nothing.

"You could pretend to be sad."

"Anyway," I added, "How could I bring you back a prize and not get one for my own kids?"

"You'll have to look very sad."

Well, I'm sorry to report that I did not get Daniella a prize. But my brother and I had a great time. We rode on the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror ride three times and the Aerosmith Rock 'n Roller Coaster twice.

At the end of a long and action packed day, America seemed as far away and foreign from Israel as a ride on a gondola in Venice though we could have done that too, sort of, if we’d had time to visit Disney's neighboring Epcot park.

The next day, my business meetings started with a "get to know you" team-building kind of event. The locale for our group bonding: "Gatorland" – lovingly described in literature and signage across the copious gift shop as "the alligator capital of the world."

And so it was. A 110-acre theme park with thousands of alligators and crocodiles of all sizes, Gatorland is most famous for its "Gator Wrestling" show and its "Gator Jumparoo" where the poor gators are enticed to leap four to five feet out of the water to snatch a dead chicken hanging from a pole on a string.

My daughter, the recently converted vegetarian, would have been appalled. But I thought to myself: It doesn't get better than this.

When my business meetings were over, I had a little time left to prowl the mall. I drove past a sea of McDonald's and stores selling sofas and hardwood floors, past the IHOP and the Waffle House and the "Steak and Shake." I caught a couple of flicks at the multiplex, and channel surfed until my remote finger was too pooped to click.

At the end of a week, my suitcase was stuffed with Dockers and Geoffrey Beene shirts bought at half price, toiletries from the Wal-Mart Super Center, a stack of computer equipment and one lonely bag of (half-eaten) Krispy Kreme mini-cruller doughnuts.

All during the trip, everyone was ever so polite. Salespeople hustled to help. The highways were wide and modern, and I didn't hear a word of Hebrew my entire stay.

Paradise?

Not quite. No one moves to a place just for the shopping (or do they)? But as a temporary break from Israel in a land of endless vistas (and endless shopping), big cars and low taxes, it was quite welcome … if not truly "exotic" in the purist sense of the term.

On my plane ride back to Israel, I was seated next to a group of young Israeli adults. They were loud and boisterous. They refused to stay confined to their seats. They slapped each other on the back and high-fived half the flight home.

In short, they represented everything I had wanted a break from. But that was before my trip. Now we were fellow travelers, returning from vacation. Of course they were filled with unbridled energy. Who wouldn't be after a trip abroad, and in particular to Orlando ... which will forever be known in my personal travelogue as "the most exotic place on earth?"

It was a rainy afternoon in Freiburg on the last day of our recent family vacation in Europe. It seemed a shame to stay cooped up indoors despite the thundering skies outside. Our German/Israeli friend Chana who, along with her three kids, was visiting her brother, had a suggestion.
 
“Why don’t we go to the pool?” she said.
 
Now the last thing I would think about doing in the rain is going swimming. But this was no ordinary pool. The Keidel Thermalbad is like soaking in a warm bath…for hours. The effect was extraordinary.

As we luxuriated in the relaxing mineral waters, alternating between the Jacuzzi jets, the hot and hotter tubs, and the warm water “river” that spun us round and round in blissful glee, cold rain pelted our faces from above. And we couldn’t care less.
 
The Thermal Baths were only the last of a fabulous two week “road trip” in Europe that packed in so much it felt more like two months. We started near Verona, Italy, at a bed and breakfast built into an old farm house. My morning run that week was something straight out of a Diane Lane movie, with church bells ringing in the distance and everything.
 
We explored the castle town of Bergamo, rode the cable car to the top of Mount Baldo before exploring the medieval streets of charming Malcesine with its picturesque Castello below, and waxed poetic on a tour of the lavish Villa Serbelloni in Bellagio which calls itself – with full justification – one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Shabbat, we were with Chabad in Venice where we were fed three meals (for free, donation requested) along the canals just outside the historic Jewish Ghetto.
 
Then it was off for a few days of hiking in the Swiss Alps. My wife Jody and I had done this twenty years ago as backpackers and had long dreamed of sharing the majesty of these stunning mountains with our kids.
 
From the moment we opened the curtains in our youth hostel in Grindelwald to the staggering image of the north face of the Eiger Mountain on our first morning there, to looking down from the snowy wilderness of the Jungfrau's 3800 meters at the rolling green valleys below, I couldn’t help wonder: was this real or were we standing in front of some extravagant painted backdrop.
 
A few days in Freiburg touring the Black Forest, and then we flew back to Israel.
 
The view from the airplane window momentarily stunned me.
 
After two weeks of conditioning to expect forests and hills and snow covered peaks, Israel appeared small, flat, brown and dirty.
 
The effect was not softened any by our taxi driver who tailgated and swerved past cars and trucks on the road back to Jerusalem far worse than any of the so-called daredevil Italian drivers we met on the Autostrada.
 
The news was no less disorienting. We had been away during the main week of the disengagement. The TV was still showing images of army and police carrying Gush Katif residents from the roofs of their homes. Newspaper headlines screamed in urgency. As the taxi drove past the Mahane Yehuda shuk, I was struck by how third world Israel still is.
 
And I thought to myself: what the heck are we doing here?
 
This is not the first time returning to Israel after vacation has brought up feelings of culture shock. And I know that there are many beautiful locations in Israel – the Golan Heights and Upper Galilee have the hills (not to mention Mitzpe HaYamim, my favorite resort), while the Negev is incomparably stunning in that desert kind of way. We have our own Thermal Baths too, plus waterfalls and even a fat cow or two lolling on a hillside.
 
But come on, let’s not kid ourselves. When it comes to sheer physical beauty, Israel just can’t hold a bar of chocolate to Switzerland and the Alps.
 
“How can you say that?” now fourteen-year-old Amir protested as I voiced my observations. “You’re being unpatriotic!”
 
I prefer to think of it as stating the facts. I mean, hey God, would it have been so hard to put a nice little snow-capped Jungfrau just outside of Tel Aviv? A few rolling “Teletubbies” hills near Ma’aleh Adumim?
 
But we already had the answer. It had been taped up on the wall of the elevator that led to our holiday apartment in Freiburg.
 
I almost didn’t notice it at first. It looked like the kind of notice that tells you the maximum weight and number of occupants the elevator can hold. Except that written in small letters near the bottom was the word “Auschwitz.”
 
I took a closer look.
 
The paper recorded that a Jew named Robert Burgheimer, born August 20, 1882, had lived in this building at 29 Klarastrasse until his deportation in 1940 to Gurs France and then ultimately to the concentration camp where he was killed along with nearly 300 other Jews from Freiburg.
 
The note, we found out later from the owners of the building, was part of a project taken on by a private individual to document where the Jews had lived prior to the end of World War II. There were similar documents posted throughout Freiburg.
 
Now, I know there are some people who are uncomfortable even visiting Germany. That’s not our case. And Chana’s family went out of their way in showing us the most heartfelt hospitality.
 
Still, the whole incident gave me the creeps. It’s an in-your-face reminder that one cannot - and should never - forget the role that history plays in determining where we choose to live and make a community. A simple piece of paper helps put into perspective why we would choose a flat, brown and dirty piece of land over a continent filled with glaciers, medieval villages and Swiss chocolate.
 
Europe is a great place to visit. I’d go back to the Keidel Thermal Baths in a flash. But there’s no place like home.

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Here's the note posted on the elevator wall: