Friday, September 21, 2007

The twenty-first of September. Yom Kippur Eve. Dawn’s gray light began dancing rainbows over the white limestone of the ” city of Gold” early that morning when nearly forty students from the Jerusalem center arose far earlier than necessary; each early riser wearing both modest clothing and a groggy expression. We met on the eighth floor to joint taxi to an orthodox-Jewish community in hopes of witnessing a kapparot ritual. Somehow in the wanderings in the city Amber Patterson, Rebecca Redd and I got lost. We had to call the center and admit that we were lost, but eventually the taxi-bus knew where to find us. We returned just in time for breakfast; which was a good thing because it was the first time chocolate muffins hit the menu, and everyone knows how tasty those are.

Later that day there was a rush on the laundry room. You see, the next day was Shabbat—when the laundry room is closed, and the day after that we left for Egypt. That meant that anyone requiring clean clothing for our week-excursion to Egypt was obliged to carry their clothes down to level two and perform the task—if they hadn’t done it already—which many of us had not.

The Jerusalem Center’s laundry room also serves as a bomb shelter. Only one way in and one way out. And not just for humans. For air as well. Ten washing machines with hot water, ten dryers effusing billowing clouds of steam, and a baker’s dozen of sweaty students soliciting the progress of their own clothing and/or hovering like buzzards over the next available machine. Three ingredients—a perfect recipe for sticky, sweaty, precipitous pandemonium. Add to that the incessant rumble of laundry tumbling within echoing metal drums and the endless shrill-squeak of that last dryer in the line and laundry becomes more than a chore. It’s a thrilling adventure with noise, a long wait in line, ping pong tournaments, and a 70% chance of heat exhaustion in the accidental sauna. Scratch that—bomb shelter.

One more thing about laundry at the center. Maggie Pertucci left her dryer sheets on the table on level two, and because it looked up-for-grabs the entire contents of the box were purloined in a matter of minutes. The poor girl had to organize a charitable institution entitled “donate-to-Maggie’s-dryer-sheet-fund.” At least everyone’s socks smell like Bounce now. And thanks to Maggie, we all had nice smelling laundry for our Egypt excursion.