I peer outside the tiny,
scratched–up window and
exhale a foggy mist,
clouding the glass,
blocking the view. 
There is no view, anyway.
Blue sky blends seamlessly
with blue sea,
and I don’t know if it’s my blue mood
coloring the scenery,
or what.
But apprehension fills me
as I sit here.
Waiting. 
Waiting for the plane to land. 
I took off from New York on a
balmy summer afternoon.
The kind that’s filled with mosquitoes and
still, heavy air,
and sweat that won’t evaporate
until the stale air-conditioning of a jet
dries it away. 
Yes, I’m Tel Aviv–bound.
That’s what a nice girl like me
is doing on a big airplane
all by herself,
going away
for the first time alone.
I prayed for an exotic voyage to
wipe clean the calendar of
dull days,
each one identical to
the day that came before it,
and the one that follows.
But now,
now, I’m frightened. 
A child’s cry fractures the near
silence of sleepers.
And now the men in the black hats and cloaks
      Hasids
      Orthodox Jews
gather in the rear of the airplane
for their daily morning prayers.
Stroking their long, unruly beards,
these men, who appear to be from
the eighteenth century
with their breeches and white stockings,
are foreign and absurd
on a jumbo jet.
But there’s comfort, too,
a familiarity
I mean, I've watched Fiddler on the Roof.
And my mother made sure I understood
that those Jews depicted in their
little Russian shtetl
was my family’s heritage, too.
Quietly they argue
until they settle on a direction to face
(that of Jerusalem
and the fallen Temple)
while they pray.
They bend at the knees and waist
beards and hats tipping
as they,
in ecstasy of communion with God,
thank the Lord
for waking them up.
The murmur of chanting
at once mournful and untidy.
Soon drowned out by the voices
echoing in my head:
Sarah, when are you going
      to get serious about your college applications?
Sarah, are you ready
      for the Ivy interviews?
Sarah, this is no joke! 
I open my eyes.
Stomach still turning.
Wisps of clouds brush
past the window,
over the wings.
And parents’ voices fade
to an indistinct humming. 
The airplane has begun its descent.
As we pull free
of the sheath of white mist
the Sea opens up beneath us.
Then
      shoreline, pale beaches, and
sea-foam waves.
My first glimpse of the land.
We’re old souls this country and I.
I visit her in my dreams,
this dusty land crowned by mountains and desert.
      The empty places, where I feel free.  
The pilot’s thick accent cuts through the
loudspeaker, welcoming us to Israel.
A Hebrew folk song blares
to the accompaniment
of tears (mine)
and hand-clapping
(the others).
We leave the plane in a rush
running down the stairs
met with a blast of heat and sun,
pushing and shuffling to get in a line.
And the girl at the passport control counter
in a dark green military style uniform
startles me
with her surliness.
She’s not much older than I.
      Her eyes, deep-set and muddy,
      could have been mine.
The leather strap of my bag
digs in, makes its mark,
searing red,
on my shoulder. 
The girl’s eyes challenge mine,
daring them to hold her gaze.
The purpose of my visit, I tell her,
      staring back
      then looking down,
is to volunteer on a kibbutz.
My passport is stamped with a resounding
THUMP