What to Expect When a Southern Belle Is Transplanted in New Jersey

I can call myself a Southern Belle, right? Because that's what I am, right? At least, my heart's still there.

So. New Jersey. By far the strangest thing is the driving. Everyone I met seems pretty normal, so I don’t know where they got all the maniacs driving the cars. Changing lanes is taking your life into your hands. And making a U-turn—ha! Basically, you have to cross the state border before you can turn around. But Princeton is very picturesque and it is lovely to walk outside and not immediately begin to sweat. (You hear that, Memphis? When are you going to simmer down?)

A lovely couple from Highland Park agreed to host me for Shabbat. They were welcoming and sweet, served delicious meals with great conversation, and invited fabulous guests for Saturday lunch. They even had two very cute cats.

The service was only slightly different from what I’m used to, and of course the shul looked different and the mehitza was different. The important part, however, was the things that were the same. Listening to those around me sing the first part of the “Shema,” following along in the Chumash as the week’s parsha, “Shoftim,” was chanted, and taking three steps back, then three forward, before saying the “Shemoneh Esrei.” All these things occurred not only at Ahavas Achim in Highland Park, New Jersey, and Anshei Sphard Beth El Emeth in Memphis, Tennessee, but in every congregation of every shul in the world on every Shabbat. It felt good to know that certain things will not change. It felt even better to know that, as a Jew, I am part of a larger community, a greater force and a stronger pulse, all doing our best to be close to G-d.

Shavua Tov, y'all.