For the party, bring out the best Chinnah

The fourth night of Chanukah

Here’s a theory I would like to get out there: the Jerusalem Mentality. The premise of the Jerusalem Mentality is that while you are walking around Jerusalem, you are subconsciously looking for someone you know. This mentality manifests itself on a larger but broader scale all over Israel, but especially in Jerusalem, and especially in areas such as Ben Yehuda Street, Emek Refaim, and the Old City/Kotel. Yeshiva students, especially, are privy to the Jerusalem Mentality; with friends, acquaintances, and other yeshiva students everywhere, it is very difficult to not run into someone you know.

Now, I bet you are looking for examples. Well, here are all the people I have bumped into the past three days: Jason Ast, Ben Jacoby, Moriah Manning (twice), David Sacks and Scott (last name forgotten) of JIF, Batya Weinstock. Again, I was not looking for these people; I just happened to find them. This phenomenon may happen in one’s hometown, where one knows his/her environs, but in what other city could this possibly occur? Think of it as Jewish Geography at work.

Today was yet another day of hotel breakfasts and walking around Ben Yehuda Street. In addition to lunching at our favorite shawarma place, Moshiko's, we also took some pictures, as evidenced by these pictures. Wow, that sentence was quite elegant, wasn't it?

Although we had our default lunch, we had a plan for dinner. We took a van to the Yemenite (or was it Moroccan?) restaurant Maganda in Tel Aviv to celebrate the 25th anniversary of two LA friends, Maure and David Gardner. Both were wearing matching tuxedos, down to the matching blue-and-white bow ties (Velcro, I later learned).

Although the food was slow and not as good as Sima last night, the company more than made up for it. I sat and laughed with the two Jacobs (Nimmer and Gardner), as well as Max “Mordechai” Rabin, in a reunion of Shalhevet graduates. Also there for the Shalhevet theme was Hebrew teacher Vered Hopenstand, ex-teacher Rabbi Tzvi Kafka, and their spouses, and Mr. Petrella (not!). The Gardners invited some good company, even though it got a bit crowded at the end. Both made speeches. David’s speech was interspersed with clips from some of his favorite rock songs, while Maure concluded hers with “If someone asked if I would do it again, I would say no; we did it right the first time.” Then, everyone said “awwwwwwww.”

The party ended with a celebration called the Chinnah ceremony. The word Chinnah is an acronym of the three mitzvahs a woman accepts for herself as a bride under the wedding canopy: Challah, the bread for Shabbat; Niddah, maintaining sexual purity with regards to her menstrual cycle; and Hadlakot Nerot, lighting the Shabbat candles. In a surprising twist, Chinnah is the name of a plant. In the Near East, the bride and groom would meet a week or so before the wedding and put some of the Chinnah paste on their hands. Then, they would tie their hands together to symbolize their commitment to each other (today, some communities have replaced with handcuffs. Talk about the ol’ ball and chain!).

Tonight, we reenacted the ceremony at the restaurant. The guys dressed up in white tunics and fezzes and played tambourines and threw confetti on David and Maure, wearing fancy matching Moroccan garb. Then, the waitresses smeared blobs of the brownish Chinnah paste on the couple’s hands. Then, they spread the joy, and the mess, to everyone else. I took a glob on my right hand, and proceeded to rub it in as I was instructed. Just then, David Nimmer, Jacob’s father, chose an opportune moment to yell over the blasting music into my ear “You know, that stuff doesn’t come out!”

Only then did I realize that the Chinnah plant is known today as henna, that brownish stuff that Bat Mitzvah girls get tattooed with. I ran to the bathroom to wash it out, but the brownish smear left a yellowish mark. I did not feel too foolish; most everyone else had the mark as well. Hopefully, it will come out before the Bar Mitzvah, when people will undoubtedly come up to me, offering a hand, smiling a “Good Shabbos!”

We left the restaurant around 12:15, and got to the hotel in Jerusalem around 1 a.m., after taking some detours and going the wrong way down a one-way street. Whatever.

Happy Holidays.