Send A Writer

As many of you may already be aware, Nefesh B'Nefesh is running a contest to send a J-blogger to Israel to do two things:

• 1) Take part in a Nefesh B'Nefesh flight to Israel, writing about the trip and the goings on; and
  
• 2) To take part in the second annual J-blogger convention in Israel.

The full details are at the end of this post, and feel free to nominate whomever you would like. I was quite flattered to see that R' Gil Student of Hirhurim nominated myself or Chana to go; alas, one of my best friends is getting married the day of the convention, and I don't think it would be fair to Serach or my new job to take off a week. I've also seen a number of people suggest SoccerDad or Baila (who made aliyah on an NBN flight a couple of years ago), and all of these suggestions are excellent and they each would make great representatives for various reasons.

My own nominee is based on the following criteria; I was looking for someone who is:

• Young, preferably single
  
• Has a very large blog following
• Has an audience that may not be the typical one for an NBN flight, but who would be very receptive to what is written about it
• Can be both serious and entertaining
• Can flat-out write in a stirring way when the material calls for it
• Can capture the emotion and setting of different events
  
• and of course, would take the responsibility to share with the audience everything that's happening very seriously

Based on all these criteria, my nominee is Bad4Shidduchim. One need only to look back to earlier this year, when she guest posted a series (along with Bas~Melech) about running a marathon for Chai Lifeline to see how she can capture both the fun and joy and the emotion and meaning in a series of events. Her blog is full of humor, great catches on the little aspects of life, and an understanding of what moves people; she has a tremendous audience that is very responsive to what she writes; and her audience is predominantly younger. If one of the objectives of sending someone is the hope that their writing will stir others to consider making aliyah, targeting a young audience that is otherwise not going to be particularly exposed to the convention or the flight seems to be a very good approach. A great writer is a must for a task like this, I think Bad4 would be a fantastic choice to send to join this trip.

Whomever Nefesh B'Nefesh chooses, I hope they have a wonderful time and a moving, meaningful experience.

The details of the contest are below.

Send your fellow blogger on a free round-trip visit to Israel!

Now’s your chance to select a Jewish blogger who will be flying on a Nefesh B’Nefesh charter Aliyah flight on Monday, September 7, 2009 and attend the Second International Jewish Bloggers Convention.

Nominate your fellow blogger with the "Send a Friend" form on the JBloggers.org website and with a post on your blog, and be sure to read the terms and conditions on the site to make sure your entry qualifies.

If you want to try to get on the flight, get a fellow blogger to nominate you.

http://jbloggers.org/send-a-friend

The terms are simple:

1. To nominate a fellow blogger, you must be registered to attend the convention
   (in person or online).
2. The nominated blogger can be located in Israel or the U.S.
3. You must post on your blog who you nominated and why
   (and obviously send us the information too).
4. The blogger you nominate does not need to be registered to attend the convention.
5. The nominated blogger must have a Jewish blog
   (i.e. about Jews, Judaism, Israel, etc.).
6. The blogger who flies in will be linked up with an Oleh/Olah/Family, and must write a series of posts about that experience.
7. If you want to win, you must find a fellow blogger to nominate you.
8. You can nominate more than one blogger (but don’t go overboard).
9. All nominations must be in by Thursday, September 3, 2009.
10. The NBN flight to Israel is on Monday, Sept. 7, 2009.

Additional terms and conditions

1. The ticket is round-trip JFK-Israel.
2. No ground accommodations or any other expenses are included.
3. The winner will be selected by Nefesh B’Nefesh.

Act quickly!

Marathon: Bad4

As a former English major, I firmly believe that one could describe the experience of a marathon in words with clarity. However, this would take time and effort and I am currently too tired to bother with either. So I'm just going to pull some excerpts from the 1,500 word description I typed up for myself, and let your imagination fill in the rest.

This morning started very early, with us going to sleep around 1. Or anyway, going to bed. We mostly tossed and turned. I gazed in utter despair at the clock at 1:34 and 2:17. At 2:48 I took a stroll around the room. At 3:00 I took a bathroom break. Then the alarm rang at 3:50 waking me up, so I must have got about 45 minutes of shut-eye all told. Bas Melech wasn't in any better condition.

[We get ready and go downstairs, are herded onto buses, off of buses, and to the starting line.]

It was still dark and cool, but the circle of corrals was alive with energy and warm with bodies. Team Lifeline milled around the starting line pumping our fists and shouting “Yeah!” and posing for photos and doing such things as people are wont to do under such circumstances. We took a group shot, and then dispersed to our starting corrals.

A marathon is an unusual yet intimate way to get to know a city. As we crossed the first causeway, Miami stood beautifully lit up before us. Huge, glowing ocean cruise ships dwarfed us as we passed. At times, all was quiet except the slap of rubber on cement, breathing, and an occasional exchange of words between runners. At others, police and tug boats flashed their lights and blew their foghorns. Volunteers blared music from speakers on corners. It seemed like the city paid an admiring tribute to the runners. At other times, as we ran down streets empty but for a few people with signs, it was clear that Miami had yet to take its marathon as seriously as New York and Boston do.

Miles 1-4: easy. Am impressed with self because I never did more than 4 miles in training.

T-shirt sighted: "13.1 or bust"

Sign sighted: "Run like you stole something"

[The neighborhoods they chose for the route were exceedingly beautiful.]

Over Shobbos, one of the guys was making fun of the assembly. “To be here,” he said, “You can’t admit to having trained, and you have to be recovering from an injury. So, I haven’t gotten off the couch in two months, and I have two broken ankles!”

What's the surprise? We were here because we wanted to support Chai Lifeline. Running was secondary.

But I had to laugh, because I hadn't run in over a month due to a hip strain. It kicked in during the 6th and 7th mile.

Mile 6-7: getting harder. Miles 8-9: getting longer. 10-minute mile becomes 12.

T-shirt sighted: "Failure is not an option"

Sign sighted: "You are all Kenyan inside"

Team Lifeline Powerade station and cheering squad passed.
“Chai Lifeline is a Jewish organization isn’t it?” asked a man coming up behind me, reading my shirt. “Is it orthodox?” he asked. I said it was non-denominational, serving all those who need. “But the runners are all orthodox?” he pressed. “Mostly,” I panted. He ran faster than me, and I was having difficulty keeping up.

“I’m very impressed with the women runners’ dress,” he explained. “You know, so they can run, but they’re still modest.”

I grunt.

“Is there an orthodox shul around here?” he continued.

“I don’t know, I’m from New York.”

“Really? Where in New York?”

“Brooklyn.”

“What do the rabbis in Brooklyn think about Obama?”

“I guess about what everyone everywhere thinks,” I gasped, wondering where that one came from.

“Are most of the runners from New York?”

“No—we’ve even got someone from Australia.”

He explained that he heard that at the New York marathon there was always a minyan after, but he hadn’t been able to find one in Miami last year when it was his father’s yartzeit. I found that surprising, but couldn’t quite vocalize it. I told him I couldn’t keep up the pace and wished him luck, falling back to a walk.

Cheering squad painted all orange does dance routine on the side.

Mile 10-11: am visualizing myself with my right leg torn off at the hip, like a mutilated Barbie doll. Oddly, it feels better when I run than when I walk, but my lungs can't sustain the pace. My body has become a house divided against itself.

Sign spotted: "Finishing=beer"

There are hydration stations every mile. The ground is slick with Gatorade and water, and littered with paper cups that rattle as we run over them.

I should take this moment to thank all the people who came out to cheer for Team Lifeline. When we saw you guys shouting and waving ahead, we got a burst of energy we didn’t know we had to move faster, with more style, so we could pass you waving and cheering, united in our support of Chai Lifeline. When you had a camera, we really drew on unknown reserves to posture heroically as we passed. And when we did, we realized we had the strength, and could go farther for longer. Thank you.

Mile 12-13: I don't remember these at all, except that I was doing about a 14-minute mile.

Mile 13.1: Staggering along, wondering when it would be over. Heard a man say "Only a quarter of a mile left!"

"Only a quarter of a mile?" I ask in disbelief.

"Only a quarter of a mile!" he calls with a grin.

I smile back and pick up the pace.

I couldn’t believe it. I was done! People dressed up in armor knighted us with the medals. I wandered through the jubilant atmosphere of celebration, wanting to jump and dance with elation, but, like everyone else, weighed down with the miles I’d ran. I wandered slowly over to the Team Lifeline tent, taking water, a banana, a mini-Starbucks latte, as they were offered. [I sign in, I stretch, I grab a sign and a friend and head out to do some cheerleading.]

The post race seemed so anticlimactic. Months of training and fund-raising culminated in an intense event that took less than six hours before noon. Back in the hotel, we clung to fragments of those moments of glory, trying to stretch the great event into something longer lasting. People wore their medals, discussed their timing, compared their injuries, and weighed "cure-alls" for sore muscles while sitting around the pool.

Conclusion: There’s an energy that builds in this kind of event. It starts with the gathering of the team, when you meet with people who have the same goal as you, and share your training stories with people who think it’s just as important as you do. It builds with the renewed awareness of the importance of the cause. It expands on the marathon morning, surrounded by people attempting the same feat you are, and with bystanders and cheering squads who call you “hero” and “amazing.” And it culminates when you sprint across the finish line, victorious, arms aloft. Nor does it immediately subside. You are immediately surrounded by revelers, intoxicated with the impressiveness of what so many have achieved, and you are one of them, for now that you’ve done it yourself, you truly understand how awe-inspiring a feat it truly is.

Throughout the Shobbos, whenever we’d think of something we could have done better, we’d say, “Oh well, next year.” Then we’d look at each other and ask, “Next year?” Why should there be a next year? Will we want a next year? Could we do a next year? In the final mile of the half-marathon, “next year” and “possible” were the most unlikely word pair in our minds. But crossing the finish line and being swept up in the exhilaration, we begin to wonder, “Why not a next year?” after all, it was doable. And it can only get easier.

Will I do it again? I don’t know. There are too many factors to consider, and I still haven’t attempted to get out of bed tomorrow.But, injury or not, it’s not an experience I regret in the slightest. And for anyone looking to pair an invigorating goal with a meaningful one, I would recommend this as an experience you should try once.

Bas4: Team Shobbos

Well, it was a close call, but Bas Melech did get up before noon, and we hit the beach. It was warm, the water was blue, the sand was coarse, but not hopeless for the task of building a sandcastle. Build a sandcastle, you ask, but with what? Well, we had no buckets, but we had other things. Ma, if you’re reading this and thinking “Those towers are shaped remarkably like my pareve green plastic container,” it is totally coincidental. Trust me – don’t check the cabinets.

Behind Casa Lifeline you can see the start of a crenelated wall that wasn’t completed due to budgetary shortages. The flag is a Team Lifeline luggage tag. The engineering was done by Bad4, the architecture and design by Bas Melech. Overall, I think we did a fine job.

We tried to make a time-stop film of it being washed away by the sea, but Shobbos intruded and we had to run.
~ Bad4


Boy, have I got an idea for the next hit reality show/sitcom: Put an engineer and an artist together in a hotel room for a weekend. Seriously, I’ve been looking for the hidden cameras since I got here. Whose idea was this, anyway? (Oh, right. Mine.)

Unfortunately, I STILL haven’t found the hidden cameras so I don’t have a record of everything that happened. All I know is that Shabbos was AWESOME. Mainly because Bad4 gave me the perfect opportunity to return her jibes about sleepiness by skipping out before dessert… to sleep. :-D (Bad4’s note: to read, then sleep. :-P ) While I enjoyed my vacation with some rousing games, meeting new people, the Misanthropes Club convened upstairs. (Bad4’s note: I adore people… when I can hear what they’re saying. Usually. OK, sometimes.)

Other than that, our excitement consisted mostly of helpful hotel personnel turning on the lights we left off, turning off the lights we left on, and opening and closing our refrigerator.

Overall, it looks like this is going to be one of those happy-ending shows. At least, if Bad4 stops leaning on the back of my chair and making it swivel, there’s still a chance. But she’s reading this and looking for drama.
~ Bas~Melech

Some stats from the Motzai Shobbos Pasta Party:

• There are 230 runners.
• They range from 12-70. (There are two 12-year-olds. One is a Camp Simcha Special camper. The other is the tweenager I saw on Friday. Dunno ‘bout the 70-year-old.)
• One runner came all the way from Australia. (The runner sitting next to me came from Israel.)
• In total, we raised over $1,034,000.
• The top fundraiser raised $24,000. He’s a former camper.
• The total miles we will run tomorrow are equivalent to the distance between Miami and Anchorage.
• We drank about a zillion liters of water and ate a fagillion pounds of pasta.
• We are going to wake up before 4 am tomorrow in order to make it to the start line in time. I’m not sure how Sleeping Beauty is going to manage that…

Guest Post: Bas~Melech, Undercover in Hollywood, FL

I warned her. I really did.

When I stumbled into Florida in the wee hours this morning, I was ready for bed. But no, Bad4 had to go swimming. At one in the morning. Fortunately, the locked pool gate deterred her. Adventure always gives me a second wind, so I was left hyperactively blogging in my semiconscious stupor as Bad4 drifted off to sleep on a bed of clouds. Then she turned over, discarded the clouds (8 of her 10 cushy pillows), and returned to dreamland like normal. As if.
Five minutes later, she divebombed onto my legs. Yes, the ones that were going to do a marathon in less than 48 hours. Now I know why they call her Bad4.

Allow me to explain something. There are two types of vacationers. Having a serious dearth of vacation in my life, I have never had much opportunity to fully become either of them. The first type crams their schedule with exciting activities to make up for the drudgery of their non-vacation life. The second type has an exciting enough life and uses the vacation to relax. I lean towards the second category – my mind entertains all of the exotic possibilities (option #1: Join Bad4 in Walmart) while every muscle in my body says “Gimme a break.” Thus, when Bad4 delivered her stirring sermon about how we were here to relax and enjoy ourselves, I showed her just how very relaxed I was while she was “enjoying” herself trying to change my spots.

That was just my explanation of her previous post. Stay tuned for what comes next as I shake off the covers and prepare to explore in proper daylight.

Killing Friday Morning in Miami: Bad4

Woke at 7, and tried to stay in bed as long as possible for two reasons:

• 1. Bas Melech thought it was sacrilegious to get up before 10 and
• 2. between the hospital-cornered sheets, the inches-thick bedspread, and the numerous pillows, staying in was simpler than getting out

However, I had to get up eventually. I’m not very good at lolling in bed doing nothing. And it was already 7:30!!! I got up, showered, dressed, and davened on our veranda. We did have a view of the beach, it turned out, it was just behind a few parking lots.

I stood there, the sun glinting off the water warm on my skin, the light breeze caressing my face, the low, white city spread before me, and suddenly I felt like it was a crime, not a kindness, to let Bas Melech keep sleeping. I’ve never understood the point in going to a new location with many attractions just to sleep. So I gave her a ten-second warning that I was going to crash-land on her bed and that I am no Captain Chesley Sullenberger, and then I did it. She was entirely unimpressed with my attempt at chesed. I couldn’t budge her, even with a beautiful rendition of “modeh ani.”

With a sigh, I went out without her.

I discovered that a line is not the shortest distance between two points when there are parking lots involved. At one point, getting to the beach would have involved diving over a parking lot wall and into another hotel’s swimming pool (occupied by two old ladies gently stirring the water like soup), and then over the pool wall into the sand. I decided to go around.

The beach was deserted. Clearly, most of the world goes on vacation to sleep. I took off my sneakers and socks, left them on the sand, and walked along the surf.

The water here is a beautiful translucent blue. It rushes up the heavy, grainy sand, touching as high as it can with its lacy edges, and then retreats back.

“In New York,” I explained to the fisherman who looked puzzled when I asked him if he’d eat what he caught, “The water is murky and green and I’d never eat anything that came out of it.” He waxed lyrical on the fish he caught and how delicious they tasted.

I could have stayed there all day. But I thought it would be nice to share with my friend, so I headed back to the hotel, sneakers in hand. It seemed easier than trying to brush sand off my toes, but somehow, walking around barefoot looks less natural when you’re standing at the edge of a highway waiting for a chance to cross, with a gaggle of young men in blue shirts carrying tefillin bags on the other side studiously ignoring you.

I briefly wonder if I should have packed for a singles event, instead of cramming my junkiest stuff into a knapsack.

As we waited for the light to change, a female running posse exited and started jogging up the block. It was a mother, teenage daughter, and tweenager, all running together. How cute! But how on earth did they manage to raise all that money?!

“Hey Bas Melech! Let’s go skinny dipping motzai Shobbos! Nobody will be on the beach and there’s no lights! It’s 100% kosher!” I said as I burst into the room.

A groan from her bed.

“So can we go?” I asked. Her head turned left, then right, eyes firmly shut.

“Aw…” There are some distinct disadvantages to vacationing with a Bas Melech. I am avenging my disappointment by putting up yet another post without her. Take that, sleepyhead.

Guest post: Bas~Melech LIVE from Hollywood, FL

This post is by Bas~Melech. She's kind of tired and not particularly coherent, so keep that in mind. ~ Bad4

As Bad4 already revealed, she had plenty of time to trash our room before I arrived. My trip was not as eventful as hers; ever unathletic, I chose instead to gracefully pirouette through airport security. My excitement came later: As I sought company for my sojourn to the hotel, a dude approached. After ascertaining that we were both headed the same way, he asked why I was running, but before I could launch into my stirring motivation as explained here, he volunteered his own deepest interests. They number two: Running and math. I still held out hope of finding a young gentleman here. There was another dude with us, too; he offered to share his opera tracks with those of us looking to update our itunes before the race. Nice.

He redeemed himself, though, by helpfully offering to arrange a group ride for the Team Lifeline participants on board our flight. After strolling around Miami International ("Airport taxis always overcharge." Well, what other kind is there at the airport?!) he found us a very recent immigrant indeed who calmly assured us that he knew exactly where our hotel was. For some reason (maybe it was the 30-second pause before his response?) we felt neither assured nor calm about riding with the fellow, but he had already taken our bags hostage in his trunk.

Let's just say I got to the hotel... eventually. By that time, as you've already learned, Bad4 had ample opportunity to trash our beautiful room. She'd even had time to get in the first two marathon posts AND take a decent nap, rendering her annoyingly perky for one who has just been woken from a sound stupor by a traumatized and drained roommate falling in. Literally.

After admiring the toilet paper origami and water bottles and ascertaining that the refrigerator was not, in fact, monitoring our usage to bill us later, and that the internet would not, in fact, work from the comfort of our big, cushy beds, I was ready to explore (albeit quickly losing consciousness).

More to come, but first I need to get an edge on Bad4 with a few z's.

Arrival in Miami: Bad4

I stepped out of the terminal and braced myself against the cold. It didn’t come. I breathed out slowly, so I could watch my breath puff. It didn’t puff. “I don’t think we’re in New York anymore…” I thought. I wandered over to the taxi stand and signed myself up for a shared ride to the hotel. Then I stood there idly, waiting. I realized I wasn’t feeling terribly excited. You’d think I walked out of airport terminals surrounded by palm trees all the time. Heck – you’d think I walked out of airport terminals all the time! I was in Miami! Slowly I started smiling.

People claim that between Starbucks and McDonalds, you can’t tell American cities apart these days. So untrue. I would recognize Miami in a moment. It looks just like in those car racing games. Unlike in New York, where we build things tall and dark, Miami likes them low and white. Or at least light. And their trees are less shady.

I struck up a conversation with the lone guy sharing my ride in the 16-seater van. He was from Haiti, returning from post-op surgery in NY. He was glad to be out of the cold again.

I haven’t been in many hotels, so maybe my judgment is off, but I thought this place was classy. Waterfall in front, loads of marble and mirrors, and the room looked like a picture from Architectural Digest. Or it did, before I made it look lived in. Bas Melech never got to see it like that. When I first saw the shower my immediate thought was, “It would be a pity to use that and mess it up.” The toilet paper was pointed at the end. The beds bounce nicely. The patio had a table and chairs and a view—of the parking lot, but nonetheless, a view.

My favorite part? This notice near the towels:

“Dear guest, Every day millions of gallons of water are used to wash towels that have only been used once. You make the choice: A towel on the rack means “I will use again.” A towel on the floor means, “Please replace.” Thank you for helping us conserve the Earth’s vital resources.”

Imagine if I tried that at home!

I immediately set about ruining the picture-perfect room by throwing my stuff around. Food went into the fridge. Jacket over the chair. Crocs on the floor.

There were two liter bottles of Evian behind the sink. “How nice!” I thought, really impressed now. Then I leaned forward and peered at the label around their neck. The credit card I’d given them downstairs would be charged $5 for each bottle violated. “How cheap!” I was indignant now. It seemed crude. I went back and checked that there was no price tag on the toilet paper. There wasn’t. Well, time to explore now. The woman behind the desk said something about a 24-hour fitness center and recreation room. And what about that gorgeous swimming pool I saw in the pictures?

~ from the hotel lobby

Road to the Miami Marathon: Bad4

It’s been a while since I last negotiated airport security. For those like me who have forgotten how fun and exciting it is (psychologists call this defense mechanism “suppression”), here’s a description. It’s a bit like those relay races we used to play in summer camp. You know – you have to put on a whole pile of clothing and then run to the next person, tag them, and take it all off type. Only in reverse. You take off all your clothes, run through a metal detector, and then put it all back on.

You wait on line, like a racer at the starting block. As soon as you pass the gray bins, you grab three. As soon as you reach the table, you plunk them down, and the race begins. You have mere seconds to remove your shoes, jacket, watch, belt, laptop, wallet, keys, and ziplock of liquids, while concurrently moving your bins down the table toward the machine. I completely forgot the liquids, but luckily, they didn’t make a fuss over it. Probably because by the time I passed through the metal detector, I was a ten-second hero.

See, it was because I was moving too hastily. I threw one sneaker into the bin, and reached for the other. To my horror, the sneaker hit the bin and bounced out—onthe other side of the table. It fell to the floor about two feet into the cordoned off area beyond the table.

Now, the table was about two feet thick, and had a shelf-type of level thing running about two feet off the floor. There were no security personnel inside. I gazed at my shoe in despair. My knapsack and carry-on were already entering the machine. The bin with my laptop was approaching fast. But my sneaker!

The people on line watched with a detached interest. The man behind the machine kept looking up, out of curiosity. How was Bad4 going to get her footgear back?

Desperate times call for desperate measures. There were two feet of wiggle room to duck under. I could do that. I did lower in karate class. It wasn’t exactly dignified, but neither was disrobing for a security check. I took a deep breath, dived under the table, grabbed my sneaker, quickly reversed, and emerged victorious, sneaker held aloft.

Cheers from the line.

“Hey, that was athletic!” the security guy enthused.

“I sure hope they wash the floors,” said the businessman behind me.

I plunked the sneaker in my third bin and accepted congratulations all around. Then I was through, we were all dressing again and dispersing to our various gates. I entered the terminal, completely anonymous.

Ah fame. Such a fleeting thing.

~ from the terminal

Lifeline Added

On behalf of SerandEz, we'd like to wish good luck and good health to our friends who raised money on behalf of Chai Lifeline (which helps children with illnesses such as cancer and their families through numerous wonderful programs). They've all commited to run this Sunday in beautiful Miami, Florida on behalf of Team Lifeline in either full or half-marathons.

Bad4, Bas~Melech, and David Linn and his wife Sandy are to be praised for their hard work in both raising the money [over $13,000 among them] and training for the race, and we'd also like to give quick shoutouts to all our friends: CK, the other Double-Z, Ahuva, Xvi's bro, iPay and Princess D'Tiara's friends - and anyone else who is running. Tizku l'mitzvos!