Rosh Hashanah in Italia? Better Believe It Baby

First off let me say Happy New Year or L'shanah Tovah. This past Wednesday I, along with 4 others from my program did the unthinkable: went to services here in Bologna, Italia. OK so it might not be totally crazy but you must admit that there is something to be said about celebrating a Jewish Holiday in Italia.

As you may or may not know already, I always try to look my best. This day was no different. It was the Jewish New Year and I am in Italia. It was a neccessity to come looking splendid. The Italians, both men and women, look absolutely dapper whether or going for stroll in town or out to dinner. I had to at least try.

I was told, by my Jewish counterparts, to meet in the main piazza at 7:10 to get to services for a 7:30 start. In typical Jewish services style, we showed up at 7:30 only to find out the services started at 7. No difference wheter you are in the States or in Europe, there is always going to be late people at services.

We initally had a bit of trouble getting in. We are, afterall, American students and nobody had their passports on their person (what up ma! what up Deadwood). And, when a bundle of Jews congregate in one area for a given amount of time there is always a need for extra precaution (just so many haters out there, shheesh). We ended up getting in after about 10 minutes and upon entering the synagouge, I was hit with something I have never experienced before: an orthodox setup.

I informed the girls with whom I was with that they would need to head upstairs where the rest of the women were seated and I, along with my director Marcello (his wife is Jewish), took seats on the bottom floor. Although the entrance was off to the side everyone still turned when I entered. (Even though this is a natural occurnce when I enter a room because my charm and good looks are just positevly glowing, I was still a little taken back). Maybe it was the fact that they knew I was American. Maybe it was because I was wearing a checkered red shirt with a skinny tie instead of the standard white or blue. Who knows?

As Marcello and I took seats (we would have sat together anyway but you gotta imagine that the 6'3'' American student with two earrings had to pair up with the Italian who, to the best of my knowledge, had never set foot in a synagouge and eats prosciutto on the daily had to stick together), I began looking around the room. I was real eager to see what services would be like in Italia and was not dissapointed to find out that they are indeed different.

It was very nice to see several Italian Jews. Granted, nobody had 'Goldstein' or 'Cohen' written across the forhead. As the rabbai began, or should I say continued, (remember I strolled in late), I began to notice and hear lots of chatter. Intially, I thought it was those around me saying the prayers aloud or signing. But no. It was just the men yukkin it up. And I mean YUKKIN.

I have learned over my stay in Italia so far that Italians like to talk. Often. This evening was no different. Nobody had any reservations about talking during the ceremony. Sure, you turn to whisper to your parents, siblings, or friends every now and then (Oh my goodness, did her nose get bigger or is it just me??) but it seemed that these men were having running conversations about anything and everything. I was constantly looking around to see if anybody was giving those talking dirty looks or the look that means 'shhhh' without saying it. You know what I mean. But no. There was nothing. The Rabbai never broke stride and the men never stopped. But that wasn't even the half ot it.

After about 10 minutes of not understanding anything (it was all in Italian. Half the time I don't know what is going on in services back home so you know I barely stood a chance here), I heard what sounded like two children biting each other and screaming. It turns out that everyone's child came with them to the services and each child just had two espresso's. And the place or room where they were suppose to remain ended up being the hallway immeaditely outside the door to where the services were taking place.

There were at least 10 kids who would scream, play, kick, run, scream, yell, or scream throughout the whole service. They would even come running into the service, find their father or uncle or whomever, talk to them, not in a whisper, and then run back. I honestely did not believe what was going on. Howevr, nobody seemed to mind. As I said, the men were talking, the Rabbai was preaching (can a Rabbai preach? Is that kosher to say? You can't say Rabbaing), and the kids were running.

Then you had the family that showed up maybe 15 minutes before the service ended. You had the father who was angry at the rest of the family for making him late when, in actuality, it was he who held everyone back. You had the mom who had to pretend she had everything together but you could see that, internally, she was reaching her breaking point. Then you had the younger of the two children, the daughter, looking cute and shy and sticking close to her mom. And you had the son, slightly older then the daughter, forced to dress up for the service but comprised and only wore a polo shirt and jeans to go along with the look that he is constantly smelling dog sh*t. Good to see that Jewish family still exists over seas.

Marcello and I must have chuckled at least 5 times throughout the service over its bizarness. It was a free for all. I felt like I was in an Italian Chucke Cheese just with no video games and better looking people. It was a trip.

I will be venturing back to the synagouge this Friday for Yom Kippur and am contemplating bringing a swiss army knife, a bottle of water, and a compus.

Just in case