I'm baaaaaaackkk!!!

We arrived at Ben Gurion, schluffed through security, I managed to talk the woman at the counter out of charging me for a bag that somehow acquired 11 pounds on the trip, shopped at duty free, and sat down at our gate. I needed a window seat. I walked up to the Continental desk, requested a change, it was processed, and I was set for a row in the 40s on the window. I sat down, chatted with my new friends, and then it was time to board the three-cabin behemoth of a plane. I realized, after taking my seat, that I was rows and rows away from my new friends, placed in the midst of one of the other Birthright groups, for the nearly 12-hour ride home. I took out my journal (that Tuvia's stepmom got me) and began to attempt to write more notes about the trip and the Shabbat adventures I hadn't recorded. Then? The plane took to the runway and lifted into the clear, blue Israeli sky. And I?

I started to cry. Alligator tears. Uncontrollable drops that confused me. I watched as Israel disappeared behind me as we went up, up, up. I peered out my little window, watching as we went away, moving away from Israel -- like the women who walk backwards as they leave the Western Wall, like leaving a loved one, it's hard to just turn around and leave. I watched until my neck hurt from looking backwards and until I couldn't see the coast any longer amid the thinning clouds. And even when I couldn't see Israel anymore, I kept crying.

I can't really explain the emotion, but I feel like I've left something very special behind. Like a piece of me was buried in the desert, dropped while riding camels or sleeping in the Bedouin tent or watching the sun rise slowly and then quickly over the Judean desert. Something was left there, and maybe it's why my stomach feels so empty today.

When we first went on the trip, the trip madrachim told us that they didn't want to be so bold as to call us Israelis, but that they hoped that by the end of the trip, we would be proud and eager to call ourselves as such. I can honestly say, with a full heart and a steady mind that I am an Israeli. Albeit, more of the Jerusalem or Kibbutzim Israeli than a Tel Aviv Israeli (to be honest, T.A. just didn't jibe with me).

I have so many stories to tell. I have people to talk about. Forty and more new friends I made with varying degrees of Jewishness that is as beautiful as the varying terrain across Israel. I have stories to tell about people who touched me and people I touched, stories that are amusing ("welcome to pimp my camel!") and stories of tragedy (visiting the border with Lebanon and Syria and Gaza and the Save a Child's Heart program) that always, ALWAYS manage to defeat the odds in the pursuit of life and happiness.

It will take me weeks. It might take months. But eventually I hope I can really explain what Israel has done to me. Watching, while we were still in Israel, as missiles and bombs flew out of Gaza onto homes and hopes, I was devastated. I knew IDF soldiers who, after our departure, were likely heading there, into Gaza, in order to protect Israel and the Jewish people. One of the soldiers? His family's home was destroyed in the attacks. Listening to the stories and hearing how people live day-by-day and how they just want to do that -- live -- has given me a newfound respect for the Israel Defense Forces, the soldiers who are there fighting for ME, and the entire country and its hopes and efforts. So, being here, in the U.S., the place that the customs man called "home" when welcoming me back, is difficult. Incredibly difficult. Because I now know what is on the other side, and I know what I have left behind.

At any rate, I have lots of unpacking to do, a stomach to make better, more sleep to get, and pictures -- of which there are hundreds -- to look through. Until then?

Am Yisrael Chai!

In Search of the Past: A Roadtrip.

I've decided to go on a two-day roadtrip this weekend. Initially it was simply to seek out and enjoy some Chick-Fil-A (don't ask), but then I needed something more solid, a real reason to rent a car and make hotel reservations and get on the road.

Listen, I just want to get out of town, if only for a few days.

Not having a car in the city limits you to where you go, and sometimes I just need to break out and get away. Now to get me wrong -- I love living in the city, and I love not having a car. But last week was a really stressful, upsetting week, and despite the efforts of those around me, it just didn't get better. I mean, now I'm okay, but it's time for me to take a tiny break and get out of town. I've rented a car, booked a hotel room (Red Roof Inn -- tres classy!). I'm mapping out spots to stop along the trip down historic Route 66, various oddities and my ultimate goal, my reason for really going, is to visit Alton, Illinois, to visit the grave of my great-grandfather John Edward Baskette.

You see, I never met the man, and he died in 1984 when I was less than a year old. My parents didn't drag us babies to the funeral, and even if they had, I promise you I wouldn't have remembered anything. For those of you keeping score at home, you'll remember that this man -- my great-grandfather -- shares the name of my grandfather who died in April 2007. Grandpa was a junior, who evidently sometimes went by Eddie. This became news to me this week after an interesting connection was made.

I did a lot of genealogy work many months ago, and hit a dead end with a relative whose last name I just couldn't connect to anyone else. I found a guy who had posted in a lot of genealogy forums trying to find information about the same person, so I e-mailed him multiple times with no luck. So this week, bam! This fellow e-mails me back and we discover lo-and-behold, we're second cousins. We both share that great-grandfather, but since he had three or four or five wives, we have different great-grandmothers. But the really interesting part of the family comes from that Baskette-Duval side of the family tree. These folks were related to the great colonial greats, and rumor has it I might be a something-or-other cousin of George Washington. Exciting, nu? (Then again, just about everyone is related to Washington it seems.) But this is the family line that hits Philadelphia DuBois and great French civil servants and state leaders. It's the side of the family that intrigues me.

So inspired by a need to get outta town and this now-found cousin of mine, I've decided to go pay a visit to our great-grandfather, and in the tradition of my family, take a picture of the grave for posterity. The funny thing is that he's not buried with my great-grandmother, nor is he buried with the cousin's great-grandmother -- he's buried with his last wife. So it turns out that my actual great-grandmother is buried in St. Louis, which isn't far from Alton. So I'm hoping to head into St. Louis (and not get lost) and visit her grave as well.

I'm hoping it's sort of a spiritual/healing/destressing trip. The thing of it is, earlier this week when I was looking at some of the genealogy stuff to refresh my mind, I was on the Social Security Death Index looking up "John Baskette" to make sure I had Alton, IL pegged right. There listed, of course, was my grandfather. Deceased April 2007. Even typing it right now, I'm getting all teary-eyed. I can't explain it. Grandpa and I were by no means close. We didn't share inside jokes or close memories and he didn't take me to the park or the carnival or do any of the things a lot of grandparents do. But I idolized him. He fought at Pearl Harbor, he ran across the golf course as Japanese plans shot at him. And he survived. He raised several children, he managed to smoke for more than 60 years and never die -- and that fact made me hate him in some ways. But he was this enigma to me, a man of honor and prestige. I read his survivor story over and over again. And over the past few years before he died, I'd send a letter every now and again and he'd send a typed letter back. I still have those letters. I didn't go to his funeral, because of scheduling and stupid things. I should have made it there. I don't think it really hit me that he was dead until I saw his name and former Social Security number listed on the Index.

Then it was real. In print on that catalog list, it's real.

So I'm going to go visit his father, and perhaps, hopefully, the cemetery was able to pull up an obit on his death so maybe I can know who he was and what he did. I wonder why he lived in Alton, Illinois, and what he did there. Did he commute to St. Louis to work? Or did he move to Alton after he was retired? Did he live most of his life in Nashville like the rest of the family? How did he meet his last wife? Why did he divorce all the other wives? And how did my great-grandmother die, and did she die while they were together? Or after?

I guess a lot of people don't ask a lot of these questions. It was searching for a Jew a lot before, but now it seems I'm trying to figure out how I got here, and try to predict how my children and their children will be, with the genes and tendencies and histories and memories that I will bestow upon them. I don't know how anyone would *not* want to know the answers to all of these questions. Even if they're the stuff of legends, they're the things that define our lineage, that somehow shape who we are.

So I'm going to hop in a car after work on Friday, spend my Shabbos evening driving to Springfield, Illinois, where I'll light my candles in a hotel room and get up the next morning to drive to a cemetery in some city I've never been and will probably never go to again. And I'm hopeful, if anything.

Oh -- and you can bet there will be documentation. Photos. Video. You'll see where I went and what I did. Why? Because by blogging and sharing these stories of my life, I'm documenting so that my children someday won't have as many questions as I do now. I want them to know who I am, who I am becoming.

Traveling to Make Grad School Happen, I think.

Sorry for the heavy posting today, but I just wanted to post another update on graduate school stuff (because you're all so very invested in my graduate career, I know).

I decided to buy a ticket to go out to the Boston area March 20-21. I'll spend March 20 at Brandeis and March 21 at UConn, intermixing that with getting to see my once-upon-a-time-bestest friend Andrew, who I miss desperately. Rumor has it I'll even get to sleep on a roll-away cot! I haven't done that since, well, since Edward family vacations that ended eons ago. Then I'll trek over to Storrs, where I will spend that Friday, making it to the airport for a 6 something flight to arrive in Chicago about an hour before the little brother, Joseph, is meant to arrive in Chicago for five days of merrymaking and fun-having. It's little city kid goes big city. A week after that I go to Philly to spend the weekend with my three closest friends in the world -- John, Heather, and Ananda. So it's going to be a long, long, long couple of weeks.

I also have to find a time to drive to Ann Arbor and visit, I think. I know that stepping foot on these campuses will make all the difference, so I'm saying "Goodbye Tax Refund" and "Hello Decision-Making Process."

Oh -- and rumor has it that I might *actually* have gotten a scholarship at Brandeis. I'm still awaiting the official letter's arrival. But, well, I think there's something. Let's hope I'm not getting my hopes up, eh?

Like an old shoe.

They say you can never go home. And they lie.

I'm back in Nebraska for the weekend. My college friend Patrick married his Husker sweetheart, Amanda, last night in a short, but kind wedding at St. Paul's in downtown Lincoln. Aside from a lot of Christy-talk, it was a nice ceremony. The song was strange, as it was about the "beauty of Christ's body." Being me, it made me squirm a little in my seat. I guess there's nothing beautiful about a crucified body, in my opinion. Though I imagine it was metaphorical, I don't get that kind of stuff. The reception that followed was small, beautiful and what I'd hope mine could be. It wasn't ritzy (the steak was delicious, though), but had a flare of class. The music options (some Sinatra, and other big band tunes) were astounding, not to mention that the cake was moist as anything I've ever had. The best part? The jellybeans on the tables. Kudos, my man. Kudos. The bride and groom were dashing, and I nearly cried after finishing my dollar dance with Patrick. There's something about seeing a good friend happy, glowing in what they really deserved that makes you want to cry for them. In happiness, of course. Mazel tov, my friends.

The trip has gone quite well so far.

We went to South Street temple on Friday night, and I can't even begin to describe how fulfilling it was. If there's one thing I miss most in my life, the one thing that if I could top it all off right now and be completely happy, it would be to be able to be with my synagogue family again. It's been more than a year since last I went to temple there, but I fell right back in. Rabbi Emanuel welcomed me to read a bit from the siddur (which was so nice, considering it will be eons before I'm asked to read at our new synagogue in Chicago) and there was a baby name ceremony, so myriad people were there. All of the old friends -- Barb, Deb, the Zlotskys, the rabbi and his family, Sara and her husband -- everyone was there. It seems I've missed a lot in the past year. Babies, engagements, catastrophe at the Conservative synagogue in town (which I INTEND on finding all about, of course). I miss my friends there. I miss the Torah studies and conversation. It's so hard to get to the new temple on Saturdays for Torah study, when it takes an hour and a half by transit to make it there. But it was reassuring, reaffirming, and uplifting to be there again. The place where I kindled my faith and found a home and a family among all the world's Israelites. It will always be my home, and each time I come back is a reminder that no matter how lost and far away I feel, I always have somewhere to go back to.

We hit the Starlite Lounge Friday night, where we ran into Johnny and other old Daily Nebraskan chums. I fell in love with the Tom Collins and relished in the hipness of the place I used to go every Thursday for free appetizers and cheaply priced faux martinis. There was Bison Witches yesterday afternoon for lunch, which I was happy that Ian loved. If I could franchise a restaurant, that might be it. We visited Target and went to the wedding, topping the night off with some Runza to fill our stomachs. If you've never had a Runza burger, then you're missing out. It's another restaurant I'd like to franchise -- if only so I could eat the burgers and fries for the rest of my days. Even Ian, a burger/food connoseur and the toughest critic I know, said it was the best fast food burger he'd ever had (topping Inn-N-Out, among others). Today it was Frenchees and the Coffee House, the latter being a staple of the College Years for me.

Either way, every place felt like home. It's quiet, being summertime with classes out. The college kids make up a big chunk of the heart of this city, which is why when many graduate they move on to Omaha -- it keeps that umph that many miss from college around these parts. But it's flat, and the buildings are low. I took Ian out to my "spot" -- Alvo Road at 14th Street -- where you can see every star in the sky, no matter what type of night it is. Big Dipper, Cassiopia, you name it, it's there. It's a gravel road that leads somewhere, though I'm not sure where. I've always just pulled right in, turned off the engine and killed the lights. It's the kind of place where you can just hold your breath and hear all the sounds of the world. There are few places left like that, and definitely none in Chicago.

When they say you can never go home, they lie. I'm back where I used to be and I feel as though I've never left. I settled right in at synagogue and Bison Witches and among the streets of Lincoln. There are new roads, new people, new restaurants and structures, but it's all the same old shoe. It's comforting and I couldn't be happier to be back. So now I know that the myth is a lie, and I couldn't be happier.

To the ocean!