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It was with a great sense of anticipation that I arrived in Israel. The arrival was a long time in coming. As an American Jew, every year of my childhood—as I sat together with extended family at the Seder table—I'd heard the hopeful utterance "Next Year in Jerusalem". This phrase is part of the age old traditions of Passover dating from well before the creation of the modern state of Israel in 1948. It grows from the 1900 year quest of the Jews for a homeland in the holy land. But in my childhood mind, I thought of it as a wish for a vacation in an exotic city. Perhaps one year, instead of receiving Mets tickets in exchange for the afikomen, we'd score a holiday in Israel.

As an adult drawn to travel, it was India, Nepal, and Burma that first drew my interest and later other countries in East Asia. Israel, the Middle East—this part of the world remained off my radar screen. But I always knew that someday I'd come to Israel. We arrived in Jerusalem on a Friday and soon after finding a place to stay wandered aimlessly in the Old City. Unexpectedly, we came across the Western Wall—the Wailing Wall—part of the complex of the Second Temple dating from 20BCE—the most holy of Jewish sites. As with so many things that loom large in the mind, my first impression—which revealed itself outloud to Evelyn—was that it was smaller than I expected. But as we took in the pre-Shabbat scene, the impression grew to exceed the image I'd had in my mind.

Sunset—which marks the beginning of Shabbat (The Sabbath)—was just an hour or so away. The low sun was so aligned as to hit the wall straight on turning the ancient stone to a golden glow. The shadows of the davening faithful swayed in mimicking harmony with the figures dressed in black and with wide-brimmed bowler hats or furry shtremials. I donned a cardboard kippa (yamulke) and tentatively wandered in.