Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur

I went back to the beautiful synagogue in San Jose to observe the Jewish holidays of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. This time, I was accompanied by my friend Alicia, another PCV in the eastern part of the country.

I approached the high holidays with great hesitancy. While it may be a sign of weakness in my Jewish mettle, I find it difficult to worship anywhere other than my beloved Brotherhood Synagogue in New York. I almost always have a spiritually fulfilling experience at Brotherhood. However, I have had mixed experiences experimenting with other venues. I never liked the experience at the Hillel’s shabbat services at Michigan, and found the High Holiday services adequate. I didn’t mind my friend Jason Cooper’s synagogue in Toledo, Ohio. I even had Kabblat Shabbat in a Quiznos once.

The difference is that in other venues, I have been a foreigner rather than a member of a family. The tunes are different. The handshakes aren’t followed by a kiss (or sometimes a good slap on the backside). The gossip is not yours. The rabbi is just another man, and not your role model. There is a sterility to it that makes reflection and atonement more of a challenge.

But I was optimistic. The last experience I had at the synagogue for Passover was a positive one. So Alicia and I approached the Synagogue in the pouring rain and I was reminded how serious the congregation was about security. After handing over our passports, we were vigorously interrogated multiple times, frisked, and put through a metal detector. To quote Ace Ventura, “the man with the rubber glove was surprisingly gentle”.

As the two of us walked into the synagogue, I noticed the look of awe on Alicia’s face. It was her first look at the beautiful campus. The paths glittered in the rain, and the stately building’s lit face shone. After finding a kippah, I walked into the sanctuary alone; Alicia had to sit upstairs with the rest of the women.

After settling into a seat, I couldn’t help but laugh at the familiarity of the situation. Jews will be Jews, no matter where you go. I overheard conversations about the American financial crisis, and the presidential election. It was great to hear talk of business and politics; the only topic of discussion in my barrio is over who will win Latin American Idol. I introduced myself to the few people I recognized from Passover, and met a few more people. I was even introduced to the Israeli Ambassador. We chatted for a minute in a mix of Spanish, Hebrew and English. After speaking with him, it was difficult to think, let alone introduce myself to my neighbors. All were warm, welcoming and refined. It was nice to see people dressed so sharply. Having passed Audis and Beamers on the way in, it became clear to me that the Jewish community is the upper crust of Costa Rica. It was interesting to see such a population while living in one of the poorest neighborhoods in the country.

I found the way the congregants socialized to be very similar to the way American Jews I know interact. A man would spot a friend, beam, hug and sometimes kiss him on the cheek. I could imagine looking to my right to find Harvey Markovitz and my father interacting in such a way. There was also an Eastern European bend to the accents that brought their Spanish closer to me. It was like walking through a Tico Essex Street. The Rabbi’s accent was thicker than most. His voice and appearance reminded me of family friend Joe Zacherman; I took great comfort in this.

The service began when six men on the beamah began chanting the prayers. While I happily joined in when they chanted prayers I knew, most of them were in unfamiliar tunes. So I struggled to follow along with the service.

This synagogue was the first orthodox congregation that I had ever worshipped with. This, of course, meant that men and women sat separately. At first, I had no problem with this, as I thought that it would help everyone focus. But like men at a poker game, the congregation did a significant amount of schmoozing. Alicia later told me that it was the same with the women. I thought that the chatter would stop when the cantor began. However, it did not. Throughout the entire service for all of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, all I could hear was chit-chat. To make matters worse, the synagogue does not use microphones or speakers. The familiar prayers that I love came to me as faint static through the talk. I hoped that the men would silence themselves for even the most holy of prayers like the Amidah, Avenu Malkenu, or the confession of sins. They continued as if at a cocktail party. While I felt very grateful to the congregation for having me free of charge, I became quite angry after a while. Because I could not hear the prayers, most of the service was spent praying silently to myself. My crocodile tour operating friend Mr. Levi empathized with me noting that it was a “falta de respecto”. I told him that I agreed with him, feeling disrespected myself.

Overall, the experience of both holy days was good. I did a good amount of reflection on the past year, and decided what was good, and what was bad. I asked God to forgive me for my sins. It was fulfilling.

As Alicia and I broke the fast over Lebanese food (ironic?), I realized just how important it is for me to be around other Jews. My entire life, I’ve been surrounded by them. Being isolated among non-Jews in the Puerto has made me appreciate just what I am missing. This is why an Eastern European accent or the site of an old man in a tallis is so pleasant to me. So to all of my Jewish friends and family back home, shana tova. I hope that you have a sweet year to come, and that your name is sealed in the book of life.