Day 68 of 100

“Just don’t let him roll off the plane.”

When I was 13 I was given the option of either having a Bar Mitzvah or going to Israel to live with my grandparents for the summer.

Not realizing the potential financial windfall of a Bar Mitzvah, I chose going to Israel.

I spent the summer saving money for the trip as the deal I had with my parents was that I would pay for half of the plane ticket. I remember the exact amount I made — $1,054. It wasn’t an anomaly, as I had to work for most of the large things I got in my life.

In the days that led up to my trip, I remember my mom talking to my grandmother on the phone. In the midst of various agreements they were making about my trip, I heard my mom say to my grandmother “And remember, don’t let him roll off the plane.”

My grandmother took this seriously. I half-expected her to have a lock on the fridge and cabinets. Maybe an armed guard in front of the cookie jar.

But there was none of that. Instead, it turned out my grandmother was a bad cook, who knew only how to make glass noodles with veggies and seltzer water.

My trip was amazing. We traveled around Israel from the top to the bottom. I took pictures everywhere and wrote a journal about my trip. I even got a photograph of a pickpocket in the Carmel Market in Tel Aviv.

We went to every museum, including the holocaust museum, Yad Vashem. I was blown away by the sadness of the situation and strength of the Jewish people in the exhibits of that museum.

The day I arrived, the kids in the apartment complex came knocking at my grandparents’ door looking for the American kid. And we played every day, all kinds of kids games, including one where we threw apricot pits in a hole.

And when I got home, I walked proudly off the plane, thank you very much.