The more time I spend in Brooklyn, the more I have to remind myself that this place is not like Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv is like this place. Of course, a couple of miles away and it’s like Jerusalem – what with all the hasids in Williamsburg and all. Then there are the Tibetans on Jamaica Avenue (the cultural melange of which I am not going to try to dissect.) But right here, in the cafe with its doors open to the street, surrounded by secular Jews, people who look Jewish, and Presbyterians from Atlanta trying to pass as Jewish, I might as well be sipping cappuccino on Allenby Street.
Except that I am not sipping cappuccino. I am sipping a Dirty Chai, which has the dual benefit of being called “dirty” and being delicious. Come to think of it, Chai sounds Jewish but it is really Himalayan. Maybe the Jews who migrated to India in ancient times gave the tea it’s name. I do not know. What I do know is that by adding a shot or two of espresso to one’s Himalayan tea, one does, in fact, come to a new realization about life.
That realization being that life is sweet. And heart racing. And sometimes followed by a bitter aftertaste. Froth is everything, especially when you look down to find a bunny or a spiderweb or a beech leaf. There is not as much in the way of latte art in Brooklyn as there is in Tel Aviv. Also not as many automatic weapons on public display. Not to say that there are not as many automatic weapons. But I may be thinking of North Carolina, which could probably go a long way to arming the IDF with nothing but privately held firearms. There is comfort in that as we approach the imputed date for the end of the world. In Brooklyn, just as in Tel Aviv, I’m not sure what exactly an automatic weapon is supposed to accomplish, but it feels good knowing they’re around.